Chapter 36 1865 - France
CLAUDE AND YOSHI
Monet had not slept at all, despising his bedroll in the hay, trying to withstand the unbearable grief that tormented him. He should get up, but he could not force his ailing body to move. It hurt from the inside out. He had gone from fits of sorrow to anger to hopelessness, sometimes all at once.
In the middle of the night, he’d conceived a plan to sneak into the chateau to see her one last time. But in the nick of time, reason convinced him that her father would have him arrested or slice him in two.
Does she feel the same way about me? If so, how could she leave?
A glancing blow from cupid’s arrow had infused his heart with the strongest of love potions. If only he could talk with her once again. This ephemeral encounter had gone from attraction to desire to longing in a fraction of time.
How could life be so cruel to let him brush up against this most powerful force only to have it snatched away? To light the flame and then cause a great wind to extinguish it?
If this is love, what does he do with it for the rest of his life? It has changed every fiber of his being. This bolt of lightning struck out of nowhere and now has nowhere to ground.
A fleeting thought enticed him to move to Japan, until he saw himself heartsick and destitute on the streets while she remained locked away in some harem prison serving the Shōgun who had a thousand other women to choose from.
Was life truly this unjust? What would he do with this grief…his longing…his love? He would carry it with him for all eternity.
He could ride to Paris and try to see her there, but he had not thought to ask where they stayed, and besides, her father remained the barrier.
Monet wiped his face with his hands, smelling them to see if her scent lingered.
Then an inspiration struck him. It was his last hope.
He would skip Paris and ride straight to his home in Le Havre.
The carriage ride for the Japanese delegation would take two to three days from Paris, and a good horse could get him to Le Havre in three to four.
The men who ran the port were all friendly to him.
He’d spent many days there as a young boy when his father sold shipping supplies and as a young artist, sitting on the docks painting the harbor.
The longshoremen would know the Japanese ship and what time it was scheduled to leave.
Even if he could not talk to her, one last glance might ease his pain.
* * *
If the ship left before his arrival, Monet would never forgive himself. His heart would never be the same, and his rear end might never recover after two hundred and fifty kilometers on horseback. He had pushed the four-year-old mare hard, too hard; she might never be the same as well.
A fit horse could travel eighty kilometers in one day, but if he had hobbled the mare, his friend would never forgive him.
So, when he rode into the port of Le Havre on the morning of the fourth day and saw no ship bearing the white flag with a crimson-red circle of Japan, his heart sank.
He had tortured this poor mare and himself for nothing.
He could have judged the time by the morning sun rising at his back, illuminating the harbor, but he still pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time.
On the other side of the clock’s face, the small caricature drawing he’d sketched of his mother when she was still alive smiled back at him.
She was the only other woman he’d ever truly loved, and he’d lost them both.
The breeze coming off the water where the Seine poured into the English Channel chilled his neck, so he turned up the collar of his jacket against the cool morning and tried to decide what to do next.
His father and aunt would be happy to see him, and they’d celebrate his first paintings hung at the Salon.
His aunt would understand his heartbreak, but his father would chastise him for being such a fool for love.
Even the familiar salty smell of the sea brought him no comfort. The mare underneath him seemed to reflect his misery as she sucked in a deep breath, expanding her chest and blowing it out with a snort and shake of her head. Monet reached for her neck and gave her a pat. “Well, we tried girl.”
Undecided, he turned toward home and then back toward the harbor. Too early to surprise his family, he went into the port to bum a cup of warm coffee from the longshoremen. He urged the tired mare forward.
He tied the horse at the edge of the harbor and walked to the main docks that buzzed with activity as the longshoremen loaded at least three ships lined up at the massive harbor.
The squawking squabble of seagulls circled overhead mixed with the cacophony of sounds of the working men below, barking orders and giving the heave-ho to the cargo loaded onto the ships.
The captain of the first ship wearing a smart French uniform stood along the starboard rail yelling obscenities to the dock workers below as a crate smashed into the side of the ship, spilling its contents. Someone hollered at Monet to watch himself as he bobbed and weaved through the chaos.
The dock at the second ship buzzed with similar pandemonium. English soldiers stood guard at the gangway. At least the two countries were at peace. More than he could say for his mind.
The third ship appeared to be ready to get underway. The dock workers loaded no more cargo, but they still had the gangway attached to the ship.
He stopped dead in his tracks when Shibata Takenaka stepped to the rail.
Then he saw her.
Julia stepped next to her father wearing a subdued tan kimono with a forest green sash. Most surprising, her long hair fluttered in the breeze. She looked out over the harbor with a soft, expressionless gaze.
Monet thumped his chest with his fist. “No!” he cried out. Then, remembering the only Japanese he knew, he yelled at the top of his lungs, “Arigato gozaimasu, sumimasen.”
Both Julia and her father saw him, her father with a look of annoyance, and Julia with joy. Monet bowed to them.
Even from a distance, Monet witnessed the battle between them ensue and the exchange of sharp words. Then something surprising happened. She obviously disobeyed his commands, dashed along the starboard side of the railing and ran down the gangway.
Monet bowed again to her father and held up five fingers, begging him for just a few minutes. The man crossed his arms in resignation.
Monet understood that swooping her up and kissing her would not be an option, so he ran to the bottom of the gangway, waited for her, and bowed.
