Julian and René walked hurriedly down the rue de Seine on their way to Jacob Levi’s gallery. They were close to the École des Beaux-Arts and for a moment Julian wondered how things might have turned out had he attended the famous art school. Surely, by this time, he would have accomplished something more than he had so far. His days spent painting with Dubois were uninspiring, a disappointment.
Digging his hands deep inside the pockets of the thick tweed overcoat that he had borrowed from Felix, he glanced over at René, who, despite the cold, somehow managed to look like he had just stepped out of a magazine. The blustery wind against René’s face accentuated his deep olive skin, and the tears forming in the corners of his eyes provided a shimmering onyx veneer.
“You really should do this alone, René,” Julian said. “Your father hardly knows me. I will just be in the way.”
“But I want you in the way,” René insisted. “I know my father. He won’t explode if you are there. You don’t even have to say a word. Just act as a buffer.”
Julian glanced angrily at his friend’s flawless profile. “A buffer? That is all I’ve been doing since I got to Paris—shutting up about your secrets. You have to tell Felix about Charlotte—even if he is leaving in a few days. It has pushed me into a corner. I feel like I’m lying every time I see him. You know damn well he’s completely infatuated with her.”
“I planned on telling him earlier this week.” René slowed his stride. “And then his father showed up. I just didn’t want to make the situation any worse for Felix.”
“Bullshit, René. You’re stalling, and I get it, but he’s going to find out. Better that you tell him first.” Julian stopped walking, and they turned and faced each other. “Look, I don’t want to be caught in the middle of this any longer.”
René nodded, but said nothing. He gestured to the corner market right across from where they were standing. “Cigarettes. I’ll be back.”
Julian watched René give the vendor’s pretty daughter a confident smile as he paid her, and the girl blushed as René pulled out an expensive leather wallet. The bundle of cash seemed to float in his elegant hand. Julian could not help but think that René had been given too much—exceptional looks, talent, money, charm, confidence. And Adrienne. Julian pretended to peruse a shelf of fresh vegetables, chastising himself for feeling so jealous—for being in love with her. It wasn’t fair.
René returned with a cigarette already in his mouth. “Much better now.”
As they walked away from the market, Julian said, “You have to talk to Adrienne about Charlotte too. I can’t cover for you any longer. She knows.” He paused. “I can’t lie to her, René. She’s too smart.”
René threw up his hands, and the cigarette went flying. “Damn it, Julian, I’ve tried, but she refuses to speak to me.”
They walked toward Jacob Levi’s art gallery in silence. As they crossed onto the rue Jacob, René stopped in the middle of the street and turned to Julian. “I know I’ve put you in a bad position, and I’m sorry about it. But I said I would take care of things. We won’t have to discuss any of this again.”
“Fine,” Julian said.
“Fine,” René responded.
Julian decided this was the time to tell René about the conversation he’d overheard at Ferrat’s gallery. No more secrets. “Listen, René, there is something else you need to know about Charlotte.”
“Hold it for later, Julian, because we’re here, and we’re late.” René scurried up the marble steps to his father’s gallery and Julian followed. He would have to tell him about Charlotte and Jacob Levi after the meeting. He glanced up at the impressive four-story gallery with the fancy coral-tinted stonework and Art Deco stained-glass windows. Although he had passed by the landmark building dozens of times, this was the first time that René had ever invited him inside.
“Those are incredible.” Julian stood in awe of the windows.
“Yes, incredible,” René responded without affect, as though he’d heard the same thing repeated a thousand times before. “My father acquired them at the Paris Exposition of 1925—the so-called birth of Deco, as he calls it.” He paused. “And once my father calls the trend, the trend is then established.”
“Is your father really that influential?”
“Yes,” René said as he slowly climbed the steps. “Just ask him.”
Julian took a deep breath and stood next to René at the entrance. He thought that the simple, tiny gold-scripted engraved sign reading Galerie Rohan-Levi hung almost too modestly over the doorway.
“Who is Rohan?” Julian asked.
