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  “I am compelled to do it. My parents told me I was always creative, always drawing and painting as a child. That may be true except my first memory of drawing was when I was eight or nine. I’m not sure. One sunny summer’s day I went outside and drew the square. I spent all day doing it, took ages sketching the buildings and the trees trying to include the smallest details. Then I painted the drawing but I didn’t know how to paint properly so I completely ruined it. I was so upset and ran crying to my mother. She said what I’d done was good but that didn’t satisfy me.”

  “Is art what you say it is or what others tell you it is?”

  “What others tell you or more precisely when they recognise and appreciate what you have done.”

  “When they can see the beauty in your work?”

  “Not necessarily. Art is not about beauty or aesthetics it is more about communication and a truthful interaction between human beings. The greatest artists have always achieved this, the Mona Lisa’s tenuous smile; Van Gogh’s tormented brush strokes. They engage the viewer in something more mysterious, more meaningful than beauty”

  “Do men and women view art differently?”

  She raised her eyebrows. I wondered for a moment if she was baiting me. Her questions were so direct.

  “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  She smiled and lowered her eyes.

  “I knew you would ask me that. Did my question threaten you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why don’t you answer?”

  “I was interested in what you might think.”

  “No you weren’t.”

  “I was. I’ve been doing all the talking. I wanted to hear your opinion...”

  “...of my own question?”

  I nodded tentatively.

  “I think it is a good question.”

  “Now you are being sarcastic.”

  “Am I?”

  “You knew what I meant.”

  “Did I? How do you know that?”

  “Why did you ask me that question?”

  “I was interested in hearing what you might have to say. You talked about art being truthful and meaningful and I wondered what you meant by that with regard to men and women. Let’s leave it for now. We can talk again another time. Tell me more about your shop.”

  I was reluctant to continue. I felt ruffled. She reached forward and took my hand. “Please.”

  I told her about the Toulouse-Lautrec sketches and the portrait of my mother.

  “You painted your mother? How wonderful! I would like to see it.”

  “You would? I think I could have painted it better.”

  “I’m sure it is very good. Is your shop open every day?”

  “Most days.”

  “I have some free time in a few days. The director promised my understudy some performances. I will call to see you then.”

  I was tempted to ask her to be more specific, which day, what time!

  “You will?”

  “Of course I will.” She squeezed my hand.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  I was confused.

  “My name, you have it written on the back of your hand.”

  I blushed. She smiled and tilted her head slightly.

  Cecilia and Alex had returned and even though I knew I would miss Camille, I had no desire to continue this charade with the others.

  “I think I will leave now, thank you for inviting me to join you.”

  “Thank you for asking for my autograph. I hope the evening wasn’t too painful.”

  “No, not at all; this place is extraordinary...”

  “...and created for excess.”

  “Well, if Alex is correct, then Monsieur Hitler will love it!”

  Camille laughed loudly.

  “He would love to be proven correct.”

  She leaned over and kissed me gently on the cheek.

  “Goodnight Paul Politzer, humble painter from Le Marais.”

  “My pleasure Camille Berman.”

  I bid my goodbyes. Bertrand and Sabine shook my hand. The others waved. Cecilia ignored me and Alex merely nodded before turning his attention back to Cecilia. I left quickly and once outside, I missed her; her words, her smile, her hand on my arm and her kiss, were all I could think about as I walked home.

  When I arrived my father was asleep in his chair by the radio. The room was lit with candles. It was now Saturday, Shabbat! He woke as soon as I entered the room.

  “Is that you Paul?”He checked his watch. “It’s after midnight!”

  “Yes, I went out with some of the cast after the performance.”

  “You know these people?”

  I sat down and told him about the evening, careful to avoid any sentiment regarding Camille.

  “La Coupole is a palace of hedonism son. You should avoid it. So, tell me about Carmen?”

