EMan

M A R I E T A P I A

iUniverse, Inc.Bloomington

Red HairedE

The

e Red Haired Man

Copyright © 2013 Marie Tapia

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any

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Certain characters in this work are historical fi gures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fi ction. All of the other characters, names, and

events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fi ctitiously.If there are only a few

historical fi gures or actual events in the novel, the disclaimer could name them.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-8373-9 (sc)ISBN: 978-1-4759-8374-6 (hc)ISBN: 978-1-4759-8375-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013905693

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 5/3/2013

To my wonderful daughters, Helena and Lisa, who believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. I love you both.

1

Sepia

W I place a tattered, tearstained sepia photo close to my heart.

I loved that photo. So did he.“Are you wearing the hat?” he’d ask.

at round, dark-green felt hat with a black veil heralded a day of freedom.

Freedom—to most a simple word. e days I left that

house were blue-skied, hope-fi lled days no matter what the weather.A couple of hours to look at shops, sit in an outside café were my

e green-and-white awning shaded a round table with a crisply-ironed white cloth. A small, clear glass vase held freshly cut fl owers of the day. Black wrought-iron chairs graced the tables waiting for customers.

As I sat there, shaded from the midmorning sun, I sipped my coff ee without a care in the world. Life was beautiful there, full of surprises.

Anything is possible in my daydream. I slip deep in that reverie. I am an artist with her own studio. People come to me from all over the city to select paintings for their homes.

e studio’s anteroom contains highly polished, impeccably crafted wood furnishings similar to those of an upscale Victorian home. Here my clients can view their prospective purchases at leisure.

“Bonjour, Madame,” booms a boisterous, red-haired gentleman, jolting me from my daydream. “Lovely hat,” he muses.

2 E M a r i e Ta p i a

I look up at him with a nervous smile. He returns a warm glance as he hurries down the street, tipping his top hat in my direction.

I am curious. His red hair, piercing blue eyes, and prominent features tell me he is from another country. Why is he here, looking so out of place in his well-worn, blue-gray suit and slightly scuff ed black shoes?

He seems a stranger to the voice of the city, yet he walks with a defi nite purpose.

As I lean slightly out of my chair, I peer around the people walking down the street. He turns the corner, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

I fi nish my strong coff ee and leave a generous gratuity. Hurriedly turning around the corner, I follow in his direction.

Out of breath, I slow my pace as I make my way down the street, searching for the red-haired man. Stores and apartments line both sides of the street. Perhaps he went farther down, not even stopping on this street.

I keep walking, something inside of me pushing me forward without a care in the world. I scan each doorway and shop window until—there he is.

Inside the window of this store I can see his red hair, back to the window, wildly gesturing toward the rows and rows of prints and paintings that lined the walls.

e customer, a well-dressed, middle-aged woman, is absorbed in conversation with him. Neither of them notice me peering in the recently washed window.

I look above me at the swaying sign. A hand-painted, gold-leafed border accentuates the reddish-maroon, wooden sign. Raised gold letters read:

Goupil & Cie, Editeurs

So this is where he hurried off to—an art gallery. Does he work there? Is he consulting? I’ve been here before with Andre. Why have I never seen him?

I murmur. “What are you going to say to him? Do you need another print with a glorious gold layered frame? Dozens are hanging in the drawing room.”

ere is something fresh, immediate about this man. I feel a sense of urgency to make his acquaintance, possibly more than a simple introduction.

As I enter the front double doors of Goupil’s, my eyes become fi xed on ere he is in his well-worn suit. What gentleness in his manner.

T he R ed H a i r ed M a n E 3

Something inside of me presses, Get to know him. You must get to know him.

All right, I’ll buy a print, I decide. How could that hurt? A short introduction, conversation, and voila, it will be done. I will have met the red-haired man. My surprise for the day will be complete.

Walls of prints … Goupil’s is known for them. How do I choose? I stand there decision-less, the red-haired man completing his sale with the middle-aged woman.

“May I help you, Madame?” a man asks, his voice resonating behind me. at’s him. His voice is unforgettable. I turn toward him, smiling, shifting

my eyes upward. He is a bit taller than me.“Oui,” I answer.

ese salesmen have to know what is available in Brussels, Berlin, ey have to know how to handle patrons who come by carriage,

in high-fashion clothes, to look for the perfect pieces of art to grace their drawing rooms. It is a strict business. Rules of protocol must be adhered to. Salesmen have to know all they can in order to succeed.

