“Very well, madame, as you wish. Perhaps, with a bit of luck, we can get enough from both houses and the contents.”
“But I can't lose the house in Paris! It's my home, the only one I have!”
Was I going to have to start all over again at forty-something years of age? No. Impossible. I was young when I left Spain and had the drive and energy to face poverty, but I wasn't that person anymore. The years had dulled my shine, and I didn't think I could live in some filthy, attic apartment in a bad neighborhood.
“Calm down, Mme De Poulain. I promise I'll do everything I can to help you, but the houses will have to be sold. There's no other way. Unless you can come up with three hundred thousand francs in the next few weeks.”
How much did he say? No. Three hundred thousand?
“Three hundred thousand francs!” I shrieked, horrified. I earned only seventy-five francs a month at the Académie! How was I going to get my hands on that much money? Besides, life in Paris had become intolerably expensive after the war. It had been ages since anyone had been able to shop in places like Le Louvre or Au Bon Marché. People had to be extremely frugal just to survive, and the few who still had money had seen their income severely reduced.
“Don't worry. We'll sell the houses and organize an auction. Rémy was a great collector of Chinese art. Surely we'll be able to get almost the full amount.”
“My house in Paris isn't very big,” I whispered. “It might be worth four or five thousand francs at most, and that's only because it's near L’École de Médecine.”
“Would you like me to contact a colleague so he can take care of the sale?”
“No!” I exclaimed with what little energy I had left. “I will not sell my house in Paris.”
“Madame … !”
“Absolutely not!”
M. Julliard backed off, greatly distressed. “Very well, Mme De Poulain, whatever you say. But we're going to be in trouble. We might be able to get a hundred thousand francs for Rémy's house and another thirty or forty thousand from the auction, if all goes well. That still leaves a huge amount outstanding.”
I had to get out of that office. I had to get out into the street so I could breathe. I couldn't stay a minute longer unless I wanted the lawyer to witness one of my spells.
“Give me a few days, monsieur,” I said, standing up, gripping my purse. “I'll think of something.”
“As you wish, madame,” the lawyer replied, kindly opening the door to his office. “I'll wait to hear from you, but please don't take too long. Could you sign the papers now so I can begin organizing the sale and auction?”
I couldn't wait another second.
“Some other day, M. Julliard.”
“Very well, madame.”
Once outside, I had to lean against the wall to keep my legs from buckling. The rickshaw coolie stopped dozing in the seat the moment he saw me and slipped out to take hold of the poles, ready to go, but I couldn't walk, couldn't cross the few feet between us. I was frightened, completely distraught. It felt as if the earth were sinking beneath my feet; my entire life was on shaky ground. I was about to lose everything. I could stay with friends for a while or find a cheap rooming house in Montparnasse, support myself from the sale of my paintings and with my job at the Académie, but I wouldn't be able to afford another house. I covered my eyes and began to silently cry. The thought of losing that beautiful, three-bedroom house, where strong light streamed in from the southeast and contributed to the purity of line and color in my paintings, caused me enormous distress and unbearable fear. Everything Rémy had given me in life he had taken from me in death. I was back where I'd been twenty years earlier, before I'd ever met him.
I finally came undone amid endless sobs on the way home. Nothing was going to be easy over the next few weeks, and going back to Paris had become another nightmare. In addition, I suddenly realized there was a problem I hadn't even considered: Accustomed to being on my own, to only ever thinking about myself, I'd forgotten that I was now responsible for my niece. She would have to follow me wherever I went until she came of age; I would have to support her while she was under my care. It felt as if life were out to get me, had decided to bury me in the mud, stomping on me with an iron boot. How could all these problems arise at once? Who had put this curse on me? Wasn't dealing with financial ruin enough?
