The Muralist: A Novel Page 2

  Alizée picked up a piece of pastel and bent over her work, shielding her face with her hair.

  “Oh those soft, sensuous lips . . .” Lee whispered in her ear.

  Alizée shook her off with an awkward laugh. She wasn’t about to discuss Mark. With Lee or with anyone else. There was nothing to discuss. Would never be.

  She turned back to her mock-up: a miniature of the six-panel mural to be hung on the walls of a high-school dining hall in Washington, DC. Last week, she’d constructed a three-sided box, one-twelfth the size of the actual dining room with cutouts for the windows and doors. This week, she was using pastels to color in the six panels, at one-twelfth their size, and would hang them on the tiny walls exactly as they would be at the high school. This was the final step before the actual painting on canvas would begin. When the panels were complete, they would be shipped to DC and pasted on the walls.

  It felt like playing instead of working, although it was most definitely work. This warehouse and much more were part of President Roosevelt’s New Deal: the WPA, FAP, TRAP, PWA, a whole alphabet of programs funded by the government in the hope of ending the Depression. Unfortunately, these programs had been going on for almost as long as Alizée had been in France, and still no one seemed to have any money.

  Occasionally bureaucrats appeared at the warehouse and stood around looking decidedly ill at ease in their suits and bowler hats. The president’s wife came once, but she was completely at ease. Mrs. Franklin Roosevelt climbed up ladders, unconcerned that she might get paint on her dress. She stopped and talked with the artists, asking questions and listening intently to the answers. Even answers from the assistants. You’d never see Mme. Albert Lebrun or Mme. Léon Blum do anything like that.

  Alizée didn’t much miss university in Paris or even the brief touch of success she’d had there, but she did miss her family. Often quite desperately: Oncle and Tante, who’d swooped in after her parents were killed and raised her as their own; Babette, who’d squeezed her hand and whispered, “I’m more than your cousin now, I’m your sister,” on the night she first arrived; her older brother, Henri; little cousin Alain. All of them on the other side of the ocean.

  But Henri would be coming to the States as soon he completed his exams, and Babette and her family, currently in Germany, talked of coming over, too. Alizée had given up a lot to return to America, but it was exactly where she wanted to be. She told herself this when the sorrow and loneliness she kept coiled deep inside pressed beyond the margins she worked so hard to maintain.

  In New York, she was free to paint in the style of the moderns, something she’d been yearning to do. To study at the feet of Hans Hofmann with no fear of the octopus reach of Adolf Hitler’s decrees against modern art, his desire to suppress anything that didn’t smack of militarism and obedience. Especially if it was nonfigurative. The impact of his 1937 exhibition titled Entartete Kunst—Degenerate Art—deriding Picasso, Van Gogh, Matisse, Chagall, and many others, was unfortunately being felt across Europe, even in Paris. In New York, she could lose herself to the newness of abstraction, the fever of it, drawn to its insubstantial yet substantial nature, its difficulty and the wonder of the intuitive connections. This was worth everything.

  It bothered her that there wasn’t a single abstract mural being constructed in the warehouse. FDR didn’t like modern art much more than Hitler did, and the president wanted the WPA paintings to be representations of what they were calling “the American Scene.” Putain. Didn’t they understand that you could represent the American scene without being representational?

  The mural to the right of Alizée’s, headed for a post office in Lexington, Massachusetts, was even more wooden than the shipbuilders. A completely flat depiction of Paul Revere’s ride. The mural to the left was much better, in the style of the Mexicans, full of colorful ironworkers laboring amid exaggerated piping and sprockets and looming machines. But for all its boldness and action, it, too, was completely figurative.

  There was a commotion behind her, and she turned to see Eleanor Roosevelt striding through the door, followed by a cadre of men in business suits. The director and two supervisors swooped down on them, and soon more than a dozen men surrounded the First Lady.

  “I thought she wasn’t coming until next week,” Alizée whispered to Lee, although there was no reason to speak softly: the room was abuzz. Mrs. Roosevelt was a moving force behind the WPA/FAP, and every artist on the floor revered her for that.