“Nobody.” René rolled his eyes as he opened the door. “My father thought that Galerie Levi sounded too Jewish, too déclassé. So, he threw in Rohan, an aristocratic Parisian name, to offset Levi. We French tolerate Jews but don’t accept them—even if we are one.”
Before Julian could respond, an elegantly dressed young woman rushed toward them with outstretched arms as they entered the foyer. “René!”
“Françoise, you look wonderful.” René brushed his lips gallantly against the woman’s hand.
She blushed and rearranged the lone curl shining against her forehead. “I haven’t seen you in months. Where have you been?” Françoise turned to Julian and smiled seductively. Her teeth were almost unnaturally white, sparkling against her fuchsia lipstick. “And who is your friend?” she asked in English, clearly pegging Julian as American.
“You’re good, Françoise,” René laughed. “Julian Klein, meet the lovely Françoise Marceau.” He turned to Julian. “Françoise is not only easy on the eyes but also incredibly intelligent. She is my father’s secret weapon, the sole reason he has so many clients.” René paused. “And she is a classmate of mine. Actually, two years ahead of me. I had a crush on her my whole life but lost out, of course, when she chose my father.”
“René, please.” Françoise beamed, and then quickly averted her eyes. “Your father is expecting you, but he is still with a client who came all the way from Barcelona to see him.”
“So, Spanish is the language du jour,” René snickered, glancing at Julian. “My father speaks seven languages fluently. You should spend a day with him when he’s on the phone with clients. You feel like you have traveled around the world. It’s exhausting.”
Françoise smiled. “Why are you complaining? I am the one who has had to master all seven languages to keep up with your father! How about a drink while you wait?” She offered them each a glass of Moët.
René declined and waved his hand. “It’s not even half-past ten, Françoise. I’ve barely digested my croissant.”
Julian surprised himself by taking the glass, but something told him that he might need it. Over Françoise’s shoulder, he noticed an enormous crystal chandelier hanging in the next room. “Would you mind if I have a look around?” he asked.
Françoise took Julian’s free arm. “Better yet, allow me to give you a quick tour.”
They walked slowly into the opulent room, with a golden spiral staircase at its center. Julian took silent inventory of the exquisite oils and watercolors on the walls. On one side of the room were the Impressionists—Cézanne, Pissarro, Renoir, Monet, Sisley. The opposite wall was occupied with a selection of Picassos from his Blue Period. All of the artist’s works were suffused with monochromatic blues and blue-greens, conveying a sentimental, albeit melancholic, tone. Julian found these paintings to be among Picasso’s most intense work, a powerful reaction to the artist’s close friend’s suicide.
On the far wall was a selection of paintings by the French Fauves— Braque, Matisse, de Vlaminck, Derain. Unlike the whimsical brushstrokes of the Impressionists, or the somber blues of Picasso, the Fauves’ paintings roared with color and vivacity. Julian examined each brilliant canvas and thought excitedly that perhaps one day it would be his time, his work hanging on a prominent art dealer’s wall.
Françoise led Julian into another room filled exclusively with German Expressionists and Julian stopped in his tracks, stunned by what he saw.
“Jacob Levi has the largest collection of Expressionists in Paris,” Françoise explained, as she noted Julian’s startled reaction. “They are selling fast, but under the table, of course. Foreigners are buying up the paintings. They are too abstract, considered too emotionally charged for our more conservative local clientele.”
Julian barely heard her as he moved hypnotically toward the paintings. His head was spinning. He had never seen anything like this before. He had seen images in books, but never the real thing. The colors on these canvases jumped out unapologetically. Unlike the Impressionists’ neat and organized style, these paintings were violent, brusque, and chaotic. The brushstrokes were wide, exaggerated, and undisciplined. Red skies, blue buildings, yellow people. It was all wrong, madness, yet the result was extraordinary.
Julian walked slowly past each painting, and then back again. He could feel Françoise’s eyes on him, but he didn’t care. Everything else he had been exposed to at this point was pure technique. It meant nothing. This was art.
