He is in the midst of recounting the rehearsals of Spectacular Spectacular! when La Perla finally completes her portrait of Toulouse.
Toulouse, of course, is the one who joyously breaks the news. Bursts into Christian's flat, waving his arm and cane in the air.
"It is complete!" His lisping voice booms across the sparsely decorated room. "Christian, come quickly! It's done!"
"What's done—"
"The portrait, the portrait!" Toulouse's words are almost impatient. "It's great unveiling isn't complete without everyone who watched its creation!"
He has little choice but to abandon his own work. The story will still be there hours from now, Christian thinks. The unbridled excitement will not.
The two travel up the staircase, Christian taking slower steps to follow his diminutive friend. At the top, Toulouse's door is wide open. Inside stands La Perla with a concealed canvas. She is the most put together Christian has seen thus far; not a fleck of paint on her person and done up in the new summer fashions.
"Oh good," she says, giving a great smile. "I hope we're not interrupting, I just couldn't wait to show Toulouse."
He shakes his head. A white lie. He's sure she heard Toulouse's giddy pressuring from up here, which makes her smile all the more cheeky.
Toulouse gestures wildly for her to remove the painting's covering.
"Go on, go on!" he goads. "Let us see, darling."
Cloth rips through the air, and it is unveiled. Christian can barely catch his breath while Toulouse gives a squeal of delight.
The portrait, he thinks, belongs somewhere far greater than Montmartre. In the greatest of salons. A museum. It encompasses every fiber of Toulouse, spreads his joy and his melancholy across the canvas. Absinthe green tinges the light that dances across the portraits face.
Truth. Beauty. Freedom. Love.
For the first time, it seems, La Perla is shy. Toulouse's praise and Christian's silence seem to have an effect on her. She does not have time to sink into it. Christian watches as it all but disappears when Toulouse pulls her into a great hug.
"My dear, it's more than I could have dreamed." Toulouse is slightly muffled, breathless. "Please tell me you'll enter this at the Salon de Paris. You know it's worthy."
She laughs. "You just want to see everyone fawning over your face, Toulouse!"
"Partly," he concedes, "but you have great talent. Share it. What do you think, Christian?"
He is caught off guard by the question and the looks thrown his way.
"I, uh," he stutters. "I think it would give everyone a run for their money if it were in a salon."
"If I enter this, will you set aside time for me to paint you?" La Perla asks. A sneaky question.
Shoulders sag under a sigh. It isn't in his nature to want to be the center of attention. That's why he writes. He controls what people see of him through words. But his promise to himself — to Satine — pushes the discomfort aside.
"Yes." He feels a spark in his belly when she lights up. "As long as you try to get into the salon."
She beams. "I promise."
He sits at his desk with his typewriter and a stack of finished papers. Normally, he is clacking away at keys. But today, he sits as still as possible, watching La Perla as she mixes a new color on her palette.
There are days she sits in his flat, no words spoken as she concentrates. Her brow creases and lips pout, seemingly unhappy with where her work has taken her. It's only when she cracks a smile with a quiet murmur of satisfaction that Christian realizes unhappiness and concentration look eerily similar on the Spaniard's face.
The other days she can't seem to stay quiet. Asks so much of him, prying into his childhood, asking about his writing. Never the subject — he assumes Toulouse has spoken of it — but how he does it. How he goes into such a place where emotions lie.
"The same you do for painting, I suppose," he answers today.
"People wear their emotions," she counters, wiping a pale yellow from her hands to her apron. "I don't need to feel it, necessarily. Just translate. Writing seems so terribly sad. Consuming."
"I could be writing a comedy," he tries to deflect.
"Your face says otherwise, Christian."
He half laughs, half scoffs to further deflect. She's found him out, and the confrontation isn't something Christian wants.
She stares before leaving her stool. She sits on the corner of his desk, leaning close. La Perla stares so intensely he has to look away. Eyes dart to look at her arms, covered in paint from fingers to elbow. He can smell the linseed oil and lavender.
"I can see the sadness so clearly," she continues. "I've painted very creative, very, very sad men in my time. None of you are particularly good at disguising it."
"And you've never been consumed by your work? Never felt the emotional gravity of it?" he challenges.
"Never."
She is a liar, he thinks, or perhaps delusional to think her painting subjects don't consume her the same way as writing does.
He has seen her face many days now, after all. She is consumed, conscious or not of the fact. There may not be weeping or a strong ache to the heart, but her emotions lie plain on her face.
His thoughts render him oblivious to her hand's journey until it reaches his chin. Fingers slowly tilt his face upward until he can no longer avoid her eyes. The pace of his heart speeds to a derby winning gallop as she draws closer.
"Relax your face," La Perla instructs, eyebrows furrowing. "I need to study you up close for a moment."
Linseed oil and lavender, heart like hooves on a track.
The feeling catches him off-guard completely. Since Satine, the only woman's touch he feels is in the cafes, where whores snake between tables looking for a man with loose enough purse strings. Hands feathering across shoulders, easy to swat away.
This is entirely different. It's a woman's caress, but it asks nothing of him. Not love, not money. Just his face settled still so its essence can be put to canvas. Loneliness buds within the linseed and the lavender; Christian suppresses the small desire for it to ask a little more of him.
Just as quickly as she had given him her touch, La Perla takes it away. Gives a murmur of a thank you, and returns to her stool to continue painting.