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In the Streets of Paris

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Luc Clairmont strolled down the cobbled streets of Le Marais.

The bright sun of the April morning glittered on the gold lights of his hair. From the enormous Jewish bakery in the corner, the heavy sweetness of crushed chestnuts and buttery pastry tugged at his nostrils and his stomach. Even though the morning was far advanced, he had yet to eat breakfast.

Whistling a nursery rhyme, he turned left at the newspaper kiosk, then right again. He walked down rue Beaubourg with a smile on his lips. A dressmakers' window caught his eye, the rich turquoise silk shimmering in the early morning sun. Anouk would like that.

His smile widened at the thought. At the cafe across the street, the watching mademoiselle sighed. Luck continued his stroll.

Eventually, the blonde man stopped outside a grey, elegant building sliced between two modistes. Of the seven doorbells lining the lintel, Luc saw only the one. With the ease born of long acquaintance, he jabbed his thumb against button inscribed: Antonio de la Riveras y Gonzales, Artists' Agent.

A burst of static answered him immediately. "Si? Si? Who is there? Is that you, Roberto, you peddler of pastels? You dog of drawing? You…"

"Tony! You let Roberto go months back. Sangdieu, open the door, you old reprobate."

"Luc?" Another burst of static then a crash four floors above Luc's head made the young artist raise his eyes heavenward. A rumble like a gathering storm loud gradually descended. There was a rattle at the door then the elegant barrier flew back on its hinges to reveal a squat little Spaniard.

Dark eyes narrowed at the casual young man. Tony wrapped his gaudy red silk dressing gown tighter around his plump cannonball of a stomach. "Luc? What in the name of the sainted Virgin are you doing here at this heretic hour?"

"You always turn religious when you're hungover, Tony." Luc shouldered his way past his agent and took the stairs two at a time. "Have you had breakfast yet? I'm starving."

"I gave up feeding my clients decades ago, Clairmont!"

A laugh floated down the stairs. Tony Riveras grumbled to himself and wrapped the red silk a little tighter around his middle. Far slower than his protégée, he began to lumber upstairs to the compact three room flat that doubled as his office and his home.

When Tony pushed open the door of his flat, Luc was already inside. A plate piled high with breads and croissants sat on the far side of the round table. The scent of fresh coffee tingled against Tony's nostrils from the kitchenette. He sat down amongst the debris of his own breakfast, shuddering at the excess of food in front of him.

When Luc appeared in the kitchenette door, fresh coffee press in hand, he confronted him. "How can you bear to eat that muck, you barbarian?"

The young artist laughed and patted his lean stomach. "I'm a country boy at heart, Tony. Not one of your city sophisticates. I need my petit dejeuneur to be more dejeuneur than petit."

Tony grunted and held out his demitasse. "Well, make yourself useful at least, you scribbler."

Luc poured out the coffee. He filled his own cup and fell into his seat. Tony took a sip of the bitter brew and felt the jungle drums quieten in his head. "Santa Maria, I feel human again."

He studied his most promising client with narrowed eyes. Only last evening he had received a most interesting phone call regarding Luc Clairmont. If the offer worked out, it would jumpstart both of them from provincial obscurity in Paris to real fame, real money and success. That was, if he could talk the stubborn tonto into it.

Luc Clairmont had more talent in his smallest fingernail than the rest of Tony Riveras's clients put together. He was equally cursed with the most contrary mind of the lot. If it had been any other artist, Tony would not even hesitate to unfold the good news, confident of the reaction. With Luc however…

"So, mano, why the early visit? Did Marguerite kick you out her bed at last?"

Luc shrugged and shovelled a slice of baguette loaded down with fresh butter and jam into his mouth. His words came out muffled. "I haven't seen Marguerite for over a month, Tony. We broke up."

"Verdad?" Tony let out a low whistle. "I bet that went well."

"You'll have find me a new mirror for the studio."

"She broke it?"

"No, a statue of Buddha did. But Marguerite threw the statue."

"Ay caramba, qué mujer!"

"I have an idea for something new, Tony." Impatient to get off the topic of his old girlfriend, Luc took a gulp of the scalding espresso. He turned about and dug into the satchel resting by his chair leg. A grunt of triumph and he pulled the leather bound folder of loose papers.

With a careless flick of his fingers, he tossed the papers over to his agent. "Take a look."

The dark agent brushed crumbs from the tablecloth. He threw a cynical eye up to the young artist in front of him as he opened the covers of the folder. "So this is what you have been doing for the past weeks instead of returning my calls?"