  “I’ll tell you in the morning. It is late! You should go to bed.” I took the programme from my jacket pocket and set it on the table. “Have a look!”

  “Did you make any notes?”

  “I was so enraptured by the performance, I forgot to.”

  “Do you have my pen?”

  I pulled the Lalex from my pocket and handed it to him. He hesitated before taking it. Then he unscrewed the top and examined the nib closely. When he was satisfied I hadn’t completely destroyed it, he carefully placed the pen on the table next to the radio.

  “Who is Camille?”

  “Camille?”

  “The name written on the back of your hand!”

  I looked at her name scrawled on my skin and began to rub the ink with my thumb.

  “Oh, that! Merely one of the performers! She gave me her name and I didn’t want to forget.”

  “I see! She must be important. Right, I must go to bed now. Shabbat!”

  I helped him from his chair and watched him slowly and painfully leave the room.

  “Goodnight son!” he whispered quietly

  At that moment, my heart was filled with great affection and love for him. Ordinarily our conversations were functional, the stuff of day to day life; communication designed to make living together pleasant and bearable but there were other, briefer times when our natural bond transcended the ordinary. These moments were almost metaphysical, seconds existing out of time, when our souls became entwined. No language could express the truthfulness of it and the truth was I didn’t want him to die. I knew how much he missed my mother. Some nights he would sit at her piano, flinching each time he pressed a particular key, remembering something of their life together, maybe a moment of intimacy or maybe something he had forgotten to say. I too had my own private memories of her: playing Shake that Thing, my father laughing and saying, “I don’t think you could shake much with that tempo, Anna”, my mother playing faster until finally leaping to her feet, grabbing him round the waist and dancing wildly around the room singing...

  Now, Grandpapa Johnson grabbed Sister Kate,

  He shook her like you shake jelly on a plate,

  How he shook that thing,

  Oh, he shook that thing!

  I'm gettin' sick and tired of telling you to shake that thing.

  ...and the night I lay on my bed and listened to her play Moonlight Sonata. Such music I never heard before. It evoked loneliness in me I had never experienced. I closed my eyes and allowed my mind to transport me to the empty square outside. I imagined that behind each facade people stopped and listened and for a short while we were all held together, spellbound by her music.

  I lay awake for hours re-visiting my evening with Camille. I remembered the look she gave me when I asked for her autograph. I recalled our conversation in La Coupole and how her directness completely disarmed me. Scenes and music from the performance rolled in and out of my mind; Habanera, The Toreador’s Song and Camille singing Parle-moi de ma mere, her hands clasped together and her plaintive voice filling the theatre with strength and hope. Dawn was beginning to break when
sleep finally took me. The last thing I remembered was her song.

  3.

  I awoke later than usual. My father was already dressed and ready for his walk to the synagogue.

  “Don’t worry Paul, I can walk alone.”

  His sounded disappointed and I knew he would have preferred me to accompany him.

  “You should have woken me”, I replied hastily.

  “Why?” he responded.

  “I’ll be ready in a minute.”

  “But, you have had no breakfast.”

  “I’ll get something on the way.”

  “You can have breakfast at the Synagogue if you care to join us.”

  “Thank you, but I would prefer to eat alone.”

  Soon we were standing in the street. It was another beautiful morning with a clear blue sky. Recently I had begun to notice that my father was having more difficulty than usual walking down the stairs from the apartment. He tried to conceal it but I could feel the tension in his arm as I supported him.

  He straightened himself, tapped his stick on the ground and we set off taking the usual route across the square, greeting the usual people until stopping as normal at Madame Guillard’s shop.

  “Shabbat, Esther!”

  “How are you, Solomon?”

  “Oh, I have felt better. Paul has been to the opera.”

  “That’s nice. Which opera did he see?”

  “He saw Carmen at L’Opera Comique.”

  “Really, I have a poster in my shop. They came a few weeks back to put it up.”