  Lee stared at the president’s wife. “She’s so tall.”

  “That’s all you can say about the most amazing woman in the world?”

  Lee looked at Alizée with a straight face. “She’s so tall.”

  They watched the First Lady with the fawning men. Although she was close to six feet, Mrs. Roosevelt stood upright and radiated an interest in her surroundings that was palpable. There was no doubt this was a woman who made things happen.

  “Bet she’d like to talk to a girl,” Alizée said. “Let’s go over there.”

  “Yeah, like those swelled heads are going to let us join their little coffee klatch.”

  It was even worse than that: when it was announced that the First Lady was coming, the rank and file had been ordered not to bother her. They were to pretend she wasn’t there, to keep working, even harder than usual, and only speak if spoken to. Like good little children.

  Alizée looked at their mural, at Paul Revere’s ride next to it, at the ironworkers. All so uninspired and conventional. Someone needed to open horizons, to let new ideas in. And who better than Eleanor Roosevelt? Alizée touched her mother’s engagement ring, which always hung on a chain between her breasts: a conduit. Stay with me, Maman. She stood.

  “What?” Lee demanded.

  “I’m going to ask her why there aren’t any abstract murals. See if she can do anything about it.”

  “You could get kicked off the project,” Lee insisted. “Don’t.”

  Alizée strode toward the assemblage and edged in close to the First Lady. Exhilarated by her boldness, she waited for her moment, heart pounding.

  One of the supervisors, an overweight middle-aged man named Norton Zimmern, met her eye and gave his head a sharp tilt toward her desk. She hesitated. She couldn’t afford to lose this job. But Norton was an old windbag, full of noise and little action, and this was important. She slipped to the other side of Mrs. Roosevelt.

  When Mrs. Roosevelt stepped toward another mural, Alizée intercepted her. “I just want to thank you for this opportunity, Mrs. Roosevelt.” Alizée’s eyes were inches below the First Lady’s, a rare occurrence for one who was used to being the tallest girl in any group.

  “You’re most welcome, I’m sure,” Mrs. Roosevelt said politely, but kept moving.

  “I’m Alizée Benoit,” she said, thrusting her hand out. “And if it weren’t for you, I’d be stuffing envelopes—if I were lucky enough to get that job—instead of painting.”

  The First Lady had no choice but to shake Alizée’s hand. “I’m so happy to hear that, Miss Benoit. That was exactly our intention. If we’re going to pay plumbers and carpenters for their work, why not pay artists to do theirs?”

  “And this way you get original art in the places the plumbers and carpenters build.” Alizée heard the artificiality in her own voice and flushed. “I have a question for you.”

  Mrs. Roosevelt began to move away. “It was very nice to meet you, Miss Benoit,” she said. “Please continue your good work.”

  Alizée sent up another call to her mother and fell in step with the First Lady. “I noticed that all of the WPA murals are representational,” she continued as if she hadn’t just been dismissed, “and wondered why there’s only one style. Why not some abstract murals, too? There are lots of us doing nonrepresentational work right here in New York. All over the country. It’s innovative, forceful, and very American. So I was thinking it should be included, and I wondered if you agreed.”

  Mrs. Roosevelt’s eyes flashed with
merriment. “And what is it about this abstract art that makes it so innovative and forceful?”

  Alizée took a deep breath. “It goes deep. Much deeper than just a picture of what we can already see. It’s not easy to make sense of—or to paint—but when you do, there’s nothing like it. It’s magical, really. Interpreting what’s going on inside.” She tapped her heart. “And then putting it on the outside. The real experience of living.”

  The First Lady stopped walking. “I don’t understand.”

  Alizée vibrated with the need to articulate this, to make Mrs. Roosevelt appreciate what burned inside her. “We want to get at what life feels like. The emotions we all share. Our commonality. To make our invisible life visible. Or,” she added lamely, frustrated with her inability to put it into words, “or experienceable.”