"I wasn't at home." The shrug was careless but the blue eyes told another story. Luc leaned back in his chair, every nerve thrumming. There was nobody else he trusted to judge his work than Tony Riveras.

Tony grunted. Practiced eyes scanned the clean lines of the drawings in front of him. Line drawings, watercolour washes. Street scenes, groups of people. An old woman huddled in a cafe booth. His lips twitched and pursed.

He moved on. The group's continued. Young people, their passions captured in few strokes. Studies of a slim blonde, the light catching on sugar-spun hair. That one led Tony to pause. He narrowed his eyes.

By the time he had come to the end of the folder, Luc had finished the first cup of coffee and was pouring out a second. The younger man paused in tilting the coffee press and raised his eyebrows. "Well?"

The word thrummed with nerves. Tony nudged his cup forward. "Is there enough left?"

"No."

"Vete al infierno." He tapped the closed satchel. "Tell me, Luc. Is your name Clairmont or Toulouse-Lautrec?"

The blonde man grinned. "Is that a good thing?"

"They're good, mano. Simple but, what's that new word? Retro. And the people. Where did you find them?"

Luc shrugged. "A cafe in the Latin Quarter."

Tony grunted. "Well, this one," He raised the line drawing of the pale-gold fairy up. "Will have the Americanos eating out of your hand. They love European studies of women. You could be the next Warhol."

"Americans? What do you mean Americans?"

Tony cursed silently. He had not intended to show his cards so soon. From elation at the the positive response, Luc was suspicious now. He sat forward, his arms folded across his chest.

Tony cleared his throat. "I got a call last night. From the Sonnabend Gallery in New York."

Even the name, Sonnabend was enough to make his blood pump faster. Ileana Sonnabend and her husband had made their mark in Paris in '62. Their gallery on Quai des Grands Augustins became le dernier cri in arte nouveau, showcasing huge new names like Debuffet and Rothko. A few years ago, the pair had taken their magic formula across the Atlantic to America. Now they played the same game for the New York millionaires club, giving European artists a platform to make their mark on the world.

And only last night they had come looking for Luc Clairmont. Apparently Ileana had seen Luc's Study in Ice, a full-length portrait of a woman dancing in blues and whites. Intrigued by the talent, she'd made enquiries about the artist. Those enquiries had led to Luc Clairmont and, by default, to the telephone of Antonio de la Riveras y Gonzales, artists' agent.

Tony looked at Luc's face. His heart sank. "Luc, this is what every artist dreams."

"I know." Those long fingers picked up the pot of strawberry jam, weighed it in his palm.

"You deserve it. You have the talent to make it, to make it big."

"I like Paris, Tony."

"You liked London too."

"That's still Europe. America… Mordieu, New York is an ocean away."

"Then take someone with you. Take her." He tossed the portrait of the blonde girl onto the table in front of him. "Let her be your Twiggy. Quien sabé? The two of you could be a hit."

"Ninette?" Luc blinked at the portrait as though he had never seen it before. He picked up the loose sheet and tilted his head to the side. A grimace crossed his face. "Ninette is a darling. No more."

"Huh." So his intuition was right. Tony pulled up the second sheet he had purloined from the satchel. "So this is the one holding you back, eh?"

The frozen expression was all the answer he needed. Tony sighed and turned the small drawing back.

It was the only one of its kind in the pack. In the grand sketches and larger pieces, it was easy to overlook. A small, notebook-sized oil of a brunette, caught in a half-turn, a tray of cups and saucers in her hands. Most galleries would ignore it. But to Tony's mind, it was the best. There was a tenderness in the lines, care taken over the woman's large dark eyes. Holding it, Tony was transported back to the red-tiled kitchen of his youth, could smell the oranges and peppers of his mother's cooking and the rich tang of churros and chocolate in the morning.

It did not have the glamour of the blonde fairy-woman or the fire of the luscious redhead. But in this drawing was Luc Clairmont's fickle, charming heart.

Tony Riveras sighed again. "Sonnabend won't wait forever, Luc. Forget this one. You have your future to think about. Paint me a decent portrait of the blonde and we're in business. You need never worry again."

Luc picked up the miniature oil. For a long moment, he studied the painted brown eyes, the curving smile on the too-wide mouth. And he knew that sneaking down her picture was as close as Anouk Rocher would ever permit him to be.

"Maybe you're right, Tony. Maybe you're right."


Sorry about not updating in such a long time! The story has been percolating around in my head for a while and with the new year I reckoned a new start could be in order! Hope you enjoy and Happy New Year!