  “We need to go father. I have to meet someone”

  “That wouldn’t be Camille, would it?” my father quipped. “He met the cast last night Esther and was very taken by someone called Camille Berman from Limoux!”

  “Well Paul, it’s about time you met someone nice,” said Mme Guillard. “Tell me more.”

  “She was a member of the cast and we spoke briefly. That’s all!”

  “Oh, that’s all, is it?” replied my father. “I think someone who wrote, To Paul, with much appreciation on your programme has more in mind than ‘that’s all’. Don’t you think so Esther?”

  “It was only her autograph. I liked her singing.”

  “Camille Berman from Limoux”, Mme Guillard pondered, “I know Berman’s from Limoux. My aunt Marie moved there after the last war and Jean and I used to visit occasionally. Yes, I remember now. Berman! They had a vineyard at Villelongue, just outside the town. They made exquisite wine, Solomon.”

  “Well I hope they still do”, my father responded.

  I folded my arms defiantly. The conversation was becoming preposterous.

  “I’ll be sure and ask her if I see her again”

  “I’m sure you will see her again Paul”, Mme Guillard assured me. “Is she Jew or Gentile? Do you know Solomon?”

  I was now raising my eyes to the ceiling in disbelief.

  “I wouldn’t think she was Jew, Esther. They went to La Coupole after the performance.”

  “Tut, tut, Paul”, Mme Guillard exclaimed sarcastically. “I really don’t know if I approve of that.”

  “It was my first time!” I protested. “Maurice Chevalier was there. He sang his new song.”

  “I like Maurice Chevalier”, Mme Guillard remarked, “He has a fine voice and he is very handsome.”

  “Well, I shall keep you informed of developments Esther”, my father said as he began to leave the shop, “and you never know, maybe we shall have Maurice Chevalier singing for us at the synagogue.”

  Mme Guillard laughed loudly.

  “Camille doesn’t know Maurice Chevalier,” I whispered as we left. “And that was so embarrassing. Why did you have to humiliate me like that?”

  My father seemed confused.

  “Humiliate you?” he replied, “That wasn’t my intention.”

  “Well what then?”

  “We were just talking, Paul. It was nothing.”

  “It was ridiculous.”

  We continued in silence to the synagogue. As I made to leave he gripped my arm and said,

  “How is the shop going? You never talk about it.”

  “You never ask me about it.”

  “I have wanted too many times but I thought you might find it rude or presumptuous of me to intrude. Have you sold many paintings? Are you working on anything?”

  “I sold one painting last week, a small watercolour of Rue Pavee. I am working on some portraits at the moment.”

  “You have a sitter?”

  “Yes, she comes on Saturday which is why I must rush.”

  I turned away and walked quickly along the street, annoyed with myself for lying to him. I had walked about two hundred metres before I looked back. He was still there, looking at me.

  When I arrived at the shop, two people were waiting, George and Sandy Dawson from Akron Ohio! It was their first visit to Paris. Sandy spoke French extremely well. George simply smiled a lot.

  “We always wanted to visit”, Sandy informed me. “Now that George has retired and the children have grown up we have the time.”

  They told me it was their fortieth year together. George had worked as a travelling salesman for an insurance firm and seemed to have been quite successful. They had been passing the shop and had noticed the Lautrec sketches. This was a common occurrence. I told them they were for display only and not for sale. Many times people had asked about them and I always refused to sell. I didn’t really know why. I needed the money. We spent a pleasant fifteen minutes together and I tried to interest them in my own work but they declined to buy. Eventually they left and I wished them a pleasant stay.

  I closed the shop and retired to the back room to continue with Camille’s portrait. I abandoned my initial attempt and began again by drawing the eyes, nose and mouth. I concentrated on remembering how her lips curled when she smiled, the wrinkled furrow on her brow when she disapproved of something, how she tilted her head slightly to the left when she asked a question and how her eyes, always opened wide, reflected a curious fascination of the world. By the time I completed the drawing, I had convinced myself it was a good likeness. Now I assembled my paint and brushes. I focused initially on the nose before slowly and meticulously moving to the eyes and mouth and applying intricate details of her complexion. Finally I recreated her beautiful hair, floating delicately around her face.

