Julian stepped off the train platform at Gare de Lyon and onto the cobblestone street. Clutching his suitcase, portfolio, and new identity, he drew in a deep, satisfied breath.
I’m here, finally.
Sharp fumes from passing cars and garbage rot were certainly not what he expected. Somehow, the air in Paris should be savory, sweet, musky, or wine-scented, not ripe with urban odors. As Julian waited for a taxicab, a stylish young woman with long auburn curls walked toward him with an airy bounce, quickly making him forget the stench. Her dress was clingy and floral. Blooming red roses gripped her curvaceous body like a silk glove. Julian smiled at her. She paused, and he knew what she saw: the white even teeth and boyish dimples—a smile that could sell anything, his mother used to say. But this girl wasn’t buying. She rolled her eyes, giggling, and kept walking. Julian realized he had a large baguette crumb hanging off of his lip. He heard her still laughing as she crossed the street.
“Where to?”The driver leaned out of the Renault window, speaking without even looking at him.
Julian knew he should go to the university to get situated. His first class started tomorrow, but the day was still young. He hesitated, but only for a few seconds. Why not?
“Where do the artists hang out?” he asked in broken French. He understood the language much better than he could speak it. “The Left Bank,” the driver said gruffly. “Get in.”
Café de Flore at the corner of boulevard Saint Germain and rue Saint-Benoît was crowded. The outdoor seating area was packed with young people drinking, talking, and smoking shoulder to shoulder. No one seemed to mind the sardine-like arrangement. On the contrary, Julian noted, as he approached the restaurant, they appeared to revel in it.
When he entered the two-story café, he was struck by the expensive décor filled with large mirrors, mahogany furniture, and candy apple red-cushioned seats lining the walls. Julian was used to cheap crummy diners with scattered old newspapers left behind on the seats and cracks on the walls that no one bothered to fix. This place, in comparison, was immaculate, and probably too pricey. He patted his coat and felt the comforting thickness of the wad of money concealed inside a sewn-in pocket. He must have checked the pocket a thousand times on his long journey to Paris. This money was all he had to get by. He had to pace himself. He was hungry, but a cup of coffee and bread would have to do.
He scanned the room. Tiny round tables were brimming with young people. He saw dozens of large portfolios leaning against chair legs. Artists. Julian’s heart beat fast. So this was it. Paris—home of Picasso, Braque, Chagall, Monet, Manet, Renoir, Cézanne—every artist who mattered. And now me. It seemed only yesterday that he had left his parents’ home in Chicago for New York. Left? Julian shook his head at the innocence of that word—more like ran for his life.
As he stood near the door waiting for a table, Julian tried not to think about the past, but no matter how hard he pushed away those thoughts, they continued to haunt him. Don’t go there, he warned himself. Not now, not today.
Instead, he focused on the pretty brunette sitting alone at a table in the center of the room. She caught his eye and smiled. He guessed she was his age, around twenty, perhaps a few years older. He smiled back. The girl laughed and lit a cigarette. Her exhale was long and seductive; the smoke, a smooth, thick line in front of her face. As the smoke cleared, she leaned back and assessed him daringly. Was that an invitation? Julian wondered if he should join her, when suddenly two men pushed past him and walked over to her table.
Damn. The girl stood and kissed them both warmly. Who were they? While she was talking, Julian took the opportunity to get a better look at her. She was medium height, very slim with small curves, like a teenager. He studied the way her hands moved as she spoke, animated like a conductor, and how her long dark ponytail swished behind her as she laughed at something one of those guys said to her. Her lips were full and sensual, slightly duck-like with gleaming white teeth that lit up her whole face. Julian had known women in New York—mostly artists’ models—who were, perhaps, more blatantly beautiful, yet none exuded the instant vibrancy of this girl. Her presence seemed to fill the room.
If only she would sit still, Julian thought, then he could paint her— first in his head, and later, on canvas.
“Monsieur, your table is ready.” The waiter tapped his arm, interrupting his thoughts. He led Julian to a table near the girl. He felt self conscious as his shabby suitcase bumped several people along the way. Everyone seemed to be watching him. From the corner of his eye, he could see her eyes on him too.
“Hey—just get off the boat?” one of the two guys sitting at her table called out in harsh-sounding French. Julian turned around.
“Leave him alone, Felix,” the girl scolded. Then Julian heard her whisper, “Besides, he’s quite attractive.”
“Just having a little fun, Adrienne,” the guy she called Felix said. “And for the record, he’s not as good looking as I am.”
Her name is Adrienne. It fits.
“You mean not as good looking as you think you are.” She squeezed Felix’s arm affectionately. A friendly squeeze, Julian noted. He was certain that Felix was not her boyfriend. Must be the other one then. Julian sat back in his chair, stretched his legs, watching the trio from the corner of his eye. And, she thinks I’m attractive.
