Agnes and Yves (Ma Vie en Bleu)
Chapter Twenty-Seven
This is where the more masterful writing and editing kicks in. Since I originally wrote this novel as a screenplay, I already had the plot twists and hooks in place. And it helped that I had watched numerous French movies and American romantic comedies. I was also learning French at the time I wrote this novel.
**
Anne-Marie slipped into the flat and she rummaged through Agnes’ belongings without the least bit of remorse. A girl has to do what a girl has to do.
In her quest, she found a plane ticket to Barcelona and she sighed with relief.
After she found Polaroid pictures of the America muse in Yves’ desk, she raged. How dare Yves!
She noticed Yves painted over some of the wallpaper with bold colors. She remembered redecorated the flat so lovingly years ago and for what?
She found her Impressionist paintings stuffed in a closet next to the Hoover. Then she noticed her stray belongings stuffed in a bag in the corner of the closet. Yves wasted no time getting rid of the evidence of their relationship.
She harbored no regrets returning and songs by Edith Piaf swum through her head while she schemed to win her man back. After all, she thought, he was just sowing his wild oats before he married her. Anne-Marie prided herself on her stubbornness.
Her eyes glanced wearily at the clock that flashed six a.m. Where was Yves? It was obvious that he and the American had not returned to the flat that night, but they would return eventually so she waited on the couch.
**
The missing couple sat outside Les Deux Magots sipping their morning coffee. Yves caressed Agnes’ hand. “You insist on going to Barcelona.”
“That was my original plan until it got derailed.”
A Parisian couple flaunting designer clothing and out walking their silky terrier passed by the café. Agnes glanced at the couple and smirked. The dog crapped on the sidewalk and the couple strolled on nonchalantly. Agnes pointed at them.
“Did you see that?”
Yves returned to the original topic.
“What were you planning on doing in Barcelona?”
“It’s a long story, but I must go. Look, I have some things I need to do today. Maybe you can finish the painting and show me it later today. We can meet back at the flat this evening.”
“Okay. I need work on the paintings and I have a meeting today with a colleague.”
Agnes smiled showing off her perfect American teeth.
“Fantastic. I promise you I won’t disappear into the night.”
She rose, dropped a few coins on the table. She kissed Yves on the mouth, grabbed her backpack and disappeared into the Parisian crowd, standing out in her crumpled red dress.
Meanwhile, seated on Yves’ couch polishing her toenails, Anne-Marie’s cell phone interrupts her.
“You want me to come see you now? Yes, I have plans. I must wait for them to arrive so I can confront him… Oh, okay.”
She fanned her toenails and then reluctantly slipped into her heels and grabbed her purse off the couch. She dashed out of the flat, looking over her shoulder at the mess she made.
Agnes headed to a newspaper stand and bought a Spanish newspaper. A headline mentioned an upcoming weekend wedding for Pablo Vera.
On one hand, she found herself falling for Yves’ charms and on the other hand, her memories of her time with Pablo, although short, taunted her sense of destiny.
Would she give up the chase and stay in Paris or stick with her original plan? After all, she felt destined to marry the Spanish musician, Don Juan or otherwise. She knew that if he married her, he would stop the philandering behavior. He would stay put in one port with one woman.
She used up the rest of her phone card calling the car rental agent. She was third on the list and this time she would grab her things from Yves’ flat and remain at the airport.
The mistake she had made in the past was to romp around Paris instead of staying in one place long enough to obtain a car. She wondered about her goals and the way she sought them. She decided to change bad habits and put in a good fight.
When she returned to the flat, she found her clothing and other belongings strewn across the living room. She wondered why Yves would have dug through her belongings and not have been discreet about his behavior.
However, he wouldn’t have gone through her things, unless their sexual episode had changed his behavior.
Maybe he wanted to get to know her better after having slept with her once. No, something was wrong.
She stuffed her belongings back into her suitcase and backpack. She scribbled a thank you note to Yves and placed it on the desk. As she rushed out of the flat, the note slipped behind the desk.
Yves stared at his blue and red canvas of Agnes. He decided to give his model an aquamarine background. At first, this reminded him too much of his previous muse. He had come to associate colors with muses.
When inspiration hit, he thought of painting the background green instead, a dark velvety forest green full of mystery and intrigue. Yet, he saw something angelic in Agnes that called for a blue background.
Nina Simone’s “The King is Dead” wafted out of Yves’ portable CD player. Lost in the song’s cadence, he added gold highlights to the crown of her head and an orange tinge to her red belted dress. Inspiration struck causing Yves cut the pomegranate in half to reveal the seeds.
