Fugitive Colors, page 10
“So are you,” Julian said softly.
Adrienne turned, placing her fingertip against Julian’s lips. “You have been my friend. So please respect that the only ego I want to stroke these days is my own. I need to paint in isolation, to heal.”
“Adrienne, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Julian’s gaze bore into hers. “I wish I could have told you about René and Charlotte. I didn’t know what to do, so I made the mistake of agreeing to keep it secret. I should never have done that.”
She laughed sadly. “It’s ironic how you seem to know all of our secrets and yet we know nothing about you.”
Julian shifted uncomfortably against the pillows. “What do you mean?
Leaning forward, she said, “I mean, where is your family? You never talk about them or anything about your life before Paris. I know you’re Jewish, like me and René. We’re not religious at all, but we are not ashamed of being Jewish either.”
“I’m not ashamed,” Julian said defensively.
“But you never discuss it.” She pointed an accusing finger at him. “In fact, when we were walking through the Marais last month I remember wondering why you couldn’t even look at the beautiful synagogue there, even when I pointed out the gorgeous stained-glass windows. You kept your gaze fixed to the sidewalk, as though you were afraid of even looking, as if you were guilty of something.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Julian could not believe how she saw right through him.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she continued, her voice softening. “You see, in Dubois’s studio, I studied you the way you studied me. I knew that you were painting my image when Charlotte was modeling. Everyone else was painting her, drooling over her. But not you, Julian.” She sighed deeply. “I know you better than you think. So, tell me your secret … before.”
Julian put down the cup and stared at the rug, too overcome with emotion to look at her.
“Before what?” he mustered, lifting his head slowly.
She lightly touched his cheek. “Before we make love.”
Julian told her everything. He lay back on a pillow, staring at the ceiling, and shared his past, relieved to release it all to her. Only Adrienne could understand that day in the market, the woman selling the potatoes, the forbidden drawings in the Holy Book, the tomatoes thrown at his back. He told her about the art books from the library and how he had stolen money from his mother’s pickle jar. He recounted the night his father burned all of his artwork and about Sammy and Gertrude. He told her how Gertrude had seduced him. He talked without stopping, confessing all of it, until he could feel the wetness of Adrienne’s tears against his cheek and the warmth of her arms around him.
“Now I understand,” she whispered. “Have you contacted your parents since you’ve been in Paris?”
“No,” he replied curtly, and she did not push him. He pulled back slightly and studied the smooth contours of her face. “After what happened that day in the market, I am dead to them.”
He then closed his eyes, feeling the heat of Adrienne’s body against his, and could not believe that she was in his arms. He did not want to move, did not want to breathe, too afraid this moment would be gone, or worse, that he was only imagining it. She lifted her face, and Julian could practically taste her breath. If he stuck out his tongue, he could touch her lips. And he knew those lips, as though they were a part of his own body. Red tinged with pink, turning slightly brown when they were cold. Right now, they were a moist, hot pink. Glistening like the tongue in her painting.
She extended her neck and pressed her mouth firmly against his. Julian closed his eyes. René’s face flashed before him but disappeared as Adrienne’s tongue darted inside his mouth. Her lips traveled, planting delicate kisses along his throat. From somewhere in the room, Julian heard loud moans, and it took him a few seconds to realize that they were coming from him.
Adrienne’s eyes shone. It was a look that he’d seen her give René on numerous occasions. He almost turned to see if René was there, standing behind him, but caught himself. Instead, he held Adrienne even tighter, torn between wanting to rip off her clothes and remembering that she was not his.
“Do you still love him?” Julian asked under his breath, because he had to.
She did not hesitate. “That doesn’t go away. But I want you.”
It was enough.
Adrienne fastened her slim body onto Julian’s and arched her back. He reached under her sweater and felt her small firm breasts. He gently stroked the velvet of her skin, feeling the hardening of her nipples against his fingers. He had never felt anything so exquisite.
She savagely tore open his shirt, as if she, too, had been waiting months just to touch him. The buttons popped off, and Julian groaned as her light brown hair journeyed down his torso. Her hand lingered between his legs, and then her mouth. Julian willed his body to not let go too soon.
And then he couldn’t hold back. Everything inside him seemed to crush and expand simultaneously.
As he lay on the floor breathing heavily, Adrienne slowly made her way back up his chest. “You are beautiful, Julian.” She played with his chest hair and then nestled into the crook of his arm, fitting inside like a puzzle piece. “I’m going to miss you terribly. I only wish I had time to paint you.”
“I always paint you,” Julian confessed, not caring what he said anymore. “In my head.”
“Kiss me everywhere, and then paint me once more,” she whispered huskily, placing his hand between her legs. She was warm and wet.
Pressing his mouth deeply into hers, Julian felt the sharpness of her teeth against his lips, her breasts locked into his chest. He turned her over on her back. His muse belonged to him, finally.
Even if was only for one night.
BLUE
“If you see a tree as blue, then make it blue.”
