Oscar’s middle periods, Sigrid glanced from one to the other, aware of a sudden tension
in the air. She handed the violent abstract back to Francesca Leeds. “Even if I don’t completely understand them, I do like
some of Nauman’s pictures.”
Oscar abruptly leaned forward to poke the fire and add another log to the blaze. “Ask her anything about the late Gothic,
though.”
“Late Gothic? You mean Dürer? Baldung? Holbein?” “And Lucas Cranach,” Sigrid nodded. “Mabuse, too. And earlier, Jan van Eyck,
of course.”
“Ah,” said Francesca, enlightened now. “The Flemish. Precision. Order.” She waved her hand to encompass Oscar’s cluttered
studio, the vibrant abstractions, the large canvases slashed with color and free-flowing lines. “Anarchy repels you?”
“I
am
a police officer,” Sigrid said lightly. “And I do know enough about modern art to know there’s structure lurking in there
somewhere.”
Oscar laughed and stood up. “Stay for lunch, Francesca? I’m making my famous
coq au vin.
”
Francesca Leeds pushed back the heavy auburn hair from her face and turned her wrist to consult the small gold watch. “Can’t,
acushla.
My hosts are expecting me back with their vehicle.”
She smiled up at him as she reached for her brown suede jacket. “I’m not giving up, though. A retrospective’s nothing like
a ninth symphony, Oscar, and the Breul House really does need you.”
She turned to Sigrid, who echoed the formulas of “so nice to meet you; perhaps we’ll see each other again,” and both were
pleased to realize the formalities weren’t totally insincere.
Exchanging comments on road conditions, icy patches, and the infrequency of snowplows through these back roads, Oscar and
Sigrid followed Francesca out onto the deck. Oscar had cleared it earlier, as well as the steps leading down to the drive;
but except for Francesca’s single line of boot prints curving up from a borrowed van parked beside the road, the crusted snow
around the house was unbroken.
“Driving’s not bad,” said Francesca. “The van has chains and four-wheel drive.”
Even with all identifying landmarks blanketed by the snow, she seemed to know exactly how the drive curved, and walked confidently
out to the van without tripping or putting a foot wrong. It was something Sigrid noted without actually considering as Francesca
waved good-bye and called back, “At least you didn’t say no.”
“No!” Oscar grinned. “Too late,” she laughed and drove away in a flurry of snow.
Circling his studio to the rear deck, Oscar thoughtfully contemplated the ravine, where snow lay deep and crisp beneath pines
and hardwoods so thickly branched that winter sunlight barely penetrated.
“The surface is too soft for conventional sleds,” he observed.
Over the years, various visiting children had left plastic sliding sheets behind in the garage, and Oscar had discovered them
while searching for a snow shovel.
His assertion that their appetites needed building sounded ridiculous to Sigrid, even as Nauman bundled her into a jacket
and boots. Minutes later, she found herself alone upon a sheet of plastic, careening downhill on her stomach, half terrified
and wholly exhilarated.
It was like being eight years old again—pushing off, oaring herself along with mittened hands, that slow gathering of speed,
crashing through ice-coated grasses, dodging tree roots and low-lying branches, a belly-dropping sense of doom as she crested
a small ridge and became briefly airborne before thudding back to cushioned earth again. Another straight shoot down the hillside
and she hurtled toward a creek bank lined with dormant blackberry bushes and huge granite boulders, trying to judge exactly
when she should come down hard with a braking foot to land in a laughing, tangled heap beside her companion.
Delighted by the sheer physicality of the experience, Sigrid unhooked her leg from Nauman’s
in the air. She handed the violent abstract back to Francesca Leeds. “Even if I don’t completely understand them, I do like
some of Nauman’s pictures.”
Oscar abruptly leaned forward to poke the fire and add another log to the blaze. “Ask her anything about the late Gothic,
though.”
“Late Gothic? You mean Dürer? Baldung? Holbein?” “And Lucas Cranach,” Sigrid nodded. “Mabuse, too. And earlier, Jan van Eyck,
of course.”
“Ah,” said Francesca, enlightened now. “The Flemish. Precision. Order.” She waved her hand to encompass Oscar’s cluttered
studio, the vibrant abstractions, the large canvases slashed with color and free-flowing lines. “Anarchy repels you?”
“I
am
a police officer,” Sigrid said lightly. “And I do know enough about modern art to know there’s structure lurking in there
somewhere.”
Oscar laughed and stood up. “Stay for lunch, Francesca? I’m making my famous
coq au vin.
”
Francesca Leeds pushed back the heavy auburn hair from her face and turned her wrist to consult the small gold watch. “Can’t,
acushla.
My hosts are expecting me back with their vehicle.”
She smiled up at him as she reached for her brown suede jacket. “I’m not giving up, though. A retrospective’s nothing like
a ninth symphony, Oscar, and the Breul House really does need you.”
She turned to Sigrid, who echoed the formulas of “so nice to meet you; perhaps we’ll see each other again,” and both were
pleased to realize the formalities weren’t totally insincere.
Exchanging comments on road conditions, icy patches, and the infrequency of snowplows through these back roads, Oscar and
Sigrid followed Francesca out onto the deck. Oscar had cleared it earlier, as well as the steps leading down to the drive;
but except for Francesca’s single line of boot prints curving up from a borrowed van parked beside the road, the crusted snow
around the house was unbroken.
“Driving’s not bad,” said Francesca. “The van has chains and four-wheel drive.”
Even with all identifying landmarks blanketed by the snow, she seemed to know exactly how the drive curved, and walked confidently
out to the van without tripping or putting a foot wrong. It was something Sigrid noted without actually considering as Francesca
waved good-bye and called back, “At least you didn’t say no.”
“No!” Oscar grinned. “Too late,” she laughed and drove away in a flurry of snow.
Circling his studio to the rear deck, Oscar thoughtfully contemplated the ravine, where snow lay deep and crisp beneath pines
and hardwoods so thickly branched that winter sunlight barely penetrated.
“The surface is too soft for conventional sleds,” he observed.
Over the years, various visiting children had left plastic sliding sheets behind in the garage, and Oscar had discovered them
while searching for a snow shovel.
His assertion that their appetites needed building sounded ridiculous to Sigrid, even as Nauman bundled her into a jacket
and boots. Minutes later, she found herself alone upon a sheet of plastic, careening downhill on her stomach, half terrified
and wholly exhilarated.
It was like being eight years old again—pushing off, oaring herself along with mittened hands, that slow gathering of speed,
crashing through ice-coated grasses, dodging tree roots and low-lying branches, a belly-dropping sense of doom as she crested
a small ridge and became briefly airborne before thudding back to cushioned earth again. Another straight shoot down the hillside
and she hurtled toward a creek bank lined with dormant blackberry bushes and huge granite boulders, trying to judge exactly
when she should come down hard with a braking foot to land in a laughing, tangled heap beside her companion.
Delighted by the sheer physicality of the experience, Sigrid unhooked her leg from Nauman’s
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