Chapter 46 Present Day
PRESENT DAY
OSCAR AND JULIA
The hair on the back of Oscar’s neck rose along with his attention to the tour guide.
“You will see the room also contains a billiard table and piano. The Empress loved to entertain and work amongst her cherished prizes.”
“The painting must be in here,” Oscar said under his breath and craned his neck, searching the walls.
However, the walls of the room were filled only with carved, wooden display hutches full of porcelain vases, china pieces, and jade treasures of various kinds, interspaced with splendid panels of gold, inlay scenes of the Far-East. Two large ivory tusks stood sentry at the sides of a golden altar on one wall, and a roped off, blue lacquer trunk dominated the middle of the room.
“During the Second Empire, France significantly increased its diplomatic and military influence in Asia,” the guide told them.
“Napoleon III sent many envoys to these countries and vice-versa. These visits by dignitaries, especially from Japan, flavored the World Fair held in Paris in 1867 and triggered a fashion and artistic frenzy in what in French is call, Japonisme—even influencing artists of the age, like Van Gogh, Degas, Manet, and of course, Claude Monet.”
Oscar hugged the shoebox to his chest.
“After the death of Emperor Napoleon III, Empress Eugénie, while in exile in England, requested to recover her personal possessions—particularly this collection of Asian art, but the government voted to have the pieces remain as state property. In 1995, I am sorry to say, thieves stole fifteen priceless objects from this room—authorities have recovered only nine of them.”
However mind-blowing the extent of treasures in this room, Oscar did not see a portrait of a Japanese princess. It has to be in this area, unless it was one of the stolen items.
Heat shot up his neck.
The tour guide walked to one of the large windows and pulled open the heavy drapes.
“I only show this to special guests.” He genuflected to the young couple in the group who had eagerly informed people they were on their honeymoon.
“Eugénie’s favorite room looks out over the beautiful lake and English Garden.
For the new lovers in the group, your romantic boat ride awaits after the tour.
I have asked they provide you a rowboat for free! It is very romantique.”
The group cheered the generosity and the honeymooners.
* * *
Julia woke with a start. She had been sitting on the grassy slope, when, warmed by the sun, she had lain back and closed her eyes.
She was sure she’d dreamt. Of what, she couldn’t remember, but the rest had refreshed her body and spirit.
She took two deep breaths to clear her head and sat up.
The sun had moved in the sky, and a rowboat with two young lovers glided across the glassy water, the woman giggling at something.
She checked the time on her phone and jumped to her feet. If she was going to meet the historian on time, she would have to hurry, as the office was located on the other side of the complex.
* * *
“Now, follow me into the salon,” the tour guide waved his hand to the next room.
The group slowly followed, admiring the artifacts protected by walls of glass: delicate ivory and jade pieces, silken kimono, and an ornate palanquin used to hand carry Asian royalty.
The tour guide stopped, and Oscar’s jaw dropped open.
“I am thrilled you can now see this. When they restored the museum to its Second Empire state in 1970, this Japanese armor was sadly put into storage. But thanks to recent restorations, this magnificent samurai armor is displayed as a testimony of the friendship between France and Japan in the nineteenth century.”
Oscar couldn’t believe it—the sitting mannequin clothed in the finest of samurai armor. Could this have come from the Japanese delegation whose princess stole Monet’s heart?
Much to Oscar’s chagrin, the tour group filed out of the Asian Museum and into the golden corridor. He lingered at the samurai, but decided he could always come back on his own after the tour.
As they filed into the corridor, a striking Asian woman rushed through the group and hurried down the hallway. Oscar leaned in to get a better look, but the shapely figure was gone.
“Must be trying to find one of the four hundred bathrooms,” the man next to him said and laughed.
Oscar smiled and nodded.
“Speaking of that, there are restrooms right around this corner,” the guide said. “We’ll take a break. Does anyone have questions?”
Much of the group disappeared toward the restrooms, but Oscar spoke to the guide. It’s now or never.
* * *
The historian did not speak any English, but his secretary did.
Julia tried to slow her breathing and heart rate after fast walking the two miles across the chateau, breezing past room after room of lavish furnishings, beautiful French architecture, and thousands of paintings and sculptures.
In her unheeding rush, her peripheral vision caught sight of other guests shooting dirty looks at her and barely moving out of her way.