I got back to the house in time to change my clothes and head out again. I had to evade Mrs. Zhong and Fernanda, both of whom popped up in my path like shadows. Despite my best efforts, I think my niece realized that something was wrong. I locked myself in Rémy's room and, after washing my face with cold water, changed into a green muslin dress and matching picture hat more appropriate for afternoon. I'd have given anything not to go out, to crawl into bed and stay there forever, let the world fall apart, but touching up my makeup and lipstick did more for me than escaping reality ever could. The consul general of France was expecting me for lunch, and maybe, just maybe, M. Wilden would be able to help. A consul always has power, information, and the resources to face awkward situations abroad. I was a French widow in a real predicament in China; perhaps he would be able to think of something.
M. Favez arrived behind the wheel of his marvelous Voisin convertible at twelve-thirty sharp.
“You don't look well, Mme De Poulain,” he commented worriedly as he helped me into the car. “Are you all right?”
“I didn't sleep well, monsieur. I found my husband's Chinese bed terribly uncomfortable.”
The attaché let out a happy chuckle.
“There's nothing like a soft European bed, is there, madame?”
Actually, there was nothing like a lot of money in the bank so as not to worry about the gambling, opium, and brothel debts of a good-for-nothing like Rémy. I began to deeply resent that merrymaking scoundrel I'd always found so amusing. He was an utter idiot, a brainless imbecile incapable of self-control. I wasn't the least bit surprised his brother had removed him from the business; Rémy would surely have bankrupted the company through mismanagement and embezzlement. There is a fine line between having fun, even excessive fun, and causing irreparable damage to your life, your work, and your family: Rémy couldn't see that line. Whatever his body wanted came first, second, and even third. Alcohol? Alcohol. Women? Women. Gambling? Gambling. Opium? Opium. The man indulged in it all to excess, until he'd collapse, exhausted.
M. Wilden and his wife, the charming Jeanne, were really very nice to me. About my age, the consul was an intelligent, elegant man, well versed in Chinese culture. They'd been in the country for eighteen years and had lived in cities with names as exotic as Tchong-king, Tcheng-tou, and Yunnan. He and Jeanne tried their best to console me when, in tears, I explained what I'd learned from Rémy's lawyer that morning. Their relationship with my husband had always been cordial, they said. Since their arrival in Shanghai, in 1917, they'd seen him on numerous occasions at consulate celebrations for French national holidays and Christmases. Jeanne had laughed a great deal with Rémy, given his talent for telling a joke or making a witty remark at just the right moment. Yes, of course they knew about his financial problems. Shanghai wasn't very big, and nothing remained secret for long. Rémy's situation—and his was not the only one—was often a topic of conversation among his many friends. He had gone to great lengths to maintain his social circle and was always willing to help anyone in need. Hundreds of people had attended his funeral, the Wildens said, and the entire French colony was very sorry to hear of his death, especially because of the manner in which it occurred.
“Have you been given the details?” Jeanne inquired with a certain amount of worry in her voice.
“I was hoping to hear them from you.”
The consul and his wife were so refined that they never once mentioned Rémy's state on the night of the tragedy. They didn't mention the word “opium”; they simply narrated the facts in the kindest possible way. It seems that ten thugs from the miserable Pootung area—located on the other side of the river,
across from the Bund—slipped into the French Concession. When they saw Rémy's Chinese-style house, they likely thought it would be easier to break in to and move about without waking the occupants, who should have been sound asleep at that time of night, around three in the morning. All of this was in the Concession police report, which the consul was willing to copy for me if I so desired. Unfortunately, Rémy was still awake in his office. He may have been studying one of the Chinese objets d'art he was so fond of, because various pieces from his collection were scattered all over the floor. Rémy must have bravely stood up to them, because the office was left looking like a battlefield. Awakened by the noise, his servants came armed with sticks and knives, but the thieves ran in all directions, leaving Rémy dead on the floor. The housekeeper, Mrs. Zhong, swore that nothing had been taken, that nothing in her master's house was missing. Rémy had managed to defend his home and property after all.
“What would you like to do with Rémy's remains, Mme De Poulain?” Consul Wilden suddenly asked, though not without tact. “Would you like to take them to France, or do you wish to leave them here in Shanghai?”
