Interstitial #3
It was a new way of looking at the matter, a moment of mercy I contemplated like a strange map.
What might my life have looked like, had I not been told to hate myself so completely?
Had I been given grace, after all that was taken from me?
Briefly, I saw a world where I did not have to hide.
It shimmered beyond reach, but even the mirage of it felt miraculous.
“And all my secrets?”
“They will be mine too. Emil told me some of this. But not nearly enough, my poor Cheval.”
“My abandoned child—”
She kissed the star on my cheek again. “We will add a sun on this bench, for your Huy. If he is part of your story, then he
is part of mine.”
What could I say to that? We nestled under the open window of the cottage, with the rasping admonitions of herons nearby,
the faint wash of slate behind our eyelids. And I heard her whisper my name, like a liturgical chant: Tam Nguy?n, Tam Nguy?n. I have never been audacious enough to pray for forgiveness, and yet, for a moment, in her arms, it came to me anyway.
May 21, 1943
The bench—our ode to the sun, to my son—was complete by the start of the salt harvest. The Chaton had it installed behind
the Chateau des Miroirs. We met there each evening, as she’d foretold. As nighttime tiptoed in, that bench became a sacred
place of confessions, entangled limbs, souls splayed like the wings of a dove.
Sometimes I ask myself whether anyone else in the household suspected us. Of course, the servants could not escape the knowledge
of our intimate friendship. But beyond that—who would conceive that their flawless mistress could have consented to align
herself with a strange, withdrawn artist with no prospects and no outward charisma? I believed, wrongly perhaps, that our
unlikeliness shrouded us.
Meanwhile, I continued with my secret painting, knowing on some level the betrayal I layered on with each wash of color.
I understood my time in the Camargue was at a close, but it was important that the blue lovers be completed there, in the cottage where our love began.
What would I do with the painting after?
I would keep it. I allowed myself to keep so little in life.
The first week of September, Marcel Allard arrived in a flurry of suitcases and bonhomie. His work in Germany had gone very
well, and it begot generosity aplenty. He showered my Chaton with gifts that did not reflect her tastes: an elaborate cuckoo
clock, chocolates shaped like seashells, bejeweled steins of kingly proportions. She accepted each with a vague smile.
Only one offering did she regard with genuine interest—a chartreuse-tinted nude by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner. It was a fine painting;
more undisciplined than I would have liked, but still, a striking piece for her growing collection. As she examined it, Marcel
placed his meaty hand upon the small of her back, the spot I had pressed my lips against only a night before, and he beamed
with the smugness of a man accustomed to getting exactly what he paid for.
How I hated him! And yet, was that not his right as her husband, to touch and be touched?
Toward me, he was outwardly friendly and full of bluster. As a habit, he was accustomed to charming women and, despite my
appearance, he must have considered me worthy of his charm. In Arles, I did not feel the need to pretend. I’d stopped binding
my breasts and grew out my hair. With raptorial awareness, his eyes raked my face, the collared shirt I wore, the oversized
trousers that dragged on his polished floors. I had met men like him before. They think that my garments and my disinterest
are a gesture of bravado, supposing that I might be retamed into femininity through the favor of male attention. Oddity intrigues
them. Those men are the most dangerous, because they understand my identity as a refutation of their God-given privilege.
A challenge.
When he took my hand, a chill wrapped around my fingers. He kissed, rather than shook, it. His lips were familiar and firm, leaving a wet film near my knuckles. I resisted the urge to wipe myself clean.
“Our resident artist,” he said, upon introduction. “How my wife does enjoy taking in strays. They’re not usually so appealing.”
“Marcel,” she said, flustered.
He grinned. “I mean no harm. Ly understands how I tease. I’m glad someone is making use of that old cottage. Drafty, isn’t it?”
He was not unhandsome, I admitted with a lover’s jealous eye. Broad shoulders, healthy dark hair, and a tidy jaw, though he
would likely become jowly in a few short years. Even now, he attracted attention from the female servants. The Chaton told
me that she was sure he’d taken lovers since their first days of marriage, perhaps even within their household. It had bothered
her initially, but now, she saw in his distraction a kind of freedom. She could do as she wanted—within bounds, of course,
since she was still a woman.
But I was angry at him all the same, even though I was the one who had committed a wrong against him. I wondered what kind
of fool discards the Chaton for lesser beings.