She nodded a bow and scurried right past him.
He followed her to a large stack of crates. Then, absolutely out of the sight of her father, she reached for Monet’s face.
“My dearest OsCar, I thought I would never see you again.”
Tears rolled down his cheeks. He had no words. He glanced around to make sure there was no one in the delegation lurking on the dock and then bent to kiss her.
For an instant she resisted, but then pressed her warm body into his and kissed him deeply.
“Please, Julia…Ma Belle, Ma Juliet, Mon Amour…you cannot leave,” he insisted.
She looked at his shoes, and tears formed in her eyes. He already knew her answer.
“My father will not leave without me. I have already brought him much shame. I told him two minutes,” she said and looked into Monet’s eyes.
Yes, he saw it. She felt the same for him. He ran his fingers across her hairline, then softly kissed where he touched—her skin as delicate as a rose petal.
She tenderly caressed his lips with her fingers. “I will never forget you, Monsieur Monet.” She smiled at him with adoring eyes. “OsCar.”
“I have never felt this way. I fear my heart will never feel this way again.”
“I as well, OsCar, I will carry you in my heart for all eternity.”
She took a step back, and Monet thought that was the end. Instead, she drew a small bottle out of her kimono sleeve. “I was going to toss this into the harbor as we left. A letter is inside for you.”
He accepted the bottle with both hands and bowed. He fumbled with the bottle’s cork when she put her hands gently on top of his. “You must read it when I’m gone, my dear OsCar.”
What an idiot I am. In my rush to get here, I didn’t think about bringing her a gift.
He then reached into his vest pocket and retrieved his beloved gold pocket watch.
He opened it, took out the caricature of his mother, turned it over, and with a pencil from his other pocket, sketched on the blank side.
He felt her impatience, but drew as fast as his tired fingers allowed.
Finished, he held it up for them both to see. He looked at her for approval.
“Yes, it looks like you, but now you must sign your work,” she reminded him.
As small and as clearly as possible, he wrote his typical salutation…MONET.
He closed the watch, kissed it and handed it to her. “Carry this next to your heart.”
“Merci, OsCar.” She held it with both hands, brought it to her face, and kissed it. “I will cherish it for all time.” She then reached to the top of her head and removed the pink jade water-lily hairpin she’d worn the day he painted her. She kissed it and held it out to Monet.
“Oh Julia, I cannot take that. You told me it was your grandmother’s.”
When her lips and eyes pouted, he nodded, bowed and reached to take it.
She carefully set it in his palms. “Maybe in a different life or time, our love will be fulfilled.” Julia said.
“Remember me when you paint beautiful water lilies…in Japan they represent rebirth. We will have to hold each other in our hearts for all eternity.”
He brought the hairpin to his lips and kissed it, noticing it carried her delicate scent.
“Shibata Yuria!” her father’s voice roared from the ship.
Over the barrier between them and the ship, they watched the Japanese flag rise up the mast.
“I must go,” she said, taking a step back, only to step forward and kiss him tenderly on the lips.
“Somehow, someway, our love will come together,” he said. “Je t’aime pour toujours–I love you forever. I am yours forever.”
And as fast as she had made her way off the ship, she ran, making it up the gangway before the dockworkers took it down. He ran after her but stopped at the dock’s edge under the glare of her father.
He bowed to him, which softened his gaze. He nodded in understanding as Julia took her place beside him.
“Will you please continue to paint?” he yelled to her.
* * *
Oscar’s father and aunt were indeed thrilled to see him.
They slaughtered a lamb and held a feast. His father kept asking him if he was okay.
Oscar didn’t know where to begin, so he would just say he was tired from the long ride home.
His aunt seemed to have a sixth sense and kept trying to force him to eat more supper.
He had another restless night and woke before sunrise. He made his way back to the harbor, where he knew of the only outlet for his passion…painting.
Yesterday, as the ship set sail, he had waited until he could no longer make out a trace of the Japanese ship on the horizon. Then he sat on the dock and stared into the harbor. This morning, he would paint the harbor as the sun rose.
He smiled to himself as he borrowed a small rowboat from the dock master. What would she say to him? That smile.
There was no wind this morning and probably why the three ships were in such a hurry to set sail yesterday.
The glow of the sun filled the eastern sky as he rowed out to the middle of the harbor, looking back over Le Harve.
He quickly set a small easel on the middle seat and placed a small foot-and-a-half by two-foot blank canvas on it.
As the sun peaked above the horizon, thick black smoke bellowed from the industrial area of Le Havre, bringing a haze over the harbor and turning the sun into a red ball of fire.
The clouds responded with their own reds and oranges.
The glassy water reflected the sky perfectly, and with the sun now above the horizon, its reflection streamed to the front of Monet’s boat.
He quickly outlined a ship with its masts cutting through the smoke, like a ghost ship.
Just off to the left of the reflected sun on the water, he painted an imaginary rowboat with a woman sitting in the middle and the man gently rowing them. “Ma Belle.”
How to capture this magnificent fleeting moment? How does one ever capture these sacred moments? Somehow he knew. They just had to be experienced.
“Mais ce qu’a lié l’amour même, le temps ne peut le délier…But what love has bound together, even time cannot unbind.”