I looked at him rather disconcerted. Until that very morning, I had intended to bury Rémy in Lyon, in his family's vault, but by then I wasn't so sure. Transportation would cost a fortune, and this was no time for idle expenses, so perhaps it would be best to leave him where he was.
“Rémy's plot in the Concession cemetery is owned by the French government, madame,” M. Wilden clarified with gesture of remorse. “You would have to purchase it.”
“I'm not in a position to do so, as you can imagine,” I stated, taking a drink of the coffee that had been served after lunch. “My financial situation has me bound hand and foot. Perhaps you might be able to help me, Mr. Consul General. Can you think of any way out of this predicament? What do you suggest I do?”
Auguste Wilden and his wife glanced surreptitiously at one another.
“The consulate could give you the burial plot,” he commented, “but it would have to be justified as a gesture from our country to the prestigious De Poulain family.”
“Thank you, monsieur.”
“With respect to the financial difficulties you find yourself in, madame, I don't know what to say. I think your lawyer has given you good, sensible advice.”
“Why don't you ask your late husband's family for help, dear?” Jeanne inquired, setting her cup on the saucer.
“Their lawyers have made it very clear that help would not be forthcoming.”
“Pity!” Consul Wilden exclaimed. “I'm very sorry, Mme De Poulain. We would truly like to help you, but as consul of France I'm not in a position to do anything more. I hope you understand. Purchasing Rémy's plot is a gesture I can allow myself, because he was a prominent member of our colony and a notable citizen of our country. Anything else, however, would be outside my scope and could be misinterpreted by the embassy in Peking, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and certainly by the French community in Shanghai. Good luck to you, madame. Jeanne and I wish you the very best, and if there's anything else we can do to help, please don't hesitate to ask.”
I strode out of the old mansion that housed the consulate, feigning a strength I didn't possess. Once the Wildens had shown that they were unable to do anything beyond what was politically appropriate, I didn't want them to see my trembling hands or weak knees. Riding in the rickshaw that was taking me back for the second time that day to the house that had turned out to be an ephemeral property that was to bring me nothing but sorrow, I began to think I was entering a dark alley that seemed to be a dead end, and worst of all I would have to suppress my anguish for several more hours. Fernanda and I were expected at the Spanish consulate that evening, and I couldn't even begin to imagine what the devil I'd lost.
I didn't want any of the snacks Mrs. Zhong prepared midafternoon, nor did I want to leave my room or see anyone until it was time to prepare for dinner. I didn't feel well, and the effort to speak was simply too much. I tried to think of ways to obtain the 150,000 francs still needed to pay off Rémy's debts, but I couldn't come up with a single solution. The only really good idea I had—to escape to Spain and hide in some far-off village—wasn't feasible no matter how you looked at it. Only big cities like Madrid or Barcelona were up to European standards in terms of hygiene and culture, while the rest languished in hunger, filth, and ignorance. And besides, where could a single woman go there? Women had taken on a new role in the rest of the civilized world, much more free and independent, but in Spain they continued to be objects, adornment at best, dominated by church and husband. My wings would be clipped, the air would be too oppressive to breathe, and the very thing that had driven me out twenty years earlier would finish me off once and for all. A woman painter? María Blanchard and I, Elvira Aranda, personified what women painters in Spain could do: leave.
My niece came in at around seven to remind me it was time to go. I got out of bed under her scrutinizing stare and began to get ready. Fernanda stood immobile in the doorway, following me with her eyes until I couldn't take it anymore.
“Don't you have to get changed?” I asked brusquely.
“I'm all ready,” she replied. I looked her over carefully but didn't notice anything different. She looked the same as ever in that old-fashioned black dress, her hair in a ponytail, and that perennial fan in her hand.
“Are you waiting for something?”
“No.”
“Well, go on, then. Get.”