He painted a knowing smile that reminded him of Mona Lisa with fuller petulant lips. Then he added blush to the cheeks, not to present shyness or humiliation, but to represent the passion hiding beneath Agnes’ soul.
He had wooed the American and it resulted in a wonderful night of lovemaking. Yet, she still planned on going to Spain.
Why was she so obsessed with Picasso and Barcelona? True, she was a former arts journalist, but even Yves, who considered himself the most Picasso-obsessed human on the planet, had not visited Barcelona. Why would he need to when Paris had plenty of the Spanish artist’s work hung in French museums?
Yves had not visited his museum in a long time. He added last touches to the painting then headed out to his favorite haunt. It was time to converse with the man himself about women, love, and destiny. Now that he had found his muse, he experienced the danger of losing everything if she went to Spain.
Agnes strode through the Picasso Museum, her sneakers squeaking on the floor. She studied the Picasso paintings that Yves had shown her earlier. This reminded her of the conversation that she had with Yves about mistresses and wives.
She wondered if the Spanish musician would marry her, an American who left everything behind based on a short affair. She knew he would not.
While she had acted reckless in the past few months, especially with the article that landed her in hot water, her legs shook beneath her. She had to find her mother wherever she resided in the large city.
However, if she took the time to dig out her mother’s whereabouts, then she would miss her opportunity to drive to Barcelona. For all she knew her mother could be back in the States or maybe after she experienced the French love affairs in greater detail she headed to another country like Germany.
Plopping down on a bench, Agnes lost herself in a painting of a guitarist. If only Pablo would tell her what to do. Why did she need to set roots anywhere? Maybe she took after her mother and she would suffice with love affairs with European men.
Certainly, she knew deep down that Pablo would only feign affection while worrying about his fiancée who lurked in the next room. Then there were the ghosts of his former lovers to consider, a good many.
Yet, she grabbed her suitcase from the front desk of the museum and hailed a taxi—airport bound.
As Agnes’ taxi swum into Parisian traffic, Yves entered the Picasso Museum striding on a similar path strode earlier by his muse. He headed to his favorite painting and plopped down in the bench that Agnes’ had inhabited earlier.
He conversed with Pablo. “You see now there is another muse. She is beautiful, but too liberated. She is the opposite of Anne-Marie and you might know her because she is coming to Spain to see you. I did not tell her that you died.”
Yves swore that he heard Pablo responding to him so he continued chatting to the dead painter.
“You must see the beautiful paintings she inspired. I have gone from my ‘blue period’ to one more in line with the Fauves. I do not know if you respect this decision. Perhaps, you did not care for the Fauves…”
In another section of the city of romance, Anne-Marie and Monique stood on a bridge over St-Martin Canal watching water pass underneath. Monique caressed Anne-Marie’s hand.
“You cannot make a fool out of yourself.”
“I was not planning to, but I want to confront him.”
She thought about the irony of standing on the same spot where she and Yves once made out in the early days of their romance when they were both art students.
Monique sighed. “What good is it to throw yourself at a man who has already used you up? You yourself said that you don’t desire to be involved with an artist any longer and men like Yves never change.”
“But I can clearly see him married to me and surrounded by our children.”
“Get real, Lucille. We have both known him for a long time and he is obsessed with painting. If you take that away from him, even if you married him, you would be left with an empty shell.”
Anne-Marie tied a silk floral scarf around her red hair. Her green eyes trained on the sun sparkling in the water.
“We were together for ten years and that must mean something.”
“Do you want a prize? Even if he has not changed, you have. When you first met, you had no plans for marriage or children. That is why he was attracted to you.”
Monique picks up a pebble and tosses it into the water. She watched the ripples in the water.
“I am not convinced that it is over between us. When I was in Nice I had some time to think and I could see no future without him.”
Monique shrugged. “Suit yourself, but you are in for a lot of grief.”
Anne-Marie faked a perky smile. “You do not know Yves as well as I do.”
“No, but I saw the way he looked at that American. I am telling you that he is a man who has found a new love.”
Anne-Marie tensed and she exerienced an urgency to return to the flat. She had to save what rightfully belonged to her.
Yves entered the flat and scribbled a note for Agnes to meet him at the studio that evening. He taped the note on the refrigerator hoping the American would notice it. He dashed out of the flat and strode quickly to Le Procope where he met up with his patron.
Monsieur Rochelle and Yves sat at a table near the window. Sunlight filtered in and caused the silverware to sparkle. The painter watched the patron indulge in his cuisine. Yves sipped on black coffee, feeling too nervous to eat because he hoped that Agnes would get his note and meet up with him later.
