“Bonjour, monsieur,” Maëlle responds, suddenly breathless. The man looks far too young to be the famous Monsieur Bayol, but Maëlle can’t be sure.
His eyes linger on her face for a moment before brazenly running down the length of her body. “What do you want, little girl?”
“You are... are you the master?”
The man’s laugh is a deep, resonant sound that gives her a confusing, unwelcome thrill somewhere down deep in her belly. Maëlle is not entirely naive about men; she had briefly entertained—and then turned down—two rather lackluster offers of marriage: one from the butcher’s son and another from a middle-aged widower with a small farm outside of town. But the men from her fishing village pale in comparison to the man standing in front of her now.
“No, I am not the master—yet. I am Léon Morice,” he says. “It is lovely to meet you.”
“I am Maëlle Tanguy.Enchantée.”
“You are from Bretagne?”
She nods. Her accent and her name give her away. She knows the rest of France looks down its Gallic nose at the Bretons, but she doesn’t understand why; the rocky coast is wild and alluring, the fishing villages charming, the houses tall and straight. But it is true that her village does not compare to the majesty of the architecture of Angers; on her way from the train station she had passed an old stone castle and walked along the remnants of medieval city walls. There were half-timbered houses with leaded glass and window boxes full of flowers,and vast white-domed buildings studded with balconies, and ubiquitous dark-slate roofs that had given the town its nickname, the “Black City.”
Maëlle had made the mistake of gazing up at the rooftops as she walked, narrowly escaping being run over by a carriage in the road.
“You see the man with the mustache, carving the chicken?” Léon leans in close to her, his long arm pointing to the other side of the studio. “He is the master you seek: Monsieur Gustave Bayol.”
“I... Thank you.” Maëlle reminds herself of her mission. She buttons the high neck of her blouse, tucks an unruly lock of dark hair back under her hat, smooths her traveling coat, squares her shoulders, and makes her way across the crowded atelier to stand beside the small man wearing a wide-brimmed hat. The waxed ends of his mustache curl upward to form two sideways question marks, one on each cheek.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Bayol. I am Maëlle Tanguy.” The words she had practiced on her train journey have flown as surely and swiftly as the marsh birds flushed out by her father’s hunting dog. In place of the eloquent lines she means to recite, she blurts out: “I wish to apprentice with you.”
Gustave Bayol laughs, his mustache vibrating.
The master’s hands never stop moving over the giant chicken: each feather is individually detailed, curls of wood rising as he applies the planer and knife.Scritch, scritch, scritch.His hands are calloused and strong, scarred from countless nicks by blades and chisels. A sculptor’s hands.
“Please.” Maëlle’s heart flutters, but her voice is strong. “I carry a letter of introduction from a talented sculptor, with whom I have trained for many years.”
“Tell me, mademoiselle,” Monsieur Bayol replies. “This sculptor, he allowed a young woman to apprentice with him? What is his name?”
“Emile Tanguy.” Maëlle feels the heat rise in her cheeks. “The sculptor is my father, it is true, but he is very talented, and he has taught me everything he knows.”
“Mademoiselle—” Bayol shakes his head, his humor giving way to annoyance.
“I am prepared to work for free for six weeks, monsieur. If you are not happy with my work, you may send me away.” Maëlle has to raise her voice to be heard overtinksandclanksand the occasional chatting of the small army of men who swarm like ants over the carousel factory. “I will sweep sawdust and brew coffee; I can wash your windows for you, so you’ll have more light by which to work. I am very practiced at honing tools and sharpening knives. But much more than this: I can carve. I am an artist, monsieur.”
All she wants is to be part of this world, to work, to create, to feel the wood under her hands, to transform a plain stump into something new and magical. It is the only time she feels fully alive. What will be her future otherwise?
Her father, poor man, had sired four girls and only one boy, Erwann, who is sickly and lacking in talent for anything but poetry. Maëlle is the child who picked up her father’s blade at the age of four, caressing it, fascinated by its heft and shine, and over time learned how to sharpen it with the strap, grinding the edge on the whetstone at night by the fire. Maëlle is the one who watched, rapt, as her father set his chisel to the wood and tapped it with the hammer, sending tiny bits flying as he uncovered the form that dwelt within what had once been a tree.
Maëlle’s father is more cabinetmaker than sculptor, but this is by necessity rather than the limits of his talent. He is a frustrated artist, as is she. Her father had carved a gnome for each of his children; hers was soft and slick with the rubbing of her hands as she felt the crevices and hollows, following the curves and lines.
Her brother, Erwann, was Maëlle’s closest friend and confidant as they grew up; he is the one who encouraged her to come to Angers. To learn to carve, to fight for what she wanted, no matter how absurd it might seem. Erwann had written her a sonnet titled “The Aspiring Apprentice of Angers.” She keeps it in her bag, rereading it on thetrain, drawing strength from the memory of whispering at night in their shared cot, confessing their dreams, their aspirations. Until they got too old to share a bed and she was sent to sleep with her sisters. Still, Erwann is her best friend; he is the one who understands.
Her father’s gnome is the only sentimental item, besides Erwann’s poem, that Maëlle has brought with her to Angers. Besides those treasures, her bag holds only a single change of clothes, a work apron, a roll of her sketches, and one exquisitely carved rose wrapped in a scrap of pink silk. She sculpted it from a single piece of chestnut wood she had hauled, by herself, from the hill outside of town, near the cemetery where her mother was buried. Maëlle had worked on the rose for months, listening to Erwann cough at night, sometimes so hard that he spit up blood.
Maëlle is sick, too. Sick to her soul of paying for the sin of being born a girl and growing into a woman. It makes her angry, and the anger gives her strength.
“These are some of my projects,” Maëlle says as she displays her designs, smoothing the papers out as best she can on the dusty worktable. “But please believe me: I am far more talented in carving than in drawing.”
Bayol glances at them, nods distractedly.
Then she unwraps her pièce de résistance. Her rose—the petals delicate, the leaves complete with intricate veins, and all perfectly proportioned, down to the thorns.
Monsieur Bayol sets down his hammer and chisel, extends his hand, and she places the rose on his open palm. He studies the workmanship, turning the flower to view it from all angles. He exchanges a glance with his apprentice, Léon, who has approached to see what Maëlle has brought.
Léon’s only response is a shrug.