Adolph Goupil has, among his many stores, a printing and engraving shop on rue Chaptil in Paris. He has an eye for what pieces of art will be accepted by the Salon. He transfers his knowledge of art to engage his customers at Goupil’s, who come because of the large selection of prints.

“I’m looking for a print for my drawing room,” I answer.“A pastoral view, perhaps?” he suggests.Taking me by my arm, he escorts me to one of the private showing

rooms.“Make yourself comfortable, Madame. I’ll return with prints for you to

view momentarily.”I wonder who he is. I cannot get his smile out of my mind. I never will.

I have seen him before. I know I have. Andre and I had taken a trip to Amsterdam. It was autumn. Leaves were on the road as our carriage approached Goupil’s Amsterdam gallery. Once inside I stared at the red-haired man, thinking how lovely life would be with such a passionate man. Perhaps it was a youthful passion showing through that brought him to my attention.

p

4 E M a r i e Ta p i a

In the gallery, he was looking at me from another room. He was telling a woman why not to buy certain prints. Clearly she didn’t understand his theory.

e young man had more interest in art itself than in selling it for a commission, which he surely could have used. I was intrigued hearing his reasons not to purchase the selected prints. He was in love with art. In fact he was in love with life. It showed.

I was intrigued hearing his reasons not to purchase selected prints. He did not want to sell prints merely for the sake of a sale.

e stiff white collar was tightly buttoned around his neck. Even though his suit was worn, it was clean, pressed. His polished shoes had the look of having walked miles. His red hair was combed but with a will of its own.

As we shook hands, the warmth of his hand permeated my glove. at afternoon I learned more about art than I had in my whole

lifetime.Who would have known that beautiful but serious smile was connected

to such a generous heart? ere was something I noticed in the gaze of his eyes. Did all men have

that wonderful look when fi rst their eyes met yours?I didn’t remember.Andre took my hand.

e children are waiting for us, Colette.”“Merci. I appreciate you taking time to explain the latest work. You

certainly know art, Monsieur,” I added.“We might return to buy a print.” Andre escorted me out of the gallery

to a waiting carriage.

Seeing him again, I must know more. Here he is, in Paris. It must be fate. What were the chances we’d ever meet again?

I hear a gentle but fi rm knock at the door of the viewing room. “Here you are. I thought a lady who wears such a green hat as yours would be interested in these,” he quips.

e next hour is spent looking through prints while we speak of art. We speak passionately of the new art movement.

ul

T he R ed H a i r ed M a n E 5

ey are incredibly beautiful. Notice the lines, the backgrounds.”

I look intently at other paintings he holds up as he continues. e background.”

He motions with a strong gesture to the fl ow of the paintings. e intensity of light catches your eye. And

here,” as he shuffl es the prints, “a sower in the fi is is Millet.”A tip of his head toward me as he asks, “Do these please you,

Madame?”His eyes stare into my face, searching for an answer. I look at him.Opening my hands with an air of indecisiveness, I say, “I don’t know how

e paintings are so beautiful, so moving.” ese paintings move me

to paint.”His interest is piqued. I continue.

ey gave me art lessons dealing with painting delicate, botanically correct fl owers. With much shame I admit to still painting them.”

e red-haired man smiles shyly, putting his hand to his mouth to avoid an improper laugh.

“Madame, your view of art is quite diff erent from that of most people who enter these doors. How did this come about? ” he asks with great interest in his gaze.

“I was born with it.”He smiles silently, as is the custom of trained personnel when indulging

their customers.We talk the hour away. How excited his voice becomes while explaining

the works. His enthusiasm is like a fountain that keeps pouring water, almost to the point of overfl owing, to anyone who will listen.

My time at the gallery is at an end.I choose the Millet print. I know Andre will be happy with it. I certainly

am. e red-haired man takes my gloved hand in his as a courteous gesture.

From that moment on I instinctively know we are destined to see more of each other.

6 E M a r i e Ta p i a

“Monsieur, thank you for your time today. I will ponder the concepts you have brought to my attention.” Holding my purchase, I say, “Au revoir.”

“Till next time, Madame.”During the ride home, his face is all I can think of. I clutch the print,

holding it close to me.“Here we are, Madame,” the driver says courteously, opening the carriage

door. “Home safe and sound, both you and the print. Pleasant evening to you.” He tips his hat.

Gingerly I step out of the carriage, knowing that my day has truly come to an end.

