Pictures at an Exhibition by Sara Houghteling

than usual. Somehow, Father must have warned the company of her condition: there were no requests for a performance, no coterie of tipsy favorites afterward, upstairs, leaning against the piano and singing.
    When the pyramids of cakes and champagne glasses had been cleared away, my father and I sat on the divan, shoulders touching.
    I anticipated the ritual with painful pleasure. Father could be cruel and dismissive of me during the day, before my mother or Rose, but when it was evening and the green carpet turned the gallery into a forest glade, my father was a different man from the one others saw during daylight.
    With my eyes shut, I recited the paintings and he listed their dimensions.
    “At the Milliner's,” I said. “A woman trying on a hat. This is more muted than later works, because Degas is not going blind yet so there's no need to paint in those iridescents.”
    We heard a glass break upstairs. “These fits!” Father stood and stamped his foot. “Whatever pills that quack gave your mother aren't doing anything but making her hair fall out.” I heard Mother wail. We both started.
    Still, I did not want Father to go to her yet. I needed to ask him something. A thought gnawed at me. Father made to leave, then paused. “You're too old to recite paintings every night with your father, aren't you?” Before I could reply, he closed the door, and I heard him take the stairs to the apartments two at a time.
    I lit a cigarette and continued to mutter the names of the paintings.
    Someone entered the room behind me. “They say talking to yourself is a sign of money in the bank.” Rose's voice was throaty, and she wore an orange silk dress I recognized as one of my mother's castoffs.
    The ceiling above us creaked and groaned. Water rushed through the pipes. Father drew Mother a bath. There was splashing and murmuring voices. First Mother laughed, then Father.
    Still standing, Rose made one full turn, as if she were seeing the gallery for the first time. “Imagine growing up with a father who discussed fine art—his fine art—with you every night.”
    “He won't talk about much else with me,” I said.
    “Still,” she said, “consider the alternative.”
    I nodded, unsure of what to say.
    To my surprise, Rose sat beside me and shut her eyes. “Where shall we