The patron swallowed a mouthful of saucy duck. He pointed at Yves with his fork.
“I cannot wait to see this odalisque you tell me about. Your new model is lovely and I am sure that my wife will enjoy the painting.”
“We must go to the studio so you can pick up your painting. It will be harder for me to part with it later.”
Rochelle sipped his Bordeaux and he gazed at Yves. “I can imagine that it is not easy for you to part with your creations.”
The painter thought about the irony in the patron’s words. Before Agnes appeared, he had nothing to part with and now that his muse returned, he had everything to lose.
“In the last year that has not been a problem because I have only parted with one painting—the one you bought.”
“Not to worry because all painters go through dry spells. It is persistence that will see you through, that and the right model.”
Yves thought about Agnes and her urgency to travel to Barcelona. He would be losing her soon and needed to get in as many paintings as possible before her departure.
Yet, he dreamed of her staying on in Paris. Maybe she could look up her mother that she left behind in her youth. He felt uncertain how to play his cards, if he wanted to play cards at all. When Agnes left, it would be over for the painter.
The patron ripped out a check and handed it to Yves. The artist’s eyes widened as he saw the amount on the check.
“You have not seen the painting yet.”
“I am writing that check on faith and the fact that I think you and I will have a long term relationship as painter and patron.”
After a long day of hanging out with Monique, Anne-Marie arrived at the flat, thirsty. When she entered the flat, she noticed that the American’s suitcase and bags had disappeared. She wondered if the American hid her stuff from prying eyes.
When she went to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water she saw the note that Yves had left for Agnes. She saw the note as proof of the American’s lingering presence. She ripped the note off the refrigerator and hurried out of the flat.
She would not need a key for Yves’ studio since he never locked it. Her eyes immediately darted over to the odalisque painting. She searched in Yves’ kit for a knife and then she slashed the canvas.
Familiar voices approached the studio. She froze when Yves opened the door and gaped at her. Monsieur Rochelle scowled at Anne-Marie who was crouched over the painting with a knife in her hand recalling a scene from Betty Blue.
Yves rushed over to his former muse and grabbed the knife from her.
“What are you doing here?”
Anne-Marie gasped. “I should ask, what was she doing here?”
“This is none of your business. That painting that you just destroyed was commissioned by Monsieur Rochelle.”
The patron picked up the painting and examined the damage. While the deranged woman salvaged part of the painting, Yves would need to transfer its image onto another canvas or paint the model a second time.
Yves apologized profusely for Anne-Marie’s demented behavior.
The patron shrugged. “It is no problem. You will just paint another one.”
Crestfallen, Yves silently lamented about the trouble he went through to get Agnes to pose for that painting. Now, she was heading to Barcelona and in his thoughts, he already saw her in her rental car gleefully speeding off to Spain.
After the patron departure, Yves had it out with Anne-Marie who sat sprawled out on the floor, her high heels tossed aside and her hair disheveled.
“What are you doing here?”
Her eyes narrowed when she looked at Yves.
“So, who is this mistress?”
Yves plopped down on the couch and placed his head in his hands.
“Do you have any idea what you just did?”
Anne-Marie scowled, “I reclaimed what is mine.”
“I thought you returned to Nice.”
“I did, but then when I was lying on the beach, I thought that I was not going to let you go so easily. I invested the time and effort into our relationship and it must pay off for me.”
“You make it sound like a financial investment.”
“In a way it is.
“Relationships involve two people and not just one manipulating the other.”
Anne-Marie rummaged in her purse for a comb and she fixed her hair.
“How long have you been seeing that model?”
“Not long. And besides, it was over between you and me.”
“It does not feel like an ending to me. That is why I returned.”
Yves picked up the limp canvas and tears formed in his eyes.
“And you think destroying my work, the thing that means the most to me, is going to cause me to take you back?”
“No, no, no. I did not come here to destroy the painting, but when I saw it, I flew into a rage. See, that is how much I love you.”
Yves shook his head in disgust.
“Anne-Marie, leave now. I do not ever want to see your face again. Get out of my studio, get out of my life and get out of Paris.”
Anne-Marie scooped her purse from the floor with trembling hands. When she stood her knees quaked, but she managed to hobble on her heels out of the studio. Yves slammed the door behind her. He collapsed onto the couch and sobbed into his hands.
Agnes waited at the airport for a rental car for the entire morning and none manifested. Exhausted she returned to the flat hoping that Yves missed seeing her note. She fell asleep on the couch.
Anne-Marie showed up at the flat to pick up the remainder of her belongings. She struggled with humiliation. She stared at the American sleeping figure through her red swollen eyes.
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