make pasta. A friend came by with sausage from a Sicilian butcher this afternoon, the best I’ve ever had. That with tomatoes and basil and bread.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
Didier prepped ingredients and sautéed onion and garlic and the meat in a pan, then gathered flour and other things, setting a metal, cranked contraption on the island.
“You make your own pasta?”
He nodded, eyeballing measurements. “It’s not so hard. I enjoy cooking. It’s the hobby I indulge the most these days.”
“What else do you like to do?”
“I read a lot. Sometimes I take things apart and put them back together. Watches, clocks. My hobbies are quite simple.”
I nodded, sipping my wine, watching this fascinating creature at work. “What did you want to be, when you were younger?”
“I always thought I might be a writer, but no matter how often I try, it never gives me the joy I expect it to. It never feels quite so romantic as it seems it should.”
“That’s too bad. I bet your memoirs would be very eye-opening.”
He drove his fingers into the dough, flour puffing up to settle on his forearms. “What about you? What did you want to be?”
“I wanted to be an artist, but I never got very far beyond imitating other people’s work. When I went to college I fell in love with art history, and that’s what led me to curating.”
“Who is your favorite artist?”
“I couldn’t pick any one favorite. But I probably love Klee and Miro best.”
He nodded. “Miro was fascinating. I heard he was an accountant, and that he suffered a nervous breakdown and that is how he came to art. Is that true?”
“I believe so.”
“You must know the Louvre inside-out, after two years in Paris.”
I nodded. “That’s not where I work, though. I work at the smaller museum, just a couple blocks east. But I was lucky enough to get a summer internship at the Louvre when I was twenty. It was heaven, seeing all the works I knew from books in person.”
“Yes, it’s much different.” He fed dough into the pasta maker and turned the crank, a nest of noodles gathering on the floury wood.
“In a book you can’t move around, see the way the light hits the brushstrokes from all the different angles,” I said.
“Or smell the wood or stone or paper.”
“Exactly. It changed my life, that summer.” I sipped my wine as Didier cooked, studying him in the cool dusk light, my very own work of art for the evening.
“What’s it like, seeing yourself as other people’s art in galleries?” I asked.
“It’s humbling.”
I smiled, unseen, liking his answer.
“It does not feel like me, in their photographs. Just some man I resemble. Though I’ve always been poor at reducing people to their outsides.”
I pondered that, wondering if it was the willful habit of a man sick to death of being objectified, or perhaps one merely enamored with minds.
“Have you heard of that disease where a person cannot recognize faces?” he asked.
“Sure. That disorder Oliver Sacks has.” I frowned. “Do you have that?”
“No, but I understand it. I’ve always been terrible with faces and names, even worse with places and buildings. I get lost very easily.”
I smiled at that notion, at the visual of Didier’s perplexed expression as he stared at a street sign, a dozen arrows pointing every which way.
“As a child,” he said, “I only remembered how to get to places by counting the blocks. Three blocks straight, one block left, two blocks right. That was school.”
“You couldn’t just look at, I don’t know, a fountain or something, and remember where you were?”
“It’s odd, I know. If I passed the fountain I would ask myself, do I see that on the way to school? Or was that somewhere I went on the weekend with my mother, the post office, perhaps?”
“Weird.”
“Indeed. I got better, if only at memorizing street names and writing notes to myself. And later I grew quite fond of taxis, letting directions be
“That sounds wonderful.”
Didier prepped ingredients and sautéed onion and garlic and the meat in a pan, then gathered flour and other things, setting a metal, cranked contraption on the island.
“You make your own pasta?”
He nodded, eyeballing measurements. “It’s not so hard. I enjoy cooking. It’s the hobby I indulge the most these days.”
“What else do you like to do?”
“I read a lot. Sometimes I take things apart and put them back together. Watches, clocks. My hobbies are quite simple.”
I nodded, sipping my wine, watching this fascinating creature at work. “What did you want to be, when you were younger?”
“I always thought I might be a writer, but no matter how often I try, it never gives me the joy I expect it to. It never feels quite so romantic as it seems it should.”
“That’s too bad. I bet your memoirs would be very eye-opening.”
He drove his fingers into the dough, flour puffing up to settle on his forearms. “What about you? What did you want to be?”
“I wanted to be an artist, but I never got very far beyond imitating other people’s work. When I went to college I fell in love with art history, and that’s what led me to curating.”
“Who is your favorite artist?”
“I couldn’t pick any one favorite. But I probably love Klee and Miro best.”
He nodded. “Miro was fascinating. I heard he was an accountant, and that he suffered a nervous breakdown and that is how he came to art. Is that true?”
“I believe so.”
“You must know the Louvre inside-out, after two years in Paris.”
I nodded. “That’s not where I work, though. I work at the smaller museum, just a couple blocks east. But I was lucky enough to get a summer internship at the Louvre when I was twenty. It was heaven, seeing all the works I knew from books in person.”
“Yes, it’s much different.” He fed dough into the pasta maker and turned the crank, a nest of noodles gathering on the floury wood.
“In a book you can’t move around, see the way the light hits the brushstrokes from all the different angles,” I said.
“Or smell the wood or stone or paper.”
“Exactly. It changed my life, that summer.” I sipped my wine as Didier cooked, studying him in the cool dusk light, my very own work of art for the evening.
“What’s it like, seeing yourself as other people’s art in galleries?” I asked.
“It’s humbling.”
I smiled, unseen, liking his answer.
“It does not feel like me, in their photographs. Just some man I resemble. Though I’ve always been poor at reducing people to their outsides.”
I pondered that, wondering if it was the willful habit of a man sick to death of being objectified, or perhaps one merely enamored with minds.
“Have you heard of that disease where a person cannot recognize faces?” he asked.
“Sure. That disorder Oliver Sacks has.” I frowned. “Do you have that?”
“No, but I understand it. I’ve always been terrible with faces and names, even worse with places and buildings. I get lost very easily.”
I smiled at that notion, at the visual of Didier’s perplexed expression as he stared at a street sign, a dozen arrows pointing every which way.
“As a child,” he said, “I only remembered how to get to places by counting the blocks. Three blocks straight, one block left, two blocks right. That was school.”
“You couldn’t just look at, I don’t know, a fountain or something, and remember where you were?”
“It’s odd, I know. If I passed the fountain I would ask myself, do I see that on the way to school? Or was that somewhere I went on the weekend with my mother, the post office, perhaps?”
“Weird.”
“Indeed. I got better, if only at memorizing street names and writing notes to myself. And later I grew quite fond of taxis, letting directions be
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