Marie and Fitzgerald

Paris, 1924

I tossed my gaze to the ground and pulled my scarf tighter around my neck against the frigid wind. As I continued the walk to my studio in an inexpensive neighborhood, my eyes were met with something peeking out of an ebbing snow bank. Most days, I would have walked by without a second thought, but something made me stop and crouch down. With a shabbily gloved hand, I pulled free the little black book. On the inside of the front cover was scrawled the name “Fitzgerald.” It looked rather ordinary, but I slipped it into my handbag anyway, and continued my journey home.

The next few weeks passed with little excitement, and I quickly forgot about the book. It was not until I heard a whisper of "Fitzgerald" on the street that I thought of it again. My mind pulled toward the little black book until the moment I got back to my studio. I pulled it out of the top of my closet where it had begun to collect dust on top of a box of keepsakes I kept from my late husband. Sitting down at the table by the window and pushing back the sewing machine that I did my tailor work on, I opened it to the very first page. I stared at the name written there. Who was Fitzgerald? I spent hours that afternoon flipping through the book, intoxicated by the words and enchanted by the sketches. There were descriptions of roaring parties with more booze and frenzy than the ones I attended with my friends across from sketches of women dancing. There were tender confessions of love written next to drawings of flowers. I held the pages in between my fingers, completely absorbed by the decadent and evocative worlds fabricated in this little book.

I kept it with me at all times from then on, tucked away in my small blue handbag, next to the silver cigarette case that my husband had engraved “to Marie, with love” for my birthday seven years ago. It was with me on the day that I met Sylvia at a café at the beginning of April, just when the flowers were beginning to bloom. I arrived before my fashionably late friend, and sat at a table in the shade of the awning. I reached in my bag for a cigarette, when I heard a whispered phrase at the table next to me. “C’est Fitzgerald! L’author américain!” I looked up with a start and tried to find where the lady beside me was looking, but the subject of her gaze was rounding the corner, and out of my sight before I saw more than the heel of his shoe. 

“Marie! Bonjour, mon amie!” Sylvia greeted me as she approached.

“Oh! Bonjour!” I stood to kiss her on both cheeks before she sat and requested two coffees from the waiter.

“Sylvia, do you know of an author named Fitzgerald?"

“Of course. He's American, but he and his wife recently arrived in Paris. Caroline got his phone number so that we can invite them to our party on Saturday.” I felt a strange thrill somewhere in the back of my throat.

By the time Saturday night rolled around, an invitation had been extended to the Fitzgeralds, and I had added more beads to my best party dress. I slipped my cigarette case into the black, beaded handbag that matched my dress, but abandoned the book that I had become so attached to at home. I left my studio around ten to meet Sylvia and Adrienne so that we could walk together to the party, and arrive fashionably late as one unit.

“They’re here!” Caroline greeted us in the foyer. “Come in! Let me introduce you to Scott and Zelda!” She pulled us into the sitting room where a dozen brightly dressed people were packed in. Two dozen more could be heard upstairs. I was able to spot James, Ezra and Dorothy on the sofa, near where Ernest and his wife were talking to a man and woman I did not know. Caroline led us over to them and began the introductions that confirmed my suspicion. “Ladies, this is Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. Zelda, Scott, this is Sylvia Beach, Adrienne Monnier, and Marie Deschamps.”

Then all around, “Enchantée.”

“Enchantée.”

“Enchantée.”

“Enchanté.”

Champagne was served, and the room began to glimmer. Sylvia and Adrienne stayed around to talk with the Fitzgeralds for only a short while before bouncing off to greet others. Meanwhile, I stayed near Scott as much as possible. I could not take my eyes off of him. His smart suit, his sparkling eyes, his magnetic personality… Around eleven thirty, Caroline put on some records and everyone began to dance. Scott took my arm and we talked cordially about Paris as we spun across the room. His silvery voice enamored me. When he touched me, I felt a rush of electricity that I had not in years. But I said nothing of it as bright red ties, blue fringe, and yellow beaded dresses swirled around us.

