Moonlight Over Paris(44)

“Trust me—she won’t care or even notice what you’re wearing. And I only just thought of it now. I ran into her on the street earlier in the week, and she asked me where I’d been.”

“How do you know her?”

“A few writer friends we have in common.”

“Will I know anyone else?”

“You might. We won’t stay for long. Half an hour at most. Make sure you get an eyeful of the paintings in the salon while you can, because Miss Toklas will drag you into the kitchen with the other women right off the bat.”

“But why would Miss Stein . . . ?”

“She likes to be the center of attention, and you’re both beautiful and interesting. That’s why.”

They walked on for another five minutes or so, and presently they turned left onto an even narrower and quieter street. “Here we are,” Sam said, and he led them through a set of wide metal gates, across a darkened garden courtyard, and to a door at its far end. His knock was answered by a maid, who took their coats and hats and led them into a very large room.

The salon was long and high, with a large table, piled with books and papers, at its center; at the far end was a fireplace around which a number of people were seated. There were no electric lights, only candles and oil lamps, and at first it was hard to discern much more than the rectangular shapes of the paintings crowding the walls. But then Helena’s eyes grew used to the gloom, and shapes and colors leapt from the frames, and she saw.

There was a Cézanne portrait of his wife, and what looked to be some of his watercolors, too; a half-dozen paintings by Matisse, among them his Blue Nude; and a few more by Juan Gris, she guessed, as well as other artists unfamiliar to her. Most thrilling were the Picasso paintings and drawings and collages, so many she couldn’t keep count.

To the right of the fireplace hung a portrait by Picasso of a dark-haired woman, her expression grave and inscrutable. Beneath it, perched on an old wooden chair that rather resembled a throne, was the painting’s subject, Gertrude Stein herself. She was dressed in a shapeless skirt and coat of brown corduroy, and her graying hair was piled rather messily on top of her head. Her smile, as they walked forward and she recognized Sam, was warm, and reached her dark, expressive eyes.

“I told you I’d come for a visit,” he said.

“You did, and I’m happy to see you,” she answered, shaking his hand as regally as Queen Mary herself.

“Miss Stein, this is my friend, Miss Helena Parr. She’s attending classes at the Académie Czerny this year.”

“Good for her.”

Of the group of men seated around Miss Stein, only one bothered to get up and say hello. He was young, with a heavy mustache that couldn’t quite hide his ready smile, dark hair swept back off his brow, and bright, inquisitive eyes. He and Sam seemed to know each other, and he shook Helena’s hand with a grasp that left her knuckles aching.

A firm hand took hold of her elbow. “Why don’t you come with me, Miss Parr? I’m Miss Toklas.”

And that was that. Miss Stein resumed her conversation with the clutch of young men who surrounded her, and Helena was escorted to a gray and rather damp kitchen, where several other women were already gathered around a table.

Miss Toklas introduced Helena to everyone so quickly that she failed to catch a single name, and then directed her to sit in the only vacant chair. After fetching her a cup of dishwater tea and some delicious little pastries, Miss Toklas returned to her seat at the end of the table, took up some embroidery, and led the other women in a desultory conversation that revolved, in the main, around the scarcity of fresh fruit in December and the poor health of several relations back in America.

“Hello,” said the woman at Helena’s left. “I’m Hadley Hemingway.” She had an American accent and was very pretty, with hair the color of a new penny and a wide, ready smile.

“How do you do? I’m Helena Parr.”

“Are you here with your husband?”

“Oh, no. He’s a friend. I mean, I’m here with my friend. Sam Howard. Do you know him?”

“I do,” she said, her expression brightening. “He and my husband are friends.”

“Is your husband at the Tribune as well?”

“No. He was with a Canadian newspaper, but he’s given that up so he can work on his novel.”

“Do you write, too?” Helena asked.

The question seemed to take Mrs. Hemingway by surprise. “Me? Oh, no. I’m not a writer. I—we—have a little boy. John, but we call him Bumby. He’s just over a year old. Taking care of him and Ernest fills my days nicely.”

“I’m sure it does,” said Helena.

“Are you visiting France, or do you live here?”

“I’m living with my aunt while I go to art school, so a bit of both, I suppose?”

“And how do you know Sam?” Mrs. Hemingway asked.

“Through mutual friends. Sara and Gerald Murphy.”

The mere mention of Sara’s name prompted a broad smile from Mrs. Hemingway. “We’re friends with them, too. I’m surprised you and I haven’t met before now. Isn’t Sara the nicest person?”

“She is,” Helena agreed. “She has, well, I suppose I’d call it a knack for friendship. She and Gerald both. And I—”