6

December 1910

Paris

“Oh, Vincent, Vincent, I am so happy.” Simone twirled around the bed, a mattress on the floor covered with two tattered woolen blankets on top of which lay three embroidered pillows she had bargained for at the sprawling marketplace of Les Halles. And she had done well, her eye sharp, always looking for inexpensive ways to brighten their dreary flat. Her thick blond hair whipped around her perfect oval face, her eyes glittering.

Vincent watched her spin, feeling something open up inside him, always surprised that this intelligent, delicate beauty had settled for him when she could have had any man in Paris. Her black smock-dress, the only concession she made to her current condition, billowed out, exposing an inch of white petticoat and tightly laced ankle boots, three years old, though on Simone, everything looked fashionable. Above them, coarse black leggings she wore both inside and out, their sixth-floor walk-up frigid, December in Paris as bleak and gray as some Siberian outpost.

Simone tugged at Vincent’s jacket playfully. “I insist on your happiness!” she said, twirling again, then stopping to catch her breath.

Vincent got an arm around her waist, but she pressed her hand against his chest and took a step back as if to say, You needn’t hold on to me, I won’t topple, though he kept his hand in place.

“I am fine,” she said.

“Rest, my darling, please.”

“No,” she said, her naturally red lips in a pout. “I am fine.” Then, painting on a smile, she said, “This exhibition, it is what you have wanted, dreamed of.”

“Yes,” he said, trying hard to feel excited though there was a knot in his chest where there should have been release.

“Le Salon de la Nationale!” Simone’s voice filled with pride. “The twentieth anniversaire, bigger and more important than ever, the best of Parisian art! I hear Rodin will be exhibiting. Imagine, Vincent, your paintings beside Rodin’s masterful bronzes!”

He nodded, allowing himself to feel just a bit of pride.

“Oh, Vincent, this is so wonderful,” she said, her breathing still a bit labored.

“Sit, Simone, please.”

“It was just my silly twirling. I am perfectly fine.”

Vincent kept an eye on her as he opened a tin of La Paz, shook some of the tobacco into a paper, and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger to create a thin cylinder. Looking at the cigarette reminded him of Paul Cézanne’s words about seeing in nature the cone, sphere, and cylinder, words that Picasso and Braque, even his old friend Max Jacob, had taken to heart. Vincent frowned as he stuck the cigarette into his mouth. “The cubists—” he said, spitting the word.

“Oh, please, Vincent, not now.” Simone gave him a severe look. “You must be happy. I insist upon it!”

He sighed, trying hard to take in the fact that two of his paintings would be included in the largest exhibition of the Paris season. “The fire, has it gone out?” he said, changing the subject, quickly heading into the only other room, one that Simone had transformed into another world, painting green vines and ivy from floor to ceiling in the style of a Chinese scroll. Miss Stein had called it droll and entertaining when she came for tea, though she had assumed it was Vincent’s work; she rarely spoke to Simone, who, on their last visit to Miss Stein’s 27 rue de Fleurus salon, had been relegated to her frightening, hook-nosed companion, Miss Toklas, the one who always talked to the wives. That visit had been almost a year ago. Their usual outings to galleries and ateliers had become less and less frequent as Vincent became more and more taciturn, even bitter, though Simone hoped this exhibition would change that.