I must go up the front steps and open that door. My world changes the minute I turn that handle.

is is your real life. You know you have ere is no

turning back.”My gloved hand reaches for the carved brass handle. I take a deep

breath—yet another.I enter, opening the heavily carved door. Nothing, no one is about. I

rapidly climb the long, carpeted staircase. Why does it seem to take so much time to get to the top?

Safe in the solitude of my room, I remove my gloves.Stepping to face the large, oval mirror I remove the hatpin, taking off my

green hat. His voice echoes in my ears. “Madame, here you are. I thought a lady who wears such a green hat would be interested in these.”

I smile silently in the mirror. ese words swirl in my head. Sitting on the end of my bed, I unwrap the

brown-paper-covered parcel. I can see his warm smile, his naive genuineness. I look at the receipt. It simply says: “Vendeur—Vincent.”

Removing the receipt, rewrapping the print, I hurry downstairs to the library to place it on Andre’s desk. It is a gift for him, yet one that will be shared by me every time I view it.

e pungent smell of rosemary-roasted meat and freshly baked bread brings me back to reality.

T he R ed H a i r ed M a n E 7

Marie, our cook, has never missed the timing of a meal. She has dinner waiting at precisely six thirty every evening.

Marie is a round, jolly person with open arms, ready to embrace anyone in time of happiness or solace. She lives in the mansion with us. Her love extends far beyond the capacity of her duties. She knows the worries and concerns of my children before I do.

ey have done ey simply want a father who will spend time with them.

I hear the sound of my children’s voices coming down the stairs, anxious to hear about my day.

Wide-eyed, they listen to me tell of the surprises that the gallery held. ere are walls and walls of framed prints and paintings.” I gesture. “So

many beautiful works as far as the eye could see, by artists I want to know.” eir eyes sparkle as I tell them of paintings depicting angels, pastoral

scenes, beings from the underworld, and forests where playful creatures exist.

We have so much fun imagining what that forest holds. As we eat our meal, each of the children tells his rendition. In Eric’s painting, a magician in a deep-purple, satin robe is stirring a magic potion in a vial in front of a cottage in the forest. Blue and gray smoke swirls up and away into the sky.

e smoke is seen for miles. A glow from our dining room fi replace lights the room, showing his surprise as he cries an incantation fi t for his magician, “Et hoc mixcla.”

“My turn,” shouts Julie. “I wander into the forest, deep into the darkest part. A glimmer of light from a campfi re calls to me. Slowly I come upon it, discovering forest beasties in shimmering green and blue dancing round it.”

We turn our bodies in our chairs facing Julie as she lowers her voice to continue.

“Sparks fl y. Shouting out, the beasties throw something from their leather pouches into the fl e fi re grows brighter, taking on a life of its own.”

Lowering her voice again, she whispers to her brothers. “I should be scared, even terrifi ed, yet I move closer and closer to that eerie fi re as if in an hypnotic state. All the while the beasties are chanting.

“YANK!” she yells.We gasp. She has us in the palm of her hand.“One of the forest beasties has my foot, pulling me into the circle with

them. We dance around the fi e deep

8 E M a r i e Ta p i a

stillness of the black night surrounds us, eventually covering us like a blanket. Each of us drops to the ground, asleep.”

A hush has fallen over the dinner table as we place ourselves with those inimitable beasties.

Our cook and our maid, drawn to the stories, move to the table, taking chairs to sit and listen. Our bodies bend closer to hear more as Julie tells the rest of her tale.

“POW!” shouts Jon as he slaps his hand on the table.We jump from our chairs.“I am in the forest too. I bring my wagon. I have supplies with me.” Jon,

my youngest, puts his fi nger to his chin, contemplating his next strategy. “My wagon holds the sun in a clear glass box for a rainy day and a handkerchief to wash away the tears because I am far away from home. Lastly, my wagon holds a sword to fi ght off dragons that might want me for a snack.”

Julie and Eric can’t help but laugh at Jon’s seriousness.He reaches into his pocket pulling out a small cake he had saved from

dessert. “I have a piece of cake for when I am tired fi ghting dragons.” Instinctively he rubs his tummy.

“I pull my wagon around the trees’ trunks, which are so tall I can’t see their tops or even a speck of the sky. As I look up, I fall backward into a thicket of branches. Something hard hits my back as I fall. Reaching under myself, I pull out an oddly shaped gold box. Strange words are engraved on it.”