  When I finished I realised that dusk had fallen. I had been working all day and now I was hungry. I scrutinized the painting from all angles. I had attempted to capture her soul and not simply recreate her features. Her eyes stared at me from the canvass and her mouth revealed the hint of a smile.

  My father was still at the synagogue when I returned home and I was happy for the opportunity to enjoy the solitude of the house. He had made some thick chicken soup and I ate two bowls along with some Challah that he had bought that morning from Lunel’s bakery around the corner in Rue d’Ormesson. After dinner, I poured myself a glass of cognac and turned on the radio. A music programme was playing Beethoven’s Concerto in D Major. I was tempted to sit in my father’s chair but thought better off it. He would be disappointed if he discovered I had used it. And he would know because I would feel guilty and he would immediately sense that. Despite his sometimes irritating behaviour he was an honest man and I had difficulty lying to him. It was even more so with my mother.

  I was nine years old when I stole four red roses from outside Mme Guillard’s shop. I had an accomplice, my friend Anshel Drezner. It was the eleventh day of Cheshvan, the eighth month of our year and the day we traditionally set aside to celebrate our mothers. After the theft Anshel and I shared the roses. When I entered the apartment I could hear my mother singing in the kitchen. She was preparing Cholent. I tiptoed to the bathroom, wrapped some toilet paper around the stems and splashed water on the petals. The fragrance was strong and sweet. I entered the kitchen, nervous and apprehensive.

  “These are for you Mama.”

  She looked surprised.


  “Oh Paul, they are beautiful.”

  I was so happy when she took them from me and held them lovingly to her face.

  “What a beautiful perfume.” She said

  She knelt down and took my hands, smiling broadly and looking me in the eyes with a strong gaze.

  “You know Paul; smell is the most spiritual of all the senses. It was the only human sense that did not play a part in the downfall of Adam and because of that was deemed sacred by our elders. Roses are grown for their beauty and their smell and to give roses as a gift is a sacred act.”

  She leaned forward and kissed me gently on the forehead.

  “Thank you.”

  My body stiffened and I began trembling, beginning with my head, then moving into my neck, along my shoulders and down my arms. My mother gripped my shoulders.

  “What’s the matter darling?”

  It seemed that at any moment my head would explode from my body. I freed myself from her grip and ran into the living room where I fell on to the couch and buried my head in the cushions. A hot flush of tears came quickly. I felt my mother sitting down beside me and placing her hand gently on my back.

  “What is it Paul? What is the matter?”

  I shook my head violently. She grabbed me and turned me round, forcing me to look at her. I clenched my eyes shut as I could not bear to see her face. Then she pulled me to her and embraced me with her strong arms. I buried my head between her breasts and sobbed uncontrollably.

  “There, there my son”, she murmured.

  I told her everything.

  “We must return them to Mme Guillard”, was all she said as she retrieved the flowers from the kitchen and walked to the hall. “Are you ready? You must come with me Paul.”

  Outside, she took my hand and led me forcefully across the square. I kept my head lowered, convinced that everyone we passed knew of my crime. When we arrived at Mme Guillard’s she marched me inside and told her what happened.

  “I see”, Mme Guillard responded. “Wait here young man.”

  She directed my mother to a corner of the shop and left me alone among the flowers. After a short conversation they returned.

  “Your mother and I have discussed the matter”, Mme Guillard announced, “and we have agreed that you must recompense me for what you have done. Obviously you have no money so I have suggested that you work here for two weeks. Your payment will be the price of the roses you have stolen. Naturally, we must also obtain your father’s permission and your mother will talk to him this evening. You may keep the roses. I do not want to see them again.”