She seemed to hesitate for a moment and finally left. Looking back, I think she might have been worried about me, but at the time I was so overcome with sorrow I couldn't respond properly to anything.
After curling my hair and perfuming it with Quelques Fleurs, I put on a delightful, brown silk evening dress with large tulle bows on both sides. The result in the mirror was spectacular. Why deny it? After all, it was my best dress, a copy of a Chanel made from a piece of silk Rémy had given me. Satisfied, I adjusted the thin straps on my bare shoulders, put on my bisque-colored shoes, and straightened the seam up the backs of my stockings. It was strange to think about everything that had happened that day as I examined my reflection. Primping certainly does wonders for your constitution. I felt much better by the time I held the wave over my forehead in place with a delicate multicolored barrette shaped like a dragonfly.
We left the French Concession for the first time that night, passing through the border post in two rickshaws and entering the International Concession. Huge new cars—mostly American models—sped through the streets with their headlights on. I should point out that they drive on the left in Shanghai, like the English, and that it's the impressive Sikh police, sent by the British from their colony in India, who direct traffic. These subjects of the English Crown, with bulging red turbans and thick, dark beards, use long batons to do their job—batons that become lethal weapons in their hands should the need arise.
The Spanish consulate wasn't far. In no time we found ourselves in front of a modern, Mediterranean-style villa with a lush garden, lit up like one of those bright Chinese lanterns. The national flag fluttered from a pole on the second floor. Two or three luxury cars were parked to one side, a sign that other guests had already arrived. Strangely enough, my niece was a bundle of nerves, repeatedly snapping her fan open and closed, chattering uncontrollably in our native language as soon as she stepped out of the rickshaw. I had to smile realizing that the silliest little things could still lift my spirits, even on a day as awful as this.
The consul, Julio Palencia y Tubau, was an extraordinary man3 with a wonderful personality and the warmest of manners. Not only was he the son of the actress María Tubau and the playwright Ceferino Palencia, but his brother, also named Ceferino, was married to Isabel de Oyarzábal,4 my favorite author. I'd had the great pleasure of meeting her two years prior during a fascinating conference she gave in Paris. One of Isabel's many commendable positions was as president of the National Association of Spanish Women, an orga
nization fighting for equal rights in our extremely difficult country. She was extremely cultured and firmly believed it was possible to change the world. I was thrilled to discover she was related to the consul and immediately liked him and his wife, an elegant lady of Greek origin. While I was conversing with them and a few of the guests (Spanish businessmen who'd made their fortunes in Shanghai, along with their wives), Fernanda was having a lovely time in the company of a priest with a quixotic beard and an enormous bald head. The seating arrangement at the table was such that the two were able to continue talking uninterrupted. I learned that he was Father Castrillo, superior of the Augustinian mission from El Escorial monastery and a distinguished businessman. He'd known how to put his community's money to good use, buying land in Shanghai when it was worthless and then selling it for a fortune in later years. In this way the Augustinians had come to own many of the city's principal buildings.
Another peculiar character in attendance was a bald Irishman in his fifties who hovered around me most of the night. His name was Patrick Tichborne, and the consul introduced him as a distant relation of his wife's. Tichborne had a great potbelly and the bronzed skin of a country man. A journalist, he worked for various English papers, primarily the Royal Geographic Society's Journal. He followed me all night, milling about nearby and awkwardly looking away whenever our eyes met. He was so annoying that I started to feel uncomfortable and was about to mention it to the consul.
I'd just finished a very interesting chat with the wife of a Mr. Ramos, wealthy owner of six of the best movie houses in Shanghai, when Tichborne dashed over to speak to me. All the other guests were occupied in conversations; fearing the worst, I adopted a surly expression.
“Might I speak with you for a moment, Mme De Poulain?” he mumbled in French, his breath reeking of alcohol.
“Go ahead,” I replied, looking displeased.
“Thank you. I must be quick. No one else can hear what I'm about to tell you.”
Oh, dear! This Irishman was really starting off on the wrong foot.