He perused landscapes in watercolor by Erich Heckel, oils by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, vibrant flowers by Emil Nolde. Julian was dizzy, in the lightheaded way he had felt that first night painting with René and Felix. He realized that as much as he had tried, he had never been able to recapture that feeling. Until now.
When he spotted Ernst Engel’s work, he had to make a conscious effort to keep his hands at his sides. He leaned forward and read the plaque: Women Bathing. It was gorgeous, sensual, and forbidden. The colors were shocking. The lake was pinkish, the sky golden, the naked bodies free-flowing with burgundy and splashes of indigo. Julian yearned to touch the painting, to feel the depth of the texture against his fingertips. If only Françoise weren’t breathing down his neck, he might have lightly grazed the canvas.
“Incredible,” Julian said, his breath dry, his throat parched.
“Yes. Ernst Engel is clearly at the forefront of the movement,” Françoise whispered, as though the information were top secret.
Julian did not respond. He just wanted to experience the art. He imagined what it would be like to work in the shadows of Engel’s sheer brilliance. He gazed at the nude bathers, seeing not their nakedness but instead every stroke adorning their bodies. This was not a painting but a sign, telling him that it was the right decision to go with Felix to Germany. Dubois was stale. But with Ernst Engel . . . his mind raced with the possibilities.
“René,” a deep voice called out from the top of the staircase, resounding through the room. “I’m sorry to have kept you.”
Julian looked up. Jacob Levi, in a stylishly tailored gray three-piece suit, stood his ground, not moving an inch toward Julian or his son. He was clearly the kind of a man who expected others to walk his way. As Julian slowly followed René upstairs, he noticed that father and son shared the same chiseled profile.
“It is truly a pleasure to see you again, Julian,” Jacob said eloquently, but something in the way he glanced coldly at René caused Julian to believe that perhaps his unexpected presence was not a pleasure at all.
“Likewise, Mr. Levi.” Julian felt ill at ease and prepared for his exit. Clearing his throat, he said, “What if I wander around the gallery so you two can talk?”
René shot Julian a warning look. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Join us, please,” Jacob said firmly, and Julian understood that Jacob Levi was actually relieved to have a buffer between him and his son.
Jacob ushered René and Julian into his office and immediately took his place at the helm, sinking into his roomy chocolate-brown leather chair. Behind him, a Picasso dominated the entire wall. It was an abstract of a woman sitting alone in a chair. The large slabs of muted color felt both bold and disruptive, as if the artist wanted to display anger, boredom, and sorrow all at once.
Extending his hand toward the painting, Jacob explained, “The image is the highlight of Picasso’s pre-Cubist period. I acquired it last week.”
“Take a long hard look, Julian,” René interrupted. “You won’t see that painting again. In fact, my father is probably on his way to selling it, or perhaps it has already been sold. His tactic is to hang a major work behind his desk before a meeting and gauge his client’s reaction to it.” René paused. “Usually the client does not leave the building before buying the piece directly off the wall. Isn’t that right, Papa?” he said icily.
Jacob responded just as coldly. “Why yes, René. In fact the client who was just here purchased the piece, as well as another Picasso. But that is not why you’re here, is it? To critique my selling abilities. In fact, I have not seen or heard from you since the Ferrat gallery fiasco.”
“Fiasco.” René laughed with blunt hardness. Julian had never heard that spiteful tone from him before. “Yes, I suppose you would see it that way. Let’s not waste each other’s time with small talk.” René gestured in Julian’s direction. “We intend to travel to Berlin for a few months or more. I thought you should know where I am.”
Jacob sat silently for a moment, then slammed his fist against the desk. “Germany! Are you mad, René? Now? That will kill your mother.”
René did not say anything at first. Julian could see that the mention of his mother made René twinge. “Yes. We are going,” René said calmly. “And you of all people have no right to talk to me about ‘killing’ Mother.”
Jacob walked around his desk and stood in front of his son. “Why now?” His tone softened. “Your reviews at Ferrat’s were superb.”