I drank more than I should have that night, but to be fair, so did everyone else. There was little I remembered after my dance with Scott Fitzgerald, but I watched him and his wife down several more glasses of liquor through my own haze, and I watched as Zelda collapsed into Caroline’s arms. She was carried up to a bedroom to stay the night. 

I woke up on the sofa in a spare bedroom, blinking in the long rays of sunrise. Looking around, I found Sylvia and Adrienne crumpled up in the large king size bed. I watched the rays of sunrise creep from the wall to the floor before wandering downstairs. Upon entering the kitchen, I found James making his own coffee, apparently having put off the cook who was sweeping with frustration in the corner. 

“Coffee?” he asked me around the cigarette in between his lips.

“Yes please.” We stood there sipping our coffee quietly together, fighting headaches, and squinting at the sunlight slipping across the floor. 

“I think Scott took a liking to you.”

“Huh?” 

“Last night. Scott Fitzgerald seemed to enjoy your company.”

“Oh, yes.” A pause. “Are they still here?”

“No. Their chauffeur came early this morning.”

“I see.” I drained the last of my coffee and thanked James for it before letting myself out of the house. 

As soon as I got home, I pulled out the little black book, one of my own journals, and a pen. After a few hours of blank contemplation, I began to write. I put aside all of my tailor work and neglected it for days, focusing solely on what I could write. On the fourth day, I decided to get a professional opinion. I put my own journal in my blue handbag and left the apartment for Sylvia’s bookshop. The flowers, now blooming beautifully, nodded at me as I passed them in their window boxes, almost as if to say “look what fun we’ve had while you were away.”

“What do you think?” I asked when Sylvia flipped from the last page back to the first.

“Well,” she began, “it’s a bit hard to read, and there’s no character development. Who wrote this?”

“I did,” I answered tautly.

“Oh. Well it has potential,” she attempted to recover. “You just need to-” but we were interrupted then by a breeze that fluttered through the door of the shop, which Scott and Ernest followed inside. 

“Good afternoon, Mlle. Beach, Mme. Deschamps,” Ernest greeted us. I could tell that Sylvia was glad for the interruption. She immediately became immensely involved in a conversation with Ernest. Scott’s eyes met with mine, and lingered there as a smile came to his face.

“How are you Mme. Deschamps? I thought I might see you again sooner after the party.” I blushed.

An hour later, as Ernest announced that they had to be going, Scott took my hand lightly in his and requested that we “get coffee sometime.” I raced home to begin rewriting. I knew I couldn’t see Scott again until I had written something impressive.

The next day I received a call from Mr. Fitzgerald who explained that he got my number from Caroline. He requested that I join him for coffee Saturday afternoon before the weekly party at a cafè near where Caroline and her husband lived. Although I felt vaguely guilty, I accepted his invitation and arrived early on Saturday. I found a table near a window box of declining pink blooms. Twice I debated getting up and leaving, but I had committed to meeting him. So I lit a cigarette and waited. When he arrived, he kissed me on both cheeks as if we had been friends forever. We drank coffee and talked. Everything that he said was charming. He recalled to me how my eyes sparkled when we first met, and how my laugh shimmered around my head that night. He took my hand in his and told me how he wanted to get to know me more. He called me "my dear." Not a word was said about Zelda, though I don't think she was entirely absent from our thoughts. As we walked across the street, Scott slipped his hand in mine and I smiled, content. 

Upstairs, I drew a bath in the largest guest bathroom while Caroline brought up a set of ruby jewelry for me to borrow for the evening. Once she had left me alone in the bathroom, I pulled out my journal. I slipped into the tub with the book in my hand, reading over what I had written, making sure I was satisfied with the content. I edited and added some things, but left most of it alone. Once I was dressed, I heard a knock on the door. “Yes?” I trilled to the reflection of the door in the mirror. Scott stepped inside.

“You look beautiful,” he said, picking up the ruby necklace, draping it on my neck, and fastening it behind. Our eyes caught in the mirror and I smiled at him. “Thank you.”

“What’s this?” he inquired when he spotted my journal. Now was as good a time as ever.

“Just some things that I’ve been writing down.” Leaning against the vanity, Scott put his arm around my waist and opened my journal to read while I finished my makeup, smoothed my hair into place, and put on the rest of my jewelry.