—Paul Gauguin
Chapter Ten
POTSDAM, GERMANY, 1933
Icy rain pounded against the roof of the car. The driver René had hired was concentrating on the winding road and getting them to Potsdam safely. Julian could barely see out the fogged window. He glanced over at René, who was drawing on the steamed glass with his finger. He had created a young girl holding flowers. Julian could not believe it. His friend managed to make something beautiful even out of mist.
Using his sleeve to wipe off the window, Julian pressed his nose against it. The view was hazy, but they had entered what appeared to be a royal complex.
“René, look over there.” Julian pointed toward the sprawling residence perched on a hilltop. A giant turquoise dome stood at the center of the structure, surrounded by layers of snow-covered terraces.
René tapped the driver’s broad shoulder. In flawless German, he asked, “Where are we exactly?”
The driver glanced into his rearview mirror, raising an excessively bushy brow. “Potsdam,” he answered gruffly. “Schloss Sanssouci. Where Frederick the Great lived.”
Julian glanced down at the map in his hand. “I think we’re getting close.”
René looked tense. He rubbed his temples with both hands. “What if Felix slams the door in our faces? He practically threw me down the stairs when I tried talking to him again.”
“My standing with him isn’t much better.” Julian recalled Felix tossing Julian’s clothes out of the apartment. He paused and couldn’t hold back what had been bothering him the entire trip. “Is Charlotte still planning to come?”
“Maybe.” René shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “We’ve got to settle things with Felix first.”
“You should really rethink this. Charlotte’s presence is not going to help our cause in any way.” Julian could not believe that after everything, René still wanted her to join them. Julian couldn’t stand her. And there was no way Felix would forgive them if Charlotte came to Germany. Julian stared angrily at the back of the driver’s jug-shaped head, thinking René a fool. He turned when he saw René observing him.
“Why don’t you just get it all out, Julian,” René said coldly.
Julian eyed him evenly. “Break it off, René. She is trouble. And you’re insane if you think Felix will be okay with her coming here. That’s why he ran off in the first place, because we both lied to him about her. Charlotte is manipulative and a user. You, your father, probably Dubois—who’s next?” Julian realized he was practically shouting and tried unsuccessfully to tone it down. “Really, how could you love a woman like that?”
“You don’t know her,” René said defensively. “She’s made mistakes, but she’s had a rough life. She has had to make it on her own since she was a teenager.”
“My guess is that Charlotte couldn’t care less who she hurts along the way.”
“Who the hell are you to judge?” René countered, turning away.
Julian looked out his window thinking, Who am I to judge? I stole money from my own mother. I slept with my cousin’s wife. I slept with Adrienne. I lied to Felix by keeping my mouth shut when he trusted me. He glanced sideways at René. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” Julian said guiltily.
René rested his arm on the back of the cold leather seat. “We are both on edge. I’m sorry too. Right now, the most important thing is to work things out with Felix. Everything else comes later.”
René returned to the window and doodled with the vapor, his face transfixed, as if he were creating a masterpiece and not something that would soon return to mist. Julian could not help but wonder if it was Felix’s friendship that René wanted back, or rather salvaging the opportunity to paint with Ernst Engel.
They drove another twenty minutes along the Berlin-Potsdam Road. The driver slowed down at the end of a long secluded driveway. He stopped the car, turned around, and announced brusquely: “Schloss Von Bredow.”
Julian glanced out the window in awe. The estate was an ornate three story monstrosity. He could barely see where it began and where it ended. “How the hell did Felix go from the Von Bredow cathedral to our trashy apartment?” he whispered.
René laughed nervously. “He loved your trashy apartment. This place gave him nightmares.”
“I can see why.”
The driver slowly made his way up the long, white, paved driveway, which could easily have encircled Julian’s entire Chicago neighborhood. He glanced at René and saw that the color had drained from his friend’s face. The drawing had vaporized into a clean slate and René did not seem to notice.
The driver stopped just short of the entrance. René told the driver to wait for them no matter how long it took.
As they walked together toward the entrance, René ran his fingers through his wet, glossy hair. “I’ve heard about this place a thousand times, but I had no idea.”
“Don’t tell me the size of this fortress intimidates you,” Julian said, slowly walking forward. “You’ve spent your life vacationing in European villas and chalets.”
“It’s not the exterior, Julian,” René said quietly. “It’s what’s inside that makes me want to run.”
Julian agreed. The castle looked like a haunted house. The entrance was safely ensconced behind enormous dark pillars, and the front door had to be nearly fifteen feet high. Breathing deeply, Julian reached for the knocker, an oversized gargoyle. He held the intricately carved iron beast in his hand, almost afraid to let it drop back on its head against the door.
The butler, a frail-looking man, opened the door immediately, as though he had been waiting for them. He wore a starched tuxedo with tails and his hands were knotted behind his back. He gave both men the once-over with a frown and then shut the door in their faces.
“What was that?” Julian couldn’t help but laugh.
René laughed too. “That must be Walter. Felix told me about him— the walking corpse who has served three generations of Von Bredows.”
The door reopened and Walter’s pruned face peered out. “Yes.”
Julian cleared his throat and glanced at René. “We came to see Felix.”
“I see,” he said dryly. “Follow me.”