After her nap, and even after her dash to the administrative offices, the sense of urgency that haunted Julia all her life had diminished.
Slowly, she recapped her story to the secretary, who patiently translated for the not-very-receptive historian wearing a wrinkled gray suit and listening with half an ear.
His expression offered Julia little hope that the painting of her great-great-great-great-grandmother was still at the chateau.
Not to be deterred, Julia pulled the poem from Yuria’s diary out of her purse and handed it to the man.
He raised an eyebrow, read it, and shrugged.
Through the secretary, he said without emotion, “It is a beautiful poem, but I cannot tell much from it…and if you are who you are. I’m sorry. ” He smiled and turned away.
Julia dug in her front pants pocket and pulled out the pocket watch wrapped in a white handkerchief.
She removed the gold watch from the wrapping, dangled it from its chain, and said, “I think you might be interested in this.”
The man stopped mid-stride, turned back, stared at the watch, and at her, trying to decide if he should waste any more time with this silly American girl.
Julia encouraged him to take it from her. He placed it in his palm and inspected both sides. “May I open it?” he said through the secretary.
“Yes, please. Of course.”
He snapped open the top and admired the timepiece. Then his eyes went wide when he examined the drawing on the portrait side.
The man closed the lid and looked at her. He seemed to see her for the first time.
“I think you should come with me,” he said with a smile.
* * *
Julia followed the historian and his secretary in silence deep into the chateau.
They stopped at a gold-gilded wooden door. The historian pulled a large ring of keys from his belt, selected the correct one, and opened the door.
“Not part of the tours, I gather,” Julia said to the secretary.
“Non, not at all,” she replied. “This was Napoleon III’s private office.”
The room was considerably more modest than Julia would have guessed, with a small writing desk in the middle surrounded by blue leather chairs, an antique armoire on one wall and a couchette on the other.
A crystal chandelier hung over the desk.
Large windows, separated by a bust of Napoleon III, opened out onto the lake and the English garden.
Julia saw no artwork until they stepped into the middle of the room.
Then she saw her.
Hanging on the wall behind the desk and to the right of an unpretentious fireplace and mantle was the portrait of the girl who had created this ripple through time. If Napoleon had been sitting at his desk, she would have looked over his shoulder,
“Forgive me, mademoiselle,” the historian said through his secretary’s translation, “We get people here at Chateau de Fontainebleau claiming all sorts of things. But now I can see what you say is true.”
Julia ignored the man and stepped closer to the painting. “Shibata Yuria…it is you!”
How she wanted to reach and touch her face. Run her fingers along the blue kimono that now lay on her bed at home. She leaned in to examine the weapon Yuria held in one hand and the beautiful pink water lily in the other—just how her diary described it. Monet had captured her perfectly.
The look on Yuria’s face was one of harmony. “It is something, isn’t it?”
Julia turned to look at the historian and his secretary, whose countenances had transformed. They were staring at her. Then they looked at each other and said in unison, “Incroyable!”
“You look just like her,” the secretary said.
Julia turned back to the painting. “Why is she in here?”
The secretary spoke to the historian and then translated for him.
“That is an excellent question,” she said. “And one that comes with some controversy, I’m afraid.” The historian said something more to the secretary.
She turned back to Julia and said, “It is by decree…from Napoleon himself.”
The secretary listened to the historian and translated, “This area was built in 1864 and used by Napoleon III from then until his last stay in Fontainebleau in 1868. Before he left, he decreed that the painting should remain in his study.” Again, the secretary listened to the historian and translated, “I think Napoleon thought this was her home, as much of a part of Fontainebleau as the springhead itself.”
* * *
“I am so sorry…I don’t know who else to ask…
and it’s a bit of a story,” Oscar said to the guide.
He contemplated opening the box, but simply said, “I am looking for a painting of a Japanese Princess. Claude Monet painted it here at the Chateau de Fontainebleau,” he said, expecting the tour guide to give him a suspicious look.
Instead, he said, “Intéressant. Just a moment, please.” He held up his hand, pulled out his mobile from his pocket, and conversed in French.
* * *
Julia nodded, still entranced by the painting.