  “I’m very sorry, my dear”—Mrs. Roosevelt gave a small laugh—“but the president likes pictures where he can recognize people. I’m not sure he’d recognize emotions.”

  “But you might.” Alizée touched the ring again. “If you just gave it a chance.”

  Norton tapped her arm. “I’m sure Mrs. Roosevelt would like to see the rest of the murals.”

  “I’m sure she would,” Alizée agreed, turning back to the First Lady. There was no point in retreating now. “I know you’re very busy, but if you’d like to come to my studio, I can show you some of my paintings. That way you’ll be able to understand better what I wasn’t very good at describing.”

  “Why, that’s a lovely offer, Miss Benoit,” Mrs. Roosevelt said in a tone that conveyed she actually meant it. “I may just take you up on that.”

  “Please do,” Alizée said. “And if you like anything you see, I’d love you to have it. I’d give it to you, of course. A gift.” She grabbed a small scrap of paper, scribbled her address, and offered it. “And maybe you’ll decide that abstract art should be a part of the WPA.”

  Mrs. Roosevelt took the address and dropped it in her pocketbook, then looked at Alizée, obviously trying to contain her amusement. “And if the WPA did deem abstract art worthy, I’m guessing you have an idea of how you’d like to be involved?”

  Alizée was stunned. Had she actually succeeded in convincing the First Lady? She didn’t know what to say but had to say something. “I’d . . . I’d love to be the first one to design and supervise a nonrepresentational mural.” She swept her arms around the warehouse. “And one for my friend Lee Krasner, too, please. Over there.” She waved to Lee, who was watching them wide-eyed. “Miss Krasner’s a wonderful artist. If the two of us could have our own abstract projects, I’d happily kiss your feet.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Mrs. Roosevelt said, swallowing a smile.

  3

  ALIZÉE

  Alizée didn’t go directly to the Jumble Shop after work. She wanted to clean up and change her clothes first. Both her stylish cousin Babette and coming of age in France had instilled a fashion sense that clashed with dirty overalls outside the studio. Lee’s mention of Mark only served to heighten this.

  She’d made a couple of scarves out of a piece of red-and-purple material she’d found at the five-and-dime which, when twisted together, would give some zip to her well-worn gray dress. Maybe that smart little hat Tante gave her the day she left Arles. “French chic,” Lee always teased when Alizée showed up at the Shop or parties in her unusual outfits, which was fine with Alizée. The last thing she wanted was to dress like everyone else.

  She also needed time alone to reflect on her conversation with Mrs. Roosevelt. Had she actually told the wife of the president of the United States that the WPA needed abstract murals? Criticized the ones that were being created? And then suggested that she, Alizée—who had been working nonrepresentationally for less than two years—was capable of designing and overseeing the painting of one? Merde. Apparently, she had. She was both embarrassed and pleased by her daring.

  When she reached her building in the Village, a letter with French postage was poking out of her cubbyhole. She saw it was from Henri and cried out in relief. She hadn’t heard from him, or anyone else in her family, in almost two months. Henri was seven years her senior, born in France. She’d been born in Massachusetts, where the four of them lived until Henri returned to Arles to go to the école secondaire and stay with Tante and Oncle. She’d always idolized him. She still did.

  Most of her memories of the days after her parents’ deaths were mercifully hidden, vanished into unreachable folds of her brain. But there were a few, and they were painfully clear. Coming into the dining room right after the funeral, every surface weighed down by platters of food, the overwhelming odor of sugar and perfume, the horde of compassionate faces rushing toward her. Turning and running to the bathroom, vomiting what little she had in her stomach. Tante coaxing her back, the room falling into silence when she returned. In France, it had been just as bad. The teacher giving her a long hug in front of the whole class on her first day of school. The other children’s wide-eyed awe and curiosity. The old woman in the boulangerie who always slipped her an extra cake and called her infortunée.

