Sheet after sheet of poses littered the floor. As quickly as they fell, he called on Sylvie to try the flip two more times. As she maneuvered on the horse, Émile altered the sketch until he had the final pose. It was an angle from above them in the stands. The composition was clever, and I remembered Man Ray suggesting an exaggerated angle for one. Smiling, I realized he had taken Man Ray’s advice. I feel that I am in the center of the creation of something brilliant.

June 9, 1925

Émile has nearly finished Sylvie’s painting. He let me tinker with the bronze shade of paint, instructing me how to layer it on and wipe it off. I was amazed at the skill he possessed. I couldn’t quite get the technique that he could do with one hand.

“You have some talent.” Over my shoulder, he brought his lips close to my neck, so near I could feel the warmth of his breath.

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

“Use it to sign.” He pointed to the brush tinged with the brown shade.

“I couldn’t.” I pointed the brush at him but turned it, positioning it over the lower right corner of the canvas. He took my hand and crouched down beside me and guided the E and the G. Nervous, I saw my lines quiver. I made a face. “It’s terrible.”

“Marvelous,” he said, but he was not looking at the canvas; he was staring at me.

Last night, I met him in Montparnasse. Paris was stifling and dinner was late, which was wondrous because some of the heat had left for the evening. The air filled the city like a bath with too-warm, stagnant water—none of us could breathe, and yet with the heat came freedom. Women used it as an excuse not to wear stockings for the night and raised their skirt hems above their knees. Parched and sweating, men ordered more drinks than they normally could tolerate. All the restaurants with overhead fans were crowded—so we headed to Le Dôme Café, which sat in a wedge between Boulevard du Montparnasse and Boulevard Raspail. We stood at the bar, envious of those who had secured early seats. I ordered a cognac and water. The café was overrun tonight so Émile suggested that we go to his apartment. I found myself sweating with nerves. Both Esmé and Sylvie routinely left with people, leaving me the one traveling back to the circus alone in a taxi, and I admit that I had no idea what to expect.