They were led in silence through a domed, dark hallway lit with ornate sconces. They passed a smoky, wall-sized mirror in which Julian caught a glimpse of himself, and the image was not pretty. The guy looking back at him needed a bath. He should have worn his good blue sweater, not the frayed second-hand shirt he had on. He should have put on a tie and gotten a haircut at least.
They followed Walter through another seemingly endless hallway. Along the wall, dozens of powder-wigged, dour-faced court portraits were interspersed with dozens of paintings by Old Masters. Julian half expected the gray, stern faces to jump out at him. He could not believe that Felix had actually grown up in this place. As they proceeded down the corridor, war scenes began to dominate the walls. Angry infantrymen seemed to be storming straight out of the canvases; their cannons, swords, and muskets aimed at Julian’s head.
Feeling the security of René’s shoulder pressing against his, Julian apprehensively turned a corner leading into yet another hallway filled with rows of gilt-framed paintings. He immediately recognized the dark, realistic detailing of Cranach and Dürer, as well as a few Rembrandts, Rubens, van Eycks, and El Grecos.
“It’s a fucking museum in here,” René whispered.
“Unbelievable.” Julian could barely get the word out. He could not believe the art surrounding him. No wonder Felix’s grandmother had tossed a van Gogh Felix’s way as though it were extra furniture.
The hallway ended and burst into a short, bright foyer. The effect was staggering, like that of blinding light at the end of a tunnel. Walter stopped in front of a set of French doors. He grasped the gold knobs with both hands and dramatically flung open the doors.
Julian bit down on his tongue and entered first, then stopped in his tracks when he saw Felix.
Wearing a dark pinstriped suit, Felix stood next to the fireplace, an elbow resting on the mantelpiece as though he were one of the Von Bredow portraits in the hallway. The baron, staring coldly at them, sat erect behind his desk. Felix seemed to be trying to imitate his father’s controlled stance, and for a moment, Julian longed to tackle Felix to the ground, rip off his pretentious jacket, drag him back to Paris, and shake the Von Bredow out of him. But Felix’s face remained stony, guarded.
Who was this imposter?
“Hello, Felix,” Julian managed.
“Julian,” Felix responded blankly, ignoring René altogether.
Taking a step forward, Julian said, “Baron Von Bredow, would you mind if we had a word alone with Felix?” He glanced boldly at the baron, who was watching them with an amused half smile.
But the baron said nothing, dismissing Julian entirely. Felix nodded collaboratively to his father. Julian yearned to remind Felix of the hostile exchange between the two men in Paris just days ago, but Felix brushed past Julian and walked out the French doors. René dipped his head meekly in Felix’s direction and followed him. So did Julian.
Felix led them into a large two-story sanctuary, sweetened with the rich scent of tobacco and filled floor-to-ceiling with thousands of leather-bound books. A heavy velvet tapestry depicting frolicking angels and shepherds occupied an entire wall.
Julian was careful to circumvent a stuffed bearskin rug with glassy egg-shaped eyeballs. He walked to the far corner of the room only to meet up with an enormous boar’s head suspended from the wall. Picturing the baron hunting the animal down, his bald head projecting forward while wearing that cold half smile, Julian suddenly felt afraid as he turned toward Felix. They stared at each other in silence. The man standing before him was not the Felix he knew. Not the same Felix who slept in torn underwear, who got drunk and acted stupid on a hundred occasions.
“Felix,” René began slowly, “we came because you are our best friend and things ended badly.”
“I was your best friend,” Felix corrected him, his face remaining stony. “And you ended things badly.”
“You have every right to be angry,” René said, trying to be conciliatory.
Felix wasn’t buying it. He folded his arms against his chest and leaned forward. “And you have no right to be here.”
“We took our chances,” René continued. “We hoped we could work our problems out.”
“Work our problems out—ha!” Felix mocked. “I bet Julian pulled you here by your socks.”
René shook his head. “Felix, what can we do to make it up to you?”
“Nothing. The damage is done,” Felix retorted. “How many times over the past few months did I tell you how I felt about Charlotte? Did that make it more exciting? Didn’t our friendship mean a goddamn thing to you? Didn’t you learn anything after Adrienne?”
At the mention of her name Julian looked away, just as Felix turned his anger on him. “And you, Julian, I took you in like a brother. Christ, I wouldn’t even take in my brother. But, like everyone else, you, too, chose René.”
“I did not choose anyone, Felix,” Julian countered. “I was caught in the middle. I didn’t want to hurt you. I knew how you felt. But I was wrong. I should have told you the truth right away, no matter what. I’m truly sorry.”
“It wasn’t Julian’s fault,” René interjected. “The blame is mine.”
“How noble.” Felix’s focus shifted from René to Julian, sizing them up just as his butler had. Felix’s polished leather shoe traced the stuffed bear’s paw and then he stepped on it hard. “And Charlotte?” His lips were pursed tightly as he spoke. “Is she still coming, René?”
“That depends on you.”
Felix crossed the rug and stood inches from René. “I want her.”
“I love her,” René replied evenly.
“More than you love me?” Felix demanded.
René shuffled his feet. “It is different.”
“More than you love your art?” Felix took another step forward.