To Marcel, I said stiffly, “I’m grateful for your generosity.”
He waved his hand. “Of course. Anything for Justine’s only brother. Now, when is our Emi arriving? And have we stocked enough
wine for this visit?”
The Chaton laughed gaily. “In three days and not a moment too soon. How merry it’ll be to have all our favorite people in
one place!”
Her eyes met mine, then she looked away. Something had come between us. Easy enough to blame our distance on Marcel, but perhaps
it was merely the breaking of a summer-long spell. We could no longer convince ourselves that we were the only people in Arles.
Reality encroached and with it came a diminishing of our love. That love was no less vibrant; only compressed and distorted,
as a light in a pinhole.
I excused myself to my cottage and Justine did not stop me. In the days after, I rarely saw her alone.
Emil’s visit would coincide with the Allards’ harvest gala, which brought about a great celebration in Arles. Guests began
streaming into the Maison de Notre Rêve, bringing with them their stylish Duesenbergs and bug-eyed Jaguars. There would be
a cream crop of collectors for Emil to cast his wiles upon, I thought, as I made myself scarce in the cottage.
But when I watched the parade of guests from my window, the Chaton among them, I wanted to throw my paints against the wall,
splattering the chateau with my discontent. The bench yawned with emptiness. Only my secret painting of the blue lovers pulled
me from my bed, though my malaise seeped into its composition, glazing gloominess upon what was once a defiant celebration.
When it was at last complete, I layered the painting with varnish and allowed it to dry.
Something was coming to an end.
That weekend, I met Emil at the train station, taking in his lively gait and exuberantly hued clothing. He brought an enormous
suitcase—with four tins of my favorite sardines—and a cache of news about the artists in our circle. Despite myself, I cheered
at the sight of him.
“At last!” he shouted, placing a palm on either side of my face and turning it back and forth, as if I were a prized steed.
“Let me look at you, Tam. Still as unstylish as ever. But not so skinny, hm? Not so gaunt? Look at those freckles across your nose, my sunflower.”
I tried to shrug him off, but he wrapped me in a tight, cologne-heavy embrace. “Thank God you are well again.”
“Forget about God. It’s you I should thank, Emi.”
His look was fond. “What is gratitude between soul mates? Now, tell me all. Why are your letters so sparse? What trouble have
you been getting up to in the Camargue?”
Briefly, I’d thought I might hide my affair from him. What good would it be to share this burden? But I owed him the truth. And, perhaps selfishly, I wanted at least one other person to bear witness to that which would have to be hidden for the rest of my days.
“Emi, my friend,” I said, “I have something to confess.”
Here—I rest my pen. The next part, the final part, takes more fortitude than I can muster. I will come back to it when I am
stronger. Oh, if only Emi and I had never set foot in Arles!
May 24, 1943
It happened more swiftly than one can imagine. The descent. One moment, the Chaton and I were suspended in a state of anguished
love. And the next—we were falling into the Hell of our own making.
The evening of the harvest gala arrived. Emil had shaved his face so closely that it seemed to glow. The pomade glossed his
hair to such a shine that he resembled the golden-haired Apollo on a cloud. I felt a rush of affection for him, my only friend
in the world besides the Chaton. I had told him of our affair and, while visibly distressed, he did not shun me or utter any
cruel words.
“It can’t last,” he said. “Marcel is a cur, but they have built a life together. My sister will not leave her husband.”
“I don’t expect her to.”
“So you must end it,” he said, more urgently. “He will not be sensible when it comes to her. They share love, in a way.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“It is a twisted love, but it’s theirs. You cannot compete. You know this.”
“Justine and I—we are already over.” As I said it, I knew it to be true.
“I warned you, my love. JuJu is a woman of many passions, but little fidelity.”
It rankled me to hear him speak of her that way, but I did not show it. I said, “I’m nothing but a foolish child in these things, Emi. Forget I said anything. I will behave and we will leave Arles together, as if nothing at all had happened.”
Thus reassured, he changed the subject, as only Emil could. “Let’s not discuss it again. Now, you cannot wear one of those
awful suits tonight. Let me dress you. Your would-be patrons await!”
“Along with your commission?”
“Naturally.”
He borrowed from Justine a gray silk with a dropped waist and a skirt that ruffled like the petals of a carnation. The back
plunged to daring depths. I wasn’t myself and yet I welcomed the departure. It was easier to mask my heartbreak when I did