He pauses, looking around the dining room table. We wait anxiously.“I try to open it. It slips from my hands, rolling to the ground. I chase

after it. Grabbing it,” he says as he mimics grabbing the air with his hands. “I see it has landed by a giant’s foot . I tremble and shake, not able to move. I am like a stone.”

Jon’s voice quivers. “Slowly I back up, hoping the giant doesn’t look down and fi nd me.”

is marvelous giant and my wonderful small son, in a forest with nothing more than a wagon of treasures, has captured our attention.

Slapping the table with his hand, he yells, “CRACK! I step on a twig.” e children and I hear

Rose greet him. e story fades, dropping to the carpet like specks of a sparkler ready to

extinguish itself.

T he R ed H a i r ed M a n E 9

“Hurry, darlings, hurry,” I softly coax. “Your father is home. You should have been in bed ages ago. Rose will help you, Jon.”

e children carry their plates to the kitchen before their father arrives in the dining room.

“Off with you now,” I say as I lovingly kiss them good night.My darlings scamper up the stairs as Marie clears the rest of the dinner

dishes. I straighten my clothes and brush the crumbs off the table, readying it for Andre.

He walks into the dining room, which is now impeccable, and prepared for his dinner. No one could tell children had tramped through a forest during their dinner.

“You are usually at the door. Where were you?” he asks brusquely.“In a forest.” I smile.I hear Rose laugh as she heads up the stairs to care for Jon.Marie carries out a plate of hot, steamy rosemary meat for Andre. “You

must be tired, sir,” she recognizes as she places his dinner on the table in front of him. Turning toward the kitchen, she gives me a wink.

I sit dutifully beside him, keeping him company while he talks of his day. He speaks of numbers and deals.

e new print lies on his desk, seemingly unnoticed, not unwrapped for two days.

e days of forest stories and lonely dinners have long past.“Maman, time for dinner,” Julie called. “We are waiting for you.”I laid the tearstained photo on the dresser. “Till later,” I whispered,

closing my bedroom door.I made my way down the twisting fl ight of stairs to the dining room,

where my daughter and her husband Charles were waiting. I smiled, kissing each of them on the cheek. Seating myself, I unfolded the pressed white napkin, placing it ever so gently on my lap.

With a lovely meal and the pleasant conversation of the day fading around my ears, I sipped my wine. One sip returned me to that small café, where I again met the red-haired man. As the chatter of the dinner table continued, I recalled the second meeting. Another sip of wine, and I was transported back to a quiet day at my Paris home.

10 E M a r i e Ta p i a

Rose has taken the children out for a walk. Marie is in our large, white-tiled kitchen, preparing jam from a lovely batch of fresh strawberries. I smell the sweet berries bubbling on the stove. As Marie stirs the mixture with a large wooden spoon, I watch as it thickens and cooks in the large copper pot.

“I’m going to the center of the city. It will soon be Jon’s birthday. He deserves something special,” I tell Marie as she adds more sliced strawberries to the mixture.

“Oui, bien sur, of course, Madame. Have a pleasant day.”Smiling, thinking of the sheer thought of going, I pin the round, green

felt hat on my head and simply walk out the door. e carriage had been summoned. It was waiting for me.

e driver says. He holds my hand while I step into the carriage. “Where does Madame wish to go today?”

e outdoor café by Goupil’s gallery. It is the perfect place to have coff ee and think of a birthday gift for Jon. He will be nine on Saturday. I want to surprise him with a wonderful present.”

“Oui, Madame.” e sun is still high in the cloudless sky as I look out the carriage

window.I am wearing one of my best dresses. It’s light gray with thin, dark-green

stripes running vertically down the skirt. Round ivory buttons close the tight-fi tting green jacket over my breasts. A small, gold peacock pin with outstretched tail feathers is properly pinned on the right upper side of the jacket.

Gloves—where are my gloves? Here on the seat.Jacket buttoned—hat straightened—gloves on …My refl ection in the carriage window stares back at me. I am simply going

for some coff ee and a birthday present. e carriage drives past Goupil’s gallery. ere it is. If I had time, I would stop in. Nothing more than a conversation

about art and current artists—everyone does it these days. After all, one must know what is fashionable, acceptable in the art world, mustn’t one?

I arrive at the café.“Madame, are you ready?” asks the driver.“Oui,” I respond distractedly, lost in a quandary of do’s and don’ts,

permitted or not permitted.