The Marriage of Opposites
Page 95
“Everyone believes we purchased it from a great artist, and we never say it’s only by our nephew. He takes delight in people’s confusion, and so do we. For all we know he’ll be a great artist someday.”
Lydia went for a closer look. The painting, in a gold-leaf frame, was luminous in tone. She was drawn to the image and could see why people assumed an expert had crafted it. A woman carried a basket of laundry to a house set upon stilts, the turquoise sea behind her, her expression serene.
Lydia sat down, overheated again and agitated in a way she couldn’t understand. She had a flash of something, perhaps a memory, perhaps a fear. She explained that she had headaches. But that was a lie. It was the painting that had affected her. She had the odd sense that she herself had been in that very same place. If you ventured along the road you would see red flowers in the hills, tumbling down like a staircase. They were the ones she dreamed of, and when she woke she still imagined them, as if petals had been set in her path as she walked her girls around the neighborhood.
At last the boy she was waiting for came home from school with Madame’s two sons, their maleness filling up the house with their deep voices and the clatter of their books and belongings and the scent of cold air and sweat. Madame Pizzarro’s sons ambled past, already in boisterous conversation, on their way to have a late tea. Then the nephew came in, reading as he walked.
“Does no one greet a guest?” Madame Pizzarro called. Lydia recognized the tall boy who was so intent on his book. “How about my dear nephew?”
The boy looked up. He seemed a confident fellow, but when he saw Lydia he immediately grew pale. She thought perhaps he stumbled. He was so angular and thin that his trousers seemed too big for him, and his jacket too small for his long arms.
“This is Madame Cohen,” the hostess continued.
Lydia walked to him and offered her hand. “I think we’ve met.”
His hand in hers was rougher than she’d expected, stained with faint blotches of paint.
“We may have,” the boy said cautiously.
“You’re an artist?”
“Yes.” He was a bit defiant in his answer, his hackles raised. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me it’s a waste of my time.”
“Not at all,” she responded.
He almost smiled then. He was no longer a ghost. He looked at her, concerned, more vulnerable than she would have imagined.
“Lyddie,” he said.
“Madame Cohen!” his aunt corrected him. “Where have everyone’s manners gone?”
’”Out the window,” the boy said. “Where they belong.”
Lydia thought of what her father had said during their last visit. Don’t do what they tell you to.
“He came to us as Jacobo, a cousin several times removed. But once he arrived in Paris he took his middle name. Camille.”
The boy shrugged. “People change.”
“He’s become French through and through,” his aunt said, pleased.
Because dark was already falling, and Lydia was a woman alone, it made sense when she asked if the boy could accompany her on her way home. His aunt was only too happy for him to be useful. Jacobo Camille Pizzarro held open the double glass doors, and they stepped into the smoky air of November. The streets glittered wet with rain and the air was a mist.
“How long has this been going on?” Lydia asked.
“This?” He was wary; perhaps he thought she meant to catch him in a trap of his own admission and call the authorities.
“Your pursuit.”
“I’ll be going back soon, home, but I’ve been following you ever since I arrived in France.”
“Since you were twelve!” She laughed, then saw his expression. It was true.
“Well, not precisely. It took me the best of a year to locate your father’s address, and then months more before I realized you no longer lived at your father’s address. And then, of course, I didn’t know you had taken your husband’s name, so I was lost again. It was nearly three years before I found you.”
“Three years!” She was quite amazed.
“Your maid turned me away every time I came to call. I thought if I approached you in a public place you might have me arrested.”
“Arrest a boy?” Lydia laughed.
“I was afraid I would offend you. I suppose, after a while, I lost my courage.”
“But not your resolve! I presume you follow me because you have something to say to me,” Lydia said gently. He was only a boy, and he had an artist’s soul, so perhaps he simply wished to paint her portrait and admired her for the character of her face.
Lydia went for a closer look. The painting, in a gold-leaf frame, was luminous in tone. She was drawn to the image and could see why people assumed an expert had crafted it. A woman carried a basket of laundry to a house set upon stilts, the turquoise sea behind her, her expression serene.
Lydia sat down, overheated again and agitated in a way she couldn’t understand. She had a flash of something, perhaps a memory, perhaps a fear. She explained that she had headaches. But that was a lie. It was the painting that had affected her. She had the odd sense that she herself had been in that very same place. If you ventured along the road you would see red flowers in the hills, tumbling down like a staircase. They were the ones she dreamed of, and when she woke she still imagined them, as if petals had been set in her path as she walked her girls around the neighborhood.
At last the boy she was waiting for came home from school with Madame’s two sons, their maleness filling up the house with their deep voices and the clatter of their books and belongings and the scent of cold air and sweat. Madame Pizzarro’s sons ambled past, already in boisterous conversation, on their way to have a late tea. Then the nephew came in, reading as he walked.
“Does no one greet a guest?” Madame Pizzarro called. Lydia recognized the tall boy who was so intent on his book. “How about my dear nephew?”
The boy looked up. He seemed a confident fellow, but when he saw Lydia he immediately grew pale. She thought perhaps he stumbled. He was so angular and thin that his trousers seemed too big for him, and his jacket too small for his long arms.
“This is Madame Cohen,” the hostess continued.
Lydia walked to him and offered her hand. “I think we’ve met.”
His hand in hers was rougher than she’d expected, stained with faint blotches of paint.
“We may have,” the boy said cautiously.
“You’re an artist?”
“Yes.” He was a bit defiant in his answer, his hackles raised. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me it’s a waste of my time.”
“Not at all,” she responded.
He almost smiled then. He was no longer a ghost. He looked at her, concerned, more vulnerable than she would have imagined.
“Lyddie,” he said.
“Madame Cohen!” his aunt corrected him. “Where have everyone’s manners gone?”
’”Out the window,” the boy said. “Where they belong.”
Lydia thought of what her father had said during their last visit. Don’t do what they tell you to.
“He came to us as Jacobo, a cousin several times removed. But once he arrived in Paris he took his middle name. Camille.”
The boy shrugged. “People change.”
“He’s become French through and through,” his aunt said, pleased.
Because dark was already falling, and Lydia was a woman alone, it made sense when she asked if the boy could accompany her on her way home. His aunt was only too happy for him to be useful. Jacobo Camille Pizzarro held open the double glass doors, and they stepped into the smoky air of November. The streets glittered wet with rain and the air was a mist.
“How long has this been going on?” Lydia asked.
“This?” He was wary; perhaps he thought she meant to catch him in a trap of his own admission and call the authorities.
“Your pursuit.”
“I’ll be going back soon, home, but I’ve been following you ever since I arrived in France.”
“Since you were twelve!” She laughed, then saw his expression. It was true.
“Well, not precisely. It took me the best of a year to locate your father’s address, and then months more before I realized you no longer lived at your father’s address. And then, of course, I didn’t know you had taken your husband’s name, so I was lost again. It was nearly three years before I found you.”
“Three years!” She was quite amazed.
“Your maid turned me away every time I came to call. I thought if I approached you in a public place you might have me arrested.”
“Arrest a boy?” Lydia laughed.
“I was afraid I would offend you. I suppose, after a while, I lost my courage.”
“But not your resolve! I presume you follow me because you have something to say to me,” Lydia said gently. He was only a boy, and he had an artist’s soul, so perhaps he simply wished to paint her portrait and admired her for the character of her face.
