People found Marcel creepy, but Lulu liked him. His conversation wasn’t up to much, but then, it wasn’t companionship she was after. He always turned up on time and didn’t try to sleep with her. And he could play. Sometimes, leaning against the piano and reaching for the high notes, she’d glance down at his arachnoid fingers capering back and forth and the sight of them would give her the cold shudders, putting her in mind of those nights when she’d earned a few francs by showing her breasts to old men behind the Gare Montparnasse—maybe letting them have a little feel. Shadowy nights that were long ago in a not-so-long-ago way. She’d given up the old men when she discovered the artists. They didn’t have much money, but if you posed nude for them, they’d buy the drinks and something to eat and give you a bed for the night. And then she’d met Camby, and he’d sat her down in front of a mirror and set to work on her with black kohl and white powder and red lipstick, giving her the amazing catlike eyes and beauty spot that were her trademarks, and introducing her to everyone as “Lulu of Montparnasse, the face of NOW.”

Lulu sang several nights a week at the Coyote, an old and rather cramped bar in the Rue Delambre, just along from the Métro Vavin, and tucked away from sight of the tourists who now packed out the Quarter each night, flocking along the main streets, the Boulevard du Montparnasse and the Boulevard Raspail, herding into the larger terraced cafés and the new American bars. The Coyote had always been the domain of those in the know—the artists and writers, though increasingly there were also a lot of rich hangers-on, predominantly from the U.S. and England. Many came to get a look at the better-known artists who were Coyote regulars, but most of them came to see her sing. She was famous—the Queen of the Quarter. The Coyote pretty much owed its new popularity to her. The Dôme kept a table permanently reserved for her. Monsieur Select would smile when she walked into his joint and cook her up a Welsh rarebit free of charge, and without being asked, on his little stove behind the bar. She was the most sought-after artist’s model in Paris. And Camby needed to be reminded of that.

There he was, sitting up at the bar with Kisling, drinking Rémy Martin. Laurent, the one-eyed barman with the Croix de Guerre (two palms), poured shot after shot into tiny thimble-shaped glasses for the two artists, keeping the bottle out on the bar for easy access. Camby had given her a cheeky pinch on the bottom when he’d walked in, but was now deep in conversation with Kisling and paying her no attention.