“Superb? I thought it was a fiasco.” René’s voice rose. “Was it too much for you to even congratulate me? The fact is you were so angry that I made my debut with Ferrat that you couldn’t even look at me that night. It killed you that Ferrat recognized my talent before you did. No matter what you feel about Ferrat, you should have been at my side, not hiding in the crowd.”
Julian ground his toes into the plush oriental rug, yearning to run out the door. He started to stand, but Jacob pointed his finger accusingly. “Are you part of this idiocy as well?”
“It—it’s only a short time,” Julian stammered, sitting down. “We plan to paint with Ernst Engel. He agreed to take us on.”
Jacob was visibly surprised. “Ernst Engel? I have no idea why he would possibly encourage this. As if he doesn’t have enough problems of his own. At a safer time, fine, go, René—but now?” He walked to the far side of his office and poured himself a drink without offering anything to Julian or his son. Staring into his whiskey glass, he said, “You’re not children, but you obviously don’t read the newspapers. My clients in Berlin tell me the situation worsens by the minute. That fascist Hitler is gaining power and has an excellent chance of capturing the chancellery.” He put down his drink and threw open his appointment book. “You need a change, René, is that it? Go to Tuscany or Costa del Sol. I have clients all over Europe who would be happy to let you stay in their villas and paint anytime.”
“I am not even going to respond to that,” René said.
Jacob began to lose his composure. “Well, you’d better respond!” he shouted. “Germany is an economic catastrophe. And I don’t have to tell you who is being blamed for the government’s follies. Anti-Semitism is rampant. In case you have forgotten, you are a Jew, René. And you, Julian, are as well, if I’m not mistaken. Now is certainly not the time for young Jewish artists to go there to try to find themselves.”
“I’m not in the mood for your ‘Jewish victims’ speech.” René stood, towering over his father. “As if Judaism ever mattered to you. What commandment haven’t you broken?” He turned to Julian. “If we stay here one minute longer, we will have to listen to the Spanish Inquisition story, the tale of why the persecuted Levi clan fled to France. Besides, Papa, I didn’t come here to be convinced otherwise. I came merely to inform you that I am leaving.”
Jacob blocked Julian from moving from the couch. “Is this Felix’s idea?”
Jacob was shorter and slimmer than Julian, and it would have been no problem to push past him. But the man’s gaze was so sharp and overpowering that Julian felt trapped. He managed to say in a small voice, “Felix needs to return to Berlin to help his father run his company. It’s only for a few months.”
“His father’s company!” Jacob exploded. “Wilhelm Von Bredow is leading the anti-Semitic pack of businessmen funding Hitler. Look, I have nothing against Felix. He is a little misguided, but he seems to be a good kid. His father, however, is dangerous. His wife was a client years ago . . . ” His voice trailed off.
René shook his head with disgust. “What is it, Papa? Did you sleep with Felix’s mother as well?”
“Damn you, René. This is not a game.”
René walked toward the door, then stopped and turned. “All I want to do is to paint. And I won’t pass up the opportunity to paint with Ernst Engel. I don’t care about Hitler, politics, or religion. Let’s go, Julian.”
“Is Adrienne going as well?” Jacob called after him.
René did not face his father. He stared at Julian. “No, she is not.”
“I’ve always said she is too smart for you.”
“Yes, you did always say that.” René turned slowly toward his father. “We are bringing a model. You don’t know her.”
Julian let his hands sink deep in between the couch cushions. Here it comes. He should have warned René earlier, but how was he to know things were going to be this bad?
“Charlotte Béjart?” Jacob’s voice was barely audible.
René looked surprised.
“Julian,” Jacob said slowly, gesturing toward the door, “I need to speak to René alone.”
Julian rose quickly from the couch. The tension in the air was unbearable. He was only too happy to escape. “No problem. René, I’ll wait for you at the bookshop around the corner. I’m sorry, Mr. Levi.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me. Watch yourself.”
Julian practically ran down the stairs. He waved good-bye to Françoise, who had a worried look on her face, and raced out the door.