The Last Dress from Paris(26)
“Wow, I mean, that is so incredibly generous. I’m not sure I can just . . .” But Leon isn’t going to tolerate any more faffing around from me.
“Come on, it will be perfectly safe here for now. But if we’re going to do this, I should at least know your name.”
“Sorry, it’s Lucille.” I hit him with the biggest smile I’ve got, hoping it will go some way to conveying how grateful I am.
“Come on then, Lucille. Let’s do this.”
6
Alice
OCTOBER 1953, PARIS
THE MAXIM’S
Fifty steps. She counts every one that propels her from the church entrance under the bell tower, through the nave, and toward the altar. Her nerves deepen with each slow, steady stride. And yet she doesn’t turn back. She doesn’t even look back to the entrance to assess how quick a retreat she could make if she changes her mind. Glancing up at the vast vaulted ceiling above, Alice feels a great sense of insignificance in this reflective place of principled contemplation. Why did she come? She doesn’t want to answer that, not yet. But now that she is here, surrounded by all these people she imagines are trying to better themselves, can she honestly say her intentions are all good?
Six minutes to noon. She’s early. Force of habit. The church is reassuringly busy. Tourists, school groups, locals who have come to pray, study, and think, weave in and out of the pews and into the side aisles, disappearing out of sight behind towering columns and through supportive stone archways that stretch and open wide to keep this magnificent building anchored. She avoids eye contact with every one of them, terrified if she looks, they’ll see on her face what she is barely able to admit to herself yet. She wants a pleasure that is not hers to seek.
She’s too tense to sit, so as she reaches the top of the nave, Alice turns left and diverts her course through a heavy iron gate and into the smaller series of chapels that sit in a semicircle behind the choir pews. Despite the watchful faces of saints on the stained glass windows above, the space back here is deeply shadowed, more private. She walks past several wooden confessional boxes, allowing her mind to drift to the many secrets they hold, wondering how long it might be before she returns to take a seat herself, before she stands in front of a marble statue of the Virgin holding an infant Jesus. She can’t draw her eyes away from the purity of it. The stark simplicity of mother and child. It’s not the religious significance that holds Alice in place, it’s the way the sculptor has captured the duality of a mother’s delicate touch with her determination to protect. Golden angels rest at the Virgin’s feet, and she is flanked by tall candelabras stacked with slim, tapered white candles, their smoke adding a ghostliness to the darkness. She considers taking a step onto the black-and-white-tiled floor inside the chapel, but just as her body starts to tilt forward, she is stopped by a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“I’m so glad you came,” he whispers. In the glow of the candlelight, Antoine’s face looks flawless, like he has been carved from marble. But then he smiles, and every one of his features loosens and warms. He looks relieved to see her. He ruffles a hand back through his hair like he’s trying to distract himself from something he really wants to do. To kiss her? Alice feels the tension stretch between them, and then she moves to defuse it.
“Antoine, it’s so lovely to see you again.” She extends a hand to be shaken and watches as he stares at it, making no attempt to take it. Her forced attempt at formality is all wrong and she knows it. He smiles more deeply, more reassuring than mocking, loops an arm through hers, and turns her right so they can complete the semicircular walk together. The implication is clear. He’s not going to pretend for anyone’s benefit that this is some sort of business meeting. Alice allows herself to be turned, then unhooks their arms, refusing to make eye contact but continuing to walk slowly beside him.
Why did she come? What good can possibly come from it?
Every movement she makes feels performed and studied. The way she is holding her gloved hands in front of her skirt, the upright angle of her chin, the deliberate movement of her feet, suddenly so unable to function naturally. But despite the awkwardness she feels and the doubt that is multiplying inside of her, the magnificence of the building is impossible to ignore. Her eyes dart from pillar to window, flash to the painted artworks above and the tombs set below their feet.
“I knew you would love it.” Antoine beams. “My brother loved it here too.” He is paying no attention to the flow of people walking in the opposite direction toward them. His neck is angled left so he can watch her and how she responds to everything, forcing everyone to alter their path to bend around them. “I fell in love the first time I set foot in here too.” Only now do his eyes leave Alice’s face. “So many of the great Parisian artists have been inspired in this church. The way the light falls and refracts, the balance of light and shade, the dependence of the stronger colors above us on the earthy, darker tones below. Just being here is a reminder of the power of creativity—and of our own insignificance in the world.”
She can’t disagree. Alice feels the tension seep a little from her shoulders. Antoine has articulated so well the sense of harmony that radiates from every windowpane and carefully carved stone archway. She feels more peaceful, here, in his company. She takes a deep breath, grateful for the Maxim’s dress that Anne helped her into this morning. With every snap she fastened on the bodice and its camisole, the gentle rise of the zip up her back and the one from her collar to her waist, nipping her inward, Alice hoped she wouldn’t ask about her appointment today. When Anne inquired if she would be needing her gloves, all Alice could manage was a curt “yes,” concerned that anything else might lead to further questions and a direct lie on her part. But the finished look is perfect. The Maxim’s might not be one of Dior’s newer pieces, but Alice has the confidence to order what she knows looks best on her, never succumbing to the pressure to order what’s new over what’s right. And this is a dress that speaks outwardly of substance and respectability.