We take one bottle of rum, a few foodstuffs and dry clothing. Nicolas also brings a satchel. I ask him what’s in it, but he replies in French, and we arenotgetting into that again, so I refrain from demonstrating any further curiosity.
We return to our original cave, and Nicolas relights the fire. Then we open the rum, and he digs out a round of cheese. We pass both back and forth a couple of times before he says, “Would you like to know what is in the satchel, crécerelle?”
“Love letters, I presume. Letters from you to a fair English maiden. You wooed her with French poetry, and she sent them all back with a single note.I cannot read these, you lout.”
“I deserved that, I suppose. Mais non, they are not letters to or from a lover.”
“Pornographic sketches, then. To keep you warm on long voyages across the bitter—and bitterly lonely—seas.”
He grins. “Non, though I am certain I could have found those onboard. The men often asked me to—” He stops short and waggles the satchel. “While you were undoubtedly being sarcastic, you did approach a truth, and so I shall grant you that answer.”
He opens the satchel, carefully keeping it from my line of sight. One hand slides in and returns holding a pencil and pad of paper. Then he settles back, tilts his head and starts to write.
“If you are scribbling damnable French poetry...” I say.
“You shall have to endure it. Mais non, writing is your talent, not mine. I am forced to steal from the pens of others. My poetry is another sort, and it is, admittedly, French, as I can be nothing else.”
He continues, pencil moving over the paper in decisive strokes. Then he frowns at it, making a moue of dissatisfaction as he says, “Non, that is not quite right.”
“I will not ask what you mean. I am not the least interested—”
He turns the paper around, and I am on it. My face, rendered in quick strokes. It is the face I catch sometimes in a reflective surface, that moment of surprise when I think, “Is that me?” but when I look in a mirror, that woman is gone. It is me, but the angle is not one I see.
“You flatter me,” I say.
“Not at all. If anything, the result is underwhelming. That is the limitation of sketch work. Without color, it loses something, particularly with a face like yours. I see eyes that snap and sparkle with wit and curiosity, and these...” He taps the paper. “It is too flat a medium, too dull a pencil.”
He stretches his legs and flips to the next page to begin again.
“Wait,” I say. “When I teased about the pornographic pictures, you started to say the men often asked for something, and then you stopped. They asked you to draw, didn’t they? To sketch women in naughty poses.”
His lips twitch. “Whatever ‘naughty poses’ could you mean, crécerelle. Please, be more specific so I may properly answer the question.”
I shake my head. “I have not had enough rum for that yet.”
He passes me the bottle, and I laugh but take a drink, and he says, “Yes, they asked for women, and they asked for ‘naughty poses,’ and I would comply under certain conditions.”
“Conditions?”
“I would draw an imaginary woman, with a few details imparted by the purchaser. I wouldnotdraw an unwitting woman from life and render her naked. Nor put her in any lewd posture. Now, there were times, admittedly, when the men would hire a woman to pose for me, and I would draw her, but that is different. She had agreed to it and been compensated. It is quite another thing to say that one fancies a woman in a shop and could I please draw her bending over the counter with her skirts around her hips.”
I take another sip of rum.
“You disagree?” he says.
“Not at all. You are correct to insist on that stipulation. Yet now I am rather curious about such a drawing. Is the skirt simply hiked up, giving the impression of an invitation? Or does it reveal her drawers? Is she evenwearingdrawers?”
“The exact nature of the pose depends on what the purchaser of it desires. I am flexible in my art if decent pay is offered. Although, I must say that in my most popular ones, she is indeed wearing her drawers. However, as the legs of a woman’s drawers do not join, if you draw her at the right angle...” He grins. “It is all about the angle.”
My cheeks flush, and I quickly drink more rum.
He lifts his pencil from the page. “Careful, crécerelle. If you overimbibe, I will be forced to end this conversation, lest it lead places you would not wish it to go.” He glances up at me. “Shall we stop discussing my side profession?”
I shake my head.
He returns to his drawing. “Do you have questions about it?”
I certainly do. So many questions, which range from somewhat indiscreet to wildly indiscreet. What comes out of my mouth, though, is, “I presume it was lucrative?”