“Let’s settle this, Adrienne.” Felix turned to his friend. “René, who is better looking? Me, or the guy with the suitcase?”
René laughed. “Von Bredow, you never change. Always competing. Hate to say it, but Bag Boy wins hands down.”
“Bastard.”
“Truth hurts.”
Felix leaned forward. “So do lies.”
Adrienne laughed hard, and then their conversation quickly changed from Julian’s looks to politics. Julian readjusted his chair to get a better view. He could not help but stare at René, whose hair was thick with jet-black waves that nearly reached his shoulders. His blackish eyes were deep-set, and his strong, straight nose flared slightly at the end like a Greek warrior’s. He was pretty, like a prince in a fairy tale. As René spoke, he lightly stroked Adrienne’s upper arm. Definitely the boyfriend. Julian knew he could not compete.
“So, where are you from?” Felix called out, catching Julian staring at them. “America, right?”
Julian felt his cheeks heat up. Conversations seemed to have stopped.
“New York,” Julian answered quietly.
“Long way from home,” Felix announced loud enough for his attentive audience. “Get lost?”
He was exactly the kind of guy Julian hated—the loudmouth who demanded constant attention.
“I’m an artist,” Julian mumbled, not sure why he even bothered to answer.
The spectators at the surrounding tables burst out in allied laughter. Julian cringed, wishing he could disappear. But the waiter brought his coffee and he was stuck.
“An artist?” Felix arched a thick black eyebrow. “A true artist drinks wine in the afternoon and coffee after midnight. You call yourself an artist?”
Julian’s fists curled tightly. Ignore him. He sipped his coffee and focused on the street-side window in front of him, but he could still hear Felix going at it, enjoying himself at Julian’s expense.
“Leave him alone already, Felix. You never know when to stop.” It was Adrienne rushing to Julian’s defense.
Felix, who clearly did not like to be ignored, responded by getting up and walking over to Julian’s table. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said, his breath reeking of wine. “I’m just having some fun. Look, we don’t bite. We’re artists too.” He extended his hand, but Julian pretended not to notice. “Felix Von Bredow.”
“Julian Klein.” He stood and assessed Felix, who was taller than him, but less muscular. His hair, black and slicked back, set off a wide forehead and large eyes that were a startling shade of blue. His pockmarked cheeks marred what might have been a perfect face.
“Have a drink with us.” Felix gestured toward his table.
Julian met Adrienne’s sparkling almond gaze. She smiled warmly, and he felt himself blush.
“I can guarantee we’ll insult you,” Felix added wryly, “but we won’t bore you.”
Julian wanted to tell Felix to go to hell, but Felix had already grabbed Julian’s bag without waiting for an answer.
“Garçon, another,” Felix shouted out in French, lifting a just-finished bottle of Beaujolais high overhead. He then raised his still-full glass and said in German, “A toast to the tortured memory of my father. May Baron Wilhelm Von Bredow forever rest in peace, and remain far away from me.”
“But your father is alive and well,” Adrienne objected in English, for Julian’s benefit.
“There you go again.” Felix playfully kissed her cheek. “Trying to ruin my day.”
Julian glanced at his watch in shock. It felt like minutes since he’d sat down with them, but he had been drinking for almost three hours. The traffic outside was dying down, and the bustling afternoon had transformed into a lethargic dusk. He was tired from traveling and lightheaded from listening to his new friends switch languages as easily as they changed their drinks.
“So, how do you know French and German so well?” Felix asked Julian, as he downed his glass and opened yet another bottle of wine. “Europeans converse easily in at least three languages, but most Americans I meet can barely speak one.”
“Very funny.” Julian deemed Felix an asshole but figured he’d never see him again after today. “I had a neighbor who was French,” he explained. “And a cousin by marriage who was German. But if I were you, I wouldn’t brag about your English.”
Adrienne laughed and punched Felix’s arm. “No wonder René and I are the only friends you have left.”
“Not true,” Felix countered, nudging Julian. “I now have him too.”
Adrienne rolled her eyes and leaned forward. Her blouse opened slightly and Julian forced himself to look away. “We’ve been talking nonstop. Tell us more about you, Julian.”
For the first time since Julian had joined their table, Felix actually stopped talking and gave Julian the floor. The three of them were silent and waiting. Julian was not prepared to talk about himself, but knew he had to give them something. He skipped the part about Chicago and instead told them how he had lived briefly with his cousin Sammy in Brooklyn while taking art classes at night. During the day, while Sammy ran his bootlegging business, Julian spent time with his cousin’s German-born wife Gertrude, who modeled for him as he painted her, cooked for him, and taught him the language. Julian omitted telling them how Gertrude had tried to seduce him one afternoon and that he quickly packed up his belongings and left Sammy’s home that night. Instead, Julian told his new friends that he needed a change and moved into a ramshackle apartment in Manhattan with five other young artists whom he had met in his classes. By day, Julian painted houses to make money. On those nights he did not have art classes, he painted on the street with his new friends, mostly portraits and landscapes of local tourist attractions, particularly tacky renderings of Yankee Stadium and the Statue of Liberty.
