It was a sensation I had felt only once in all these years. And only before I was changed.
I did not understand how or why this was happening, but now I believed that it was. Was the quickening of my pulse fear or the thrill of possibility?
“Charlotte, one last thing.”
“Yes?”
“It sounds stupid, but…”
“Just ask.”
“Can you feel, you know, love?”
“I thought I could. But now I realize that it was not really love but a fierce desire.”
Jared put his arms around me from behind, and I leaned back on his chest. I could feel his heartbeat against my spine.
“Will you tell me where you have been all these years since you were made?” he asked. “What you learned? What you saw?”
“Someday. I will write it for you. I will write it down,” I said, as the best day came to an end and the sweet night began.
Memories of the Great Cities—for Jared
Rome, 1925
We sit beside the Trevi Fountain in our white suits and sun hats. The sea nymphs frolic. The sun glints off the water as only the Mediterranean sun does—a dazzle of gold like a handful of tossed coins. The fountain is full of coins, full of wishes.
“I can make your every wish come true,” William whispers. He has my wrists caught in one hand. His mouth is near my neck. He smells of the gardenia in his buttonhole and nothing else.
Every wish. But he does not know that there is only one wish and that it can never come true. Charles is gone forever.
“Darling,” William says, “I have chosen you because I need a companion. And not just any girl could hold my interest for eternity. It will be a difficult task. The world is full of disasters and terrible beauty. But you, my dear, I’m sure you can meet the challenge.”
Paris, 1925
We walk along the Rive Gauche. Behind us is the Eiffel Tower, lit up with a sign that reads “Citroen.” In front of us is the little crystal tower made by the jeweler and sculptor Lalique, encrusted with 140 tiny figures. The water spilling off the tower glitters in the night. We have visited the Galeries Lafayette studios, all of marble with a sunburst design at the entrance. Everything is soft shades of rose against hard silver and black.
It as if we have entered a fairyland of neon lights,steel chevrons, bronze sculptures, stone archways, strange gardens. I can’t tell if the magic is the place or from the way my vision has changed since William made me.
We are at the Exposition Internationale des Arts Decoatifs et Industriels Modernes, witnessing the formal birth of Art Deco, wth its sleek metallic lines, its jewellike faceted surfaces. It is a style of opulence after the austerity of the war, but soon it will become outmoded, considered ostentatious decoration and replaced by purity and function.
I am wearing a dress by Paul Poiret, a celery-green silk crepe sheath beaded with geometric gold and silver, a cloche hat and a gray coat with a fox-fur collar. Poiret, the emperor of fashion, has provided three decorative barges for the exposition, but after this he will fall into financial ruin. No more embellishments—roses everywhere, silver curlicues and swirls, crystal bottles with petal-shaped stoppers. His perfume line, Rosine, named after his daughter, withfragrances called La Rose de Rosine, Pierrot, Fan Fan La Tulipe, Le Fruit Defendu and Nuit de Chine, will disappear from the market. He will die penniless in 1944, as out of fashion as the charming buildings all around us.
William and I will never go out of fashion. He will teach me. I will learn to adapt, to be always relevant. It is part of our trick.
William holds my kid-gloved hand in his. He seems aware of every slight gesture I make, inquiring whether I need refreshment or rest. I am his little fledgling, relying totally on him for all my needs now.
A boy passes us, a tall boy with black hair, wearing a pale coat.
William’s glance flickers across my face.
“Are you all right?”
He knows I am thinking of Charles. But I feel so
I did not understand how or why this was happening, but now I believed that it was. Was the quickening of my pulse fear or the thrill of possibility?
“Charlotte, one last thing.”
“Yes?”
“It sounds stupid, but…”
“Just ask.”
“Can you feel, you know, love?”
“I thought I could. But now I realize that it was not really love but a fierce desire.”
Jared put his arms around me from behind, and I leaned back on his chest. I could feel his heartbeat against my spine.
“Will you tell me where you have been all these years since you were made?” he asked. “What you learned? What you saw?”
“Someday. I will write it for you. I will write it down,” I said, as the best day came to an end and the sweet night began.
Memories of the Great Cities—for Jared
Rome, 1925
We sit beside the Trevi Fountain in our white suits and sun hats. The sea nymphs frolic. The sun glints off the water as only the Mediterranean sun does—a dazzle of gold like a handful of tossed coins. The fountain is full of coins, full of wishes.
“I can make your every wish come true,” William whispers. He has my wrists caught in one hand. His mouth is near my neck. He smells of the gardenia in his buttonhole and nothing else.
Every wish. But he does not know that there is only one wish and that it can never come true. Charles is gone forever.
“Darling,” William says, “I have chosen you because I need a companion. And not just any girl could hold my interest for eternity. It will be a difficult task. The world is full of disasters and terrible beauty. But you, my dear, I’m sure you can meet the challenge.”
Paris, 1925
We walk along the Rive Gauche. Behind us is the Eiffel Tower, lit up with a sign that reads “Citroen.” In front of us is the little crystal tower made by the jeweler and sculptor Lalique, encrusted with 140 tiny figures. The water spilling off the tower glitters in the night. We have visited the Galeries Lafayette studios, all of marble with a sunburst design at the entrance. Everything is soft shades of rose against hard silver and black.
It as if we have entered a fairyland of neon lights,steel chevrons, bronze sculptures, stone archways, strange gardens. I can’t tell if the magic is the place or from the way my vision has changed since William made me.
We are at the Exposition Internationale des Arts Decoatifs et Industriels Modernes, witnessing the formal birth of Art Deco, wth its sleek metallic lines, its jewellike faceted surfaces. It is a style of opulence after the austerity of the war, but soon it will become outmoded, considered ostentatious decoration and replaced by purity and function.
I am wearing a dress by Paul Poiret, a celery-green silk crepe sheath beaded with geometric gold and silver, a cloche hat and a gray coat with a fox-fur collar. Poiret, the emperor of fashion, has provided three decorative barges for the exposition, but after this he will fall into financial ruin. No more embellishments—roses everywhere, silver curlicues and swirls, crystal bottles with petal-shaped stoppers. His perfume line, Rosine, named after his daughter, withfragrances called La Rose de Rosine, Pierrot, Fan Fan La Tulipe, Le Fruit Defendu and Nuit de Chine, will disappear from the market. He will die penniless in 1944, as out of fashion as the charming buildings all around us.
William and I will never go out of fashion. He will teach me. I will learn to adapt, to be always relevant. It is part of our trick.
William holds my kid-gloved hand in his. He seems aware of every slight gesture I make, inquiring whether I need refreshment or rest. I am his little fledgling, relying totally on him for all my needs now.
A boy passes us, a tall boy with black hair, wearing a pale coat.
William’s glance flickers across my face.
“Are you all right?”
He knows I am thinking of Charles. But I feel so
Similar Books