  She’d detested the attention and pity heaped on her, despised the pathetic being she became under their weight. So she walled herself off from those who professed to understand what she was going through, from the sad doe eyes that went along with their untruths. She wrapped her head in scarves, drifted above them, didn’t bother to respond. There was no reason to: they understood nothing. Only her family understood. Which was why she’d hadn’t spoken about her parents to anyone beyond the family. Not to her new friends. Not to her teachers. Not to a single person in New York.

  She headed up the stairs to her flat, clutching the envelope. Maybe he’d already taken and passed his exams. Maybe he was coming sooner than he’d thought. She wanted to open it, but there was so little light in the narrow and twisty stairwell that she was afraid she’d rip the letter. As she rushed to the fourth floor, she wondered again why it had been so long without any word from France. And why no news from Babette? She even missed Tante’s predictable questions in her monthly letters: Have you met any nice Jewish boys? Anyone closer to your own age?

  She thought about Mark and smiled. He was a nice Jewish boy, closer to her age than her French boyfriend, Philippe, who’d struck terror in her aunt’s heart. But Alizée didn’t think Tante would be any more pleased with a poor, married artist than she’d been with a Catholic who was five years older than Alizée.

  Her parents wouldn’t have been bothered by Philippe’s age or religion, which Tante knew, and which was why she’d stopped talking about it but never stopped worrying. Maman and Papa had been scientists, bohemians uninterested in religion or conventionality, and they’d adored being part of what people were now calling the Roaring Twenties.

  She remembered the parties, the high spirits, sitting on the floor of their tiny bedroom watching Maman get ready for a night out, putting on her makeup, her short dresses, ropes of fake pearls. And she remembered Maman baking pain d’amande cookies with Henri and her. The coarse golden sugar, stirring the almonds and flour into the butter, watching Maman slice the dough as thinly as possible. To this day, the scent of almonds meant safety, innocence. And excruciating pain.

  Her social, high-spirited parents had been very different from her aunt and uncle, both of whom were teachers, introverted and studious, hardly ever going out unless it had something to do with university or the synagogue. It took a while for Alizée to grow comfortable with this. But in the end, it was their quiet and unwavering kindness, much more than all those psychiatrists she’d seen, that had saved her.

  Alizée grunted. Her door was stuck, as always, but after more than a few jiggles, it finally clicked. She lived in what was called a cold-water flat. No hot water, no heat on the weekends. But it was big, huge actually, with a fifteen-foot ceiling, good light, plenty of room to paint, and somewhere to sleep. Most important, she didn’t have to share it with anyone else. The better plac
es had hot water, but they cost more than she could afford by herself, and privacy was everything to her. Sometimes she needed to sleep a lot and didn’t want people around; other times she was so energetic, people didn’t want to be around her. It was better to boil the water for her bath.

  She shook off her coat and dropped it on what stood in for a kitchen table, a rough piece of wood centered above two piles of cinder blocks. That, along with a few battered chairs, a mattress and a couch that listed to one side was all the furniture she had. The remainder of the space was taken up with easels, finished and unfinished paintings, painting supplies. It suited her just fine.

  She opened the letter, which had taken nearly three months to arrive.

  3 January 1939

  Arles

  Ma petite soeur,

  I am a horrible brother and an even more horrible correspondent, but as these are things you already know and forgive I will not bother to apologize. But I know you will not forgive me if I do not answer the many questions in your last letter.

  Yes, I have seen Tante and Oncle. I had dinner with them and Alain three nights ago and everyone is as well as can be expected. You would not recognize our little cousin. He is now a teenager and is awkward and self-conscious and all arms and legs and so easy to tease. Tante brought out some pictures of you at his age. You look just as awkward and self-conscious as he does but maybe a little bit prettier. Ha!

  And yes, Dr. Patenaude is confident I am ready to take my exams and has agreed to my choice of surgery, which as you will see by the end of this letter is very fortuitous. The rest of your questions will be answered as I bring you up to date.

  I have not mentioned this before as I thought it would all blow over and there was no need to worry you, but things are getting more difficult here. Babette and Pierre are leaving Germany and are insisting we leave France also. When things did not improve after Kristallnacht, Babette declared that none of us can stay in Europe.