The Last Dress from Paris(97)
“The school was conveniently right at the end of the road he lived on. He’s listed as one of the alumni. Some of his early sketches are archived on the school’s website.” I watch as his fingers dance across the keyboard, now balanced precariously on his crossed legs, like he knows exactly what he is looking for. He turns the laptop around to face me.
“Does she look familiar?”
The screen is filled with expertly crafted line drawings, brilliantly capturing the contours of the human body with astonishingly few marks. Leon scrolls slowly down the screen as more and more appear. Antoine’s subject is shown standing, sitting, fully reclining, socializing, caught off guard, posing, walking through a park—only two things remain consistent throughout: the quality of Antoine’s work and his subject.
I’ve gazed at some of these dresses long enough to know for certain they are from Granny’s collection—the Maxim’s, the Batignolles, the Debussy, the Cygne Noir—they’re all here, and Leon knows it too. But it is the woman wearing them who is truly captivating. I’m not sure, as accomplished as he clearly is, if Antoine could have created such magic without the raw beauty he had to copy. She is divine, no question of that. But it is in the spark in my grandmother’s eyes, the energy in her face, the excitement rippling through every sinew of her body. I can see how her happiness explodes from within her. Even in the less studied sketches, the ones of her asleep in bed, or waiting, for him perhaps, leaning against a wall or sitting on a park bench, her quiet happiness shines through.
“I need to print these off. I want to show them to her. Look how much he loved her!”
“I’ve already done it for you. There is a file in my bag with a print of each. I wasn’t sure if you would share them with your grandmother, but I felt sure you would want copies for yourself.”
“Oh, I do. I do, thank you, Leon. You are incredible.” And I see immediately how much that means to him. He tries, and fails, to hide his smile, more shy this time.
“His work, specifically these sketches, was well received. He was marked out as one to watch at a time when Paris was alive with the thrum of creativity. And for a while he was on the upward trajectory. But then, barely six months later, he drops out of the school and stops sketching altogether. He remained living in the Saint-Germain area for about another year, from what I’ve been able to trace, but then he moved to the Right Bank, a completely different neighborhood. That was his last known address. I don’t know, but perhaps if he wasn’t working, he was forced to move back in with his family? The point is, the records show he never had any children. And realistically, he couldn’t have been studying at the school and looking after a newborn baby, too, could he?”
“No, he probably couldn’t.” I can’t keep the deflation out of my voice. There are no other theories on the table, and all my hopes are now pinned on Granny filling in the final part of the story—and given that she hasn’t said a word about any of this for all these years, how likely is that? “If I do have an aunt or uncle out there somewhere, then I’ll have to convince Granny of how much I would desperately love to know about it, however painful it may be for her.”
“There is one other thing, Lucille. The records also show that Antoine died in 1971, when he was only forty-three. I’m sorry.”
I feel my shoulders drop. I don’t know what to be more sorry about. That there won’t be any big reconciliation for Granny? That I can’t deliver this ghost from her past to her front door—or more likely via a video call—as the script might demand I should? If she has unanswered questions, they may have to stay that way. Would she even have wanted to see him again, had it been possible? I’ve no idea. Or is it the realization that everything depends on Granny now that the facts will be strictly limited to however much she chooses to share—which may be little more than I already know?
I feel bad that Leon has traveled all this way and now there seems little to celebrate, and that I’m going to have to rally myself into not feeling glum all afternoon. My phone pings, and I glance down at it, hoping it might be Pam’s revised offer already. But it’s something entirely unexpected. Something I thought I really wanted, but now that I see it illuminated on the small screen in my palm, I’m not so sure.
“What is it?” Leon has heard the oh Christ that I thought was only in my head.
“It’s about a job.”
“I thought you had a job?”
“I did, until I resigned about half an hour ago.”
“Okay, you don’t waste any time, do you?” He’s smiling, for now, but will he still be when I tell him where this job is?
“Veronique thought I should apply for it, so I did, on the train back to London on Friday, and they’ve already got in touch. It’s an editorial position at the Museum of Decorative Arts. In Paris.”
Leon pauses mid-sip of his cappuccino, and I watch, holding my breath, as the milky foam settles on his top lip. “Are you serious?”
“They’ve just messaged me. They want to set up an initial phone chat as soon as possible. As part of the application process, they asked for ideas for future exhibits, personal stories that might translate well into physical installations. I told them a little about Granny’s dresses and my journey across Paris and, well, I think it may have helped.”