Tony was flustered. “Oh. I’m sorry, I’ll change it.”
“No, no. The nose in the painting is fine. It is my nose that is too long.”
Tony smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t do much about that.”
“A Frenchman would have said, ‘Your nose is perfect, chérie.’”
“I like your nose, and I’m not French.”
“Obviously. You have never asked me out. I wonder why.”
Tony was taken aback. “I—I don’t know. I guess it’s because everyone else has, and you never go out with anybody.”
Dominique smiled. “Everybody goes out with somebody. Good night.”
And she was gone.
Tony noticed that whenever he stayed late, Dominique dressed and then returned to stand behind him and watched him paint.
“You are very good,” she announced one afternoon. “You are going to be an important painter.”
“Thank you, Dominique. I hope you’re right.”
“Painting is very serious to you, oui?”
“Oui.”
“Would a man who is going to be an important painter like to buy me dinner?” She saw the look of surprise on his face. “I do not eat much. I must keep my figure.”
Tony laughed. “Certainly. It would be a pleasure.”
They ate at a bistro near Sacré-Cœur, and they discussed painters and painting. Tony was fascinated with her stories of the well-known artists for whom she posed. As they were having café au lait, Dominique said, “I must tell you, you are as good as any of them.”
Tony was inordinately pleased, but all he said was, “I have a long way to go.”
Outside the café, Dominique asked, “Are you going to invite me to see your apartment?”
“If you’d like to. I’m afraid it isn’t much.”
When they arrived, Dominique looked around the tiny, messy apartment and shook her head. “You were right. It is not much. Who takes care of you?”
“A cleaning lady comes in once a week.”
“Fire her. This place is filthy. Don’t you have a girl friend?”
“No.”
She studied him a moment. “You’re not queer?”
“No.”
“Good. It would be a terrible waste. Find me a pail of water and some soap.”
Dominique went to work on the apartment, cleaning and scrubbing and finally tidying up. When she had finished, she said, “That will have to do for now. My God, I need a bath.”
She went into the tiny bathroom and ran water in the tub. “How do you fit yourself in this?” she called out.
“I pull up my legs.”
She laughed. “I would like to see that.”
Fifteen minutes later, she came out of the bathroom with only a towel around her waist, her blond hair damp and curling. She had a beautiful figure, full breasts, a narrow waist and long, tapering legs. Tony had been unaware of her as a woman before. She had been merely a nude figure to be portrayed on canvas. Oddly enough, the towel changed everything. He felt a sudden rush of blood to his loins.
Dominique was watching him. “Would you like to make love to me?”
“Very much.”
She slowly removed the towel. “Show me.”
Tony had never known a woman like Dominique. She gave him everything and asked for nothing. She came over almost every evening to cook for Tony. When they went out to dinner, Dominique insisted on going to inexpensive bistros or sandwich bars. “You must save your money,” she scolded him. “It is very difficult even for a good artist to get started. And you are good, chéri.”
They went to Les Halles in the small hours of the morning and had onion soup at Pied de Cochon. They went to the Musée Carnavalet and out-of-the-way places where tourists did not go, like Cimetière Père-Lachaise—the final resting place of Oscar Wilde, Frédéric Chopin, Honoré de Balzac and Marcel Proust. They visited the catacombs and spent a lazy holiday week going down the Seine on a barge owned by a friend of Dominique’s.
Dominique was a delight to be with. She had a quixotic sense of humor, and whenever Tony was depressed, she would laugh him out of it. She seemed to know everyone in Paris, and she took Tony to interesting parties where he met some of the most prominent figures of the day, like the poet Paul Éluard, and André Breton, in charge of the prestigious Galerie Maeght.