Page 45 of The Seekers of Deer Creek

May 24, 1943

It happened more swiftly than one can imagine. The descent. One moment, the Chaton and I were suspended in a state of anguished love. And the next—we were falling into the Hell of our own making.

The evening of the harvest gala arrived. Emil had shaved his face so closely that it seemed to glow. The pomade glossed his hair to such a shine that he resembled the golden-haired Apollo on a cloud. I felt a rush of affection for him, my only friend in the world besides the Chaton. I had told him of our affair and, while visibly distressed, he did not shun me or utter any cruel words.

“It can’t last,” he said. “Marcel is a cur, but they have built a life together. My sister will not leave her husband.”

“I don’t expect her to.”

“So you must end it,” he said, more urgently. “He will not be sensible when it comes to her. They share love, in a way.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“It is a twisted love, but it’s theirs. You cannot compete. You know this.”

“Justine and I—we are already over.” As I said it, I knew it to be true.

“I warned you, my love. JuJu is a woman of many passions, but little fidelity.”

It rankled me to hear him speak of her that way, but I did not show it. I said, “I’m nothing but a foolish child in these things, Emi. Forget I said anything. I will behave and we will leave Arles together, as if nothing at all had happened.”

Thus reassured, he changed the subject, as only Emil could. “Let’s not discuss it again. Now, you cannot wear one of those awful suits tonight. Let me dress you. Your would-be patrons await!”

“Along with your commission?”

“Naturally.”

He borrowed from Justine a gray silk with a dropped waist and a skirt that ruffled like the petals of a carnation. The back plunged to daring depths. I wasn’t myself and yet I welcomed the departure. It was easier to mask my heartbreak when I did not look like me. Her clothing was still redolent of her rose perfume.

The night was crisp and fragrant. When we walked the few meters from the cottage to the Maison de Notre Rêve, Marcel came out to meet us with his usual bluster.

“You look well, Emi. AndLý, my dear—” Wolfish eyes cast a net down my body.

“Borrowed feathers,” I said as curtly as I could manage without being rude.

“They suit you. You’d sell more paintings if you looked like this every day. Give up the jig. My friends would sooner buy from a pretty woman in a good gown than... well, the other persona.”

“Ah, the cost of success is only an abandonment of my self.”

Marcel frowned and began to speak, but Emil broke in with a placating smile. “Lýis her own creature. No one should reason with a woman, as you know.”

I wanted to throttle Emil, but I also understood his desire to put Marcel at ease. For a moment, I glimpsed anger in Marcel’s eyes, and it held a promise of retribution that made me want to shield myself. But Emil was long accustomed to managing the moods of others and, in his capable hands, Marcel was as easily led as any.

“Indeed,” Marcel said at last, the mask of a gracious host donned once again. “Well, come, you two. Justine has been looking for you.”

We found her near the champagne fountain. She turned from her group of friends to embrace me, coolly, briefly, before giving her best smile to Emil. Did she notice her dress on me? How it slithered on my skin, as it had hers? Did she see the innate intimacy of our temporary mirroring? I never knew. Emil and Justine sped off to her salon, where she displayed her most prized works.

She had recently acquired a Miró drawing that I disliked greatly. I made my feelings known, which erupted into a quarrel, one of our first. She reassured me that she loved my work, but I wondered if she only loved the sheen of art on me, rather than the real product of my hours. My ego continued to gnash between us. I suspected that she would use Emil’s opinion to counter mine, as evidence of my jealousy and her superior taste. With a guzzle of champagne, I tried to put them both out of my mind, as well as the echo of anger I had glimpsed in Marcel’s eyes.

The night was a bore. I couldn’t keep tabs on the Chaton or Emil—they were thick as thieves, scurrying off to corners to whisper—and the champagne and bright lights made my head hurt. I hid from any would-be patrons, preferring to hug the wall as I watched over the festivities like a gargoyle, longing for the silence of the cottage.

Once, the Chaton and I found ourselves alone at the top of a staircase, looking down upon the elegant crowd. Marcel noticed his wife on the landing and waved his hand jauntily. She blew a kiss back, as was appropriate, but it made resentment hiss inside of me.

“What a stylish couple you are,” I said, acid on my tongue.

She did not choose to acknowledge my ire. She asked, neutrally, as she might any other guest, “Having a nice time?”

“I’m having a horrid time. I’m tortured by you.”