“This has some good material,” he commented, and I blushed. 

“Why thank you.”

“Do you mind if I take this with me to read?”

“Not at all.” It was a strange request, but not one that I could not honor.

He escorted me down the stairs and we followed the rest of the party into the dining room. My place at the table was next to James, across from Scott, which I thought wise considering Zelda’s presence. I took no wine at dinner, for I wanted to remember this night perfectly for the rest of my life. When the champagne was popped and the party began, Zelda and I were the only ones untouched by drink. I joined her on the sofa while others performed shows for each other. I attempted to make polite conversation, hoping it would make up for everything else. To be entirely honest, I rather enjoyed her company and conversation. We talked for an hour before she jumped up, grabbed a flute of champagne, and joined the rest of the party: a blob of whirling colors with hands jabbing up out of it at different places in polyrhythm. 

Everything unfurled from there. What began as harmless drinking and light hearted fun derailed into chaos. The sober angle was one I was not used to seeing. Just after the clock chimed two in the morning, a crash was heard from the gallery upstairs. I rushed up with several others to find broken glass next to Scott’s feet, a golden liquid fizzing out its last bubbles on the floor. Zelda stood across from him, trembling with anger.

“You never let me do anything!” Zelda screeched. “Always holding me back. You don’t even let me use my own writing.”

“That’s because you use my material.” Scott retorted.

“OUR material! This relationship is two-sided! I don’t know why I still give you my diaries when I know that you take lines straight from them to put in your work. You don’t even respect me. You go tromping all around Paris with MY diary, with MY own writing and drawings, and then you lose it. How could you be so heartless?” She threw out her arms to emphasize her words, but Scott took it for attempted violence. He seized her arms and put his face close to hers.

“Shhh. Don’t cause a scene.”

“You’re stifling me,” she whimpered.

So it was her diary that I had been carrying around. As she cried out and pulled free, I numbly pushed past the rest of the party. I returned downstairs where I grabbed my handbag and stepped out into the cool night air. If he used material from his wife and treated her in such a way, what would stop him from doing the same to me? I had seen enough of my father treating my mother that way. I didn’t want that for myself.

I trudged home disheveled and discontent. Once again, I shut myself up in my room where I could finally read the angry letters I had received from customers who wanted to know why they did not have their clothes back yet. I put Zelda's journal in an envelope and posted it to Caroline's place with the note, "For Zelda," before dejectedly setting to my task of catching up on tailor work. Around seven in the morning, I was struck with an idea. I hastened to finish the tailoring by noon, gathered up the items to deliver on foot and set out. At the end of my deliveries, I came upon a fabric store. I strolled between the bolts for an hour before settling on what to buy. Crimson silk, sapphire beads, gold ribbon, and pearls. I spent nearly every cent I had. I took home everything I had bought and began on my idea right away. 

Maybe writing was something I was never meant to succeed with. It was an unknown territory for me. But sewing and fashion… I knew those things. With a few old tubes of paint and some brushes, I painted a design on my wall for an outlandishly opulent dress. For the shoes, golden ribbons would wind up the calves and tie off with a curl above the knee. On one arm, a corresponding ribbon twisting from the pinky to the shoulder, and on the other, a sleeve draped over the arm into a cape. For the headpiece, a close fitting cap overcome by sparks launching themselves off of the top. I spent the next month working on my masterpiece. I received letters from Sylvia and Caroline. I received a phone call from Scott. (They were leaving Paris, and wouldn’t I like to see them before they left?) I responded to none of it. Sylvia even came to my studio to make sure I was alright. Once I ensured her that all was well, she extended the Saturday night party invitation to me.

That Saturday evening, I put on the whole ensemble that I had crafted and looked at myself in my mirror. I smiled. My blue eyelids flashed when I blinked and my bright red lips welcomed curiosity. I left a kiss on the mirror before venturing out into the night. As I walked down the street, I received many stares, but I didn’t care. This masterpiece was mine. Maybe it didn’t make sense, maybe no one would understand, but they didn’t have to. Their opinions could not tarnish it. I opened the door of Caroline’s place, admitting that my friends probably would not understand the way I looked, but knowing that they would always accept me for who I was.