Cecile tightens her grip on Sophie’s shoulders. “If only your aunt could see you now. This was how she came to me that first day she arrived in Paris. Come,” she says. “We aren’t full, and I can put you in one of the beds for a few nights without drawing attention.”
Sophie reaches for her money, but Cecile wags a finger at her. “Put that away. I won’t take your money like this.” She moves back to the reception desk in search of a room key. “And people say we French don’t help others,” she scoffs, mostly to herself. She then hands Sophie a key before helping her maneuver her luggage up the winding staircase.
16
NITA
1998
Nita arrived at the address in the Marais that Mathieu had written for her on a slip of paper. He had found her a modeling job that paid considerably more than her sessions with Simon, and she had been elated. She so desperately needed this money to get through the next month. Mathieu had not told her what to wear, so she decided on her best panjabi, thinking it was always safe to look polished. Underneath the wool coat, the pale-pink silk fabric felt soft against her skin, while the intricate embroidery and jewels around the neckline chafed her chest slightly, a feeling to which experience told her she would grow accustomed as the night wore on.
There were fourteen students seated on stools with easels before them. At the center of the circle of students was a wooden platform on which their subject would pose. Mathieu and another man stood chatting at the front of the classroom.
“T’as raison,” the man said to Mathieu. You are right. He held a lit cigarette behind him as he nodded.
“Oui, toujours.” Always. Mathieu had a glimmer in his eye as he spoke. “Elle s’appelle Nita.”
She nodded politely as she approached them and heard her name.
“Bonsoir,” the man said, leaning in to give her two quick bisous. “Je m’appelle Julien.”
A nearby furnace kicked on, releasing a gust of hot air into the room. Nita removed her coat and draped it over her arm.
“I was not sure what to wear,” she said, gesturing toward her panjabi.
He released a stream of smoke from his lips and fanned it away from them. “It is no matter. You can change there,” Julien said to her while pointing to a little curtained-off area in the corner. Then to Mathieu, he said, “T’as lui dit, n’est-ce pas?” You told her, right?
“Pas de problème.” Not a problem.
Nita looked surprised. “This is all I’ve brought,” she said, glancing at Mathieu.
He took her arm and led her toward the curtained-off area. “You must pose nude,” he said.
She stopped dead in her tracks, staring at him as though he had gone mad. “What are you talking about?”
“The students are learning to paint nude figures. That is why the pay is so good.”
“I—I can’t do that.” Nita felt exposed even thinking about standing in this room full of people in nothing more than her bare skin. A thousand francs wasn’t worth that!
He tightened his grip on her arm and leaned in toward her. “You said you needed money.”
“Yes, but I didn’t mean . . .” She searched the room for her quickest exit point. She would find the money another way.
“What is the issue?” he asked. “This is art. The human form is beautiful, and these students are trying to study it.”
She felt like a wild animal trapped in a cage. Every student was now focused on their conversation and staring in their direction.
“Mathieu, I can’t.” Her voice was barely audible and began to tremble.
“Il y a un problème, mon ami?” Julien asked from across the room. Is there a problem, my friend?
Mathieu shook his head. “Non, non. On a besoin juste d’un moment. J’ai oublié quelque chose.” We just need a moment. I forgot something.
He steered Nita toward the door she had entered moments ago. The icy air felt good against her face. Nita inhaled sharply, finally able to breathe again.
“What was that about?” His blue eyes narrowed as he glared at her.
She had never seen his kind face look so harsh. She took a step back. “You cannot expect me to pose nude in front of those people.” Her voice was soft, timid.
“Julien has an entire class that needs a female model. You said you needed money. I pulled some strings to get him to approve you. It’s too late to cancel.”
“You should have told me,” she shot back.
“Told you what?” He threw his hands in the air. “You say you are an artist. The human body is basic stuff for a serious artist.” He lingered on the word serious, watching her reaction.
It was as if he knew how much that jab would disarm her. He had no clue how much she had given up to become an artist. Her expression turned hard, matching his. “You don’t know me. I need to go home.”
His face softened, and he changed his approach, coming toward her with his arms open in apology. “Viens ici, ma belle.” Come here, beautiful.
He folded her into his arms, and she felt the warmth of his body radiate onto hers through the thin silk fabric she wore. “Your skin is so cold.” He rubbed her back with long strokes, trying to make her feel more comfortable. He pulled his head back so he could look down at her face.
“You are beautiful. You should not hide that from the world,” he said, staring at her with tender longing as he dropped his mouth to meet hers.
She stood frozen as his warm lips covered hers. The only other man she had ever kissed had been her husband. And that had been so different. His mouth didn’t have the same fervor as Mathieu’s did. His lips didn’t have the same softness or thickness. She found herself responding to Mathieu by parting her lips and deepening their kiss. She brought her hands to his face, pulling it closer to her as if she were afraid he might pull away and leave her breathless and wanting more. She had never experienced anything like this and now understood what the scenes in the Western movies she had seen were trying to capture. There was an urgency in her that shocked her.
When he did finally release her lips from his own, she was indeed breathless and trembling and wanting more. His lids slowly opened, revealing those mysterious blue eyes, now with the gentleness in them she was accustomed to seeing.
“You taste as beautiful as you look,” he said as he kissed her forehead and pulled her closer toward him in a tender embrace.
She could not find the words to express to him what she was feeling, so she mumbled a soft merci into his chest. He cupped her chin in his hand and lightly tilted her face to meet his kind eyes.
“Ma belle, we must go back inside.”
The magic of the moment was broken, and she again filled with the terror she had felt when emerging from the classroom a few minutes earlier. She shook her head, feeling lost and confused. “I can’t . . . ,” she said, not wanting to disappoint him but not knowing what else to say.
He kissed her again, this time more softly, with a tenderness that made her believe he would protect her. “Let me help you. It will be over soon, ma belle, and then you will not have to mar your beautiful face with worry about money like you have these past weeks.”
Before she could answer, he pulled a small cigarette from his pocket and lit it. This one looked different from his others, shorter and fatter and rolled by hand. He sat on the stone ledge outside of the art school and pulled her onto his lap. The warmth of his thighs radiated through his jeans and felt good against her cold legs.