“When Napoleon died in 1873, his wife, Empress Eugénie, requested the painting, but because of the official decree, the government denied her request. After the fall of the Second Empire, this study was transformed into a dining room for presidents of the Republic. Your relative watched over private state dinners for many years until the 1920s, when an American art school occupied the premises. The chateau’s foundation restored this area to its pre-1870 state in 1990.
And here she continues to stand…a guardian over the affairs of France. ”
The historian’s mobile chimed from within his jacket pocket.
* * *
Oscar worried he’d said something wrong, but the young man ended his call and said to him, “I have someone coming to talk with you. Wait here, please.”
Another person asked the guide a question when Oscar saw a man in a gray suit hurrying his way. The man stopped, pointed, and waved excitedly for Oscar to join him.
When Oscar pointed to himself, the man nodded and increased the intensity of his wave.
When Oscar reached him, the man spoke excitedly in French. Oscar did not understand anything, except two words that the man repeated over and over. “Belle femme, belle femme.”
He grabbed Oscar by the arm and pulled him down the hallway.
“Monet?” Oscar asked.
“Oui, oui, belle femme.”
“You mean the painting of the beautiful woman?” Oscar asked.
The man continued in French, what sounded like gibberish to Oscar, and pulled him down the corridor. They turned the corner and stopped at a doorway. “Belle femme,” he said again and motioned for Oscar to enter.
Then he saw her.
There, standing in front of the painting, Oscar saw the belle femme. Not the painting, the person.
The man in the gray suit pushed him forward.
Oscar stopped at her side. He looked at her and then at the painting.
Mesmerized by the portrait, she ignored him.
He cleared his throat and said, “Do I know you from somewhere?” He blushed from his silly pickup line introduction.
Her trance on the painting broke, and she looked at him. Oscar sweated, but smiled.
She answered with grace. “I’m not sure…unless you are from Missoula and have a cute dog.”
Oscar’s knees weakened and his body flushed with heat. “It has been you this entire time…I thought I was going crazy. I changed your tire!”
The girl did not respond, and Oscar thought he might have made up the entire story.
Taking a chance, he asked, “Do you like dogs?”
“I love your dog,” she smiled.
They both turned back to the painting and stood in silence.
Finally, she whispered. “Do you know about this painting? This is my great-great-great-great-grandmother.”
Oscar nodded. He could not find words.
Finally, he said, “It is my great-great-great-great-grandfather who painted her.”
Julia looked at him and then back at the painting.
“What is the weapon she is holding in her hand?”
“It is called a naginata. The women samurai carried it.”
Julia nodded slowly. “It seems like we have much to talk about.”
Oscar stepped closer to the painting and recognized the pink water lily in Yuria’s other hand.
“Now I know why he painted the water lily over and over,” he said, then saw the hairpin sticking out of the back of the woman’s hair. He opened the shoebox, pulled out the linen-covered item, set the box on the floor, and carefully unwrapped the hair pin.
He held it up as an offering to the woman in the portrait. Then he held it towards the girl. “I think this belongs to you.”
She held it and tears streamed down her cheeks as she turned the delicate piece one way and then the other.
“Thank you,” she said and reached into the front pocket of her pants, pulling out a gold pocket watch. “Then this belongs to you.”
Oscar turned it over in his hands. “Uh…I can’t take this.”
“Please…” she touched his arm. “Open it and you will see.”
Oscar opened the top of the pocket watch and stared at the sketch of his great-great-great-great-grandfather.
“You look like him, you know?”
“I was going to say the same thing…I mean…you look like her.” He blushed.
She smiled at him and turned back to the painting. They stood in silence again.
“They were in love, you know,” Julia said.
“Yes…I can understand why.”
Oscar smiled at her. His heart pierced. “I’m Oscar, by the way,” he said offering his hand.
Julia glanced at Yuria and back at Oscar. She took his hand. “Julia,” she said and smiled. His hand was warm, in no hurry to let go. “We really do have a lot to talk about,” she said again.
Oscar smiled. “Would you like to share a ride on the lake in a rowboat?”
Julia couldn’t stop smiling.
The museum historian and the translator had been observing this reunion.
“C’est l’amour?” he asked.
“Oui,” she said, “that’s love.”
“Toujours l’amour,” he said.
“Oui, always love,” she replied. “Love always finds a way!”