Julian quickly understood that while his subjects were uninspiring, his work sold faster than any other artist’s paintings on the street. He heard the same comments again and again. “You are better than this, Julian. A natural. Go to Paris, that’s where the real artists are.”
An elderly French woman who lived in his apartment building encouraged Julian to send his sketches to her brother, an instructor at the École des Beaux-Arts, to get an opinion of his work. When Julian received an invitation to attend the famous Parisian art school, he knew that what they had said about him on the street must be true. He happily painted the French woman’s portrait in exchange for French lessons.
Six months later, after he had saved up enough money for travel expenses, Julian returned to his cousin’s home, asking Sammy if he could borrow money to move to Paris to study. He showed Sammy the letter from the École des Beaux-Arts and promised him a return with interest on the investment.
Sammy brought Julian into his office and opened up the safe, which was filled with more money than Julian had ever seen. He handed Julian several stacks of bills and a bottle of whiskey, and hugged him tightly. He then looked his cousin squarely in the eye and said, “I trust you, Julian. If it’s what you really want, then go to Paris and paint, but when you become the next Picasso, don’t forget your cousin Sammy.”
Felix listened to Julian’s story as he finished off the last of the wine. “A bootlegger, huh? My kind of guy. The École des Beaux-Arts part—not impressed.” He glanced at Adrienne and René, then lifted the almost emptied bottle of Beaujolais to get the waiter’s attention. Julian had never seen anyone drink so much, and so fast.
“Go easy, Felix,” René warned him, giving the approaching waiter a no-more signal. He turned to Julian. “Don’t get Felix started on the Beaux-Arts, or we will be here all night.”
“You think I’m drunk, René? You have no faith in my true calling.” Felix grabbed René’s half-full glass of wine and finished it, slamming down the glass against the table. “But you’re right. Let’s get out of here. I say we paint. My creative juices are flowing. Let’s go now before I piss it all out.” He draped his arm around René’s shoulders. “My place this time. Why don’t you join us, Julian? You have nothing better to do.”
Julian knew he should get to the art school to settle in. “I’ve really got to go,” he said reluctantly. “Classes begin tomorrow, and I can barely see straight.”
“The goal here is to not see straight.” Felix wiped his wine-drenched mouth with his sleeve. “I almost forgot. École des Beaux-Arts’s students need all of their energy to stomach heavy doses of academic rubbish.”
René and Adrienne exchanged knowing glances. “Here we go,” René said, rolling his eyes.
Julian turned to Adrienne. “What’s his problem with the École des Beaux-Arts?”
“You have to understand, we were all once students there,” she explained. “We’re dropouts.”
“That place is a death warrant for artists.” Felix leaned in close to Julian. His breath was sour. “A bunch of cookie-cutter instructors out to destroy any independent creative thinking.”
René nodded vigorously, and Julian noticed how his black hair had a deep blue sheen under the glow of the overhead light. “A couple of years ago we all left the school together for Léon Dubois’s studio,” René explained. “Way back, Dubois taught at the Beaux-Arts. He was considered one of their star painters until he declared himself to be independent of the Establishment.”
Julian listened as René described how their mentor had been fed up with the school’s stringent rules and had decided to break free. As René spoke, Julian gazed at his hands, which were slim-tipped and delicately carved. They did not seem to match the rest of René, who was powerfully built, like an athlete.
Adrienne lit another cigarette and blew smoke over Julian’s shoulder, interrupting his thoughts. “Dubois challenged the powers-that-be by joining up with the German Expressionists and flaunting it,” she said. The stream of her breath felt warm near Julian’s mouth, and he inhaled it guiltily.
“It was a slap in the school’s face,” she continued. “The French hate the Expressionists because their technique is considered formless, excessive, and wild—totally unsophisticated.”
“But brilliant,” René added, as he lightly stroked her shoulder again. She looked up at him, and they both smiled intimately, as though they would rather be in bed than at the café. Julian felt an unexpected pang of jealousy.
“Yes, the Expressionists are brilliant, German, and barbaric—like me.” Felix laughed heartily, joined by the others. He stood. He was done talking, done drinking. He threw money down on the table and pulled Julian up alongside him. “Tomorrow, you will be stuck in a classroom, my friend. But tonight, you’re coming with us, and we will show you what you will never get at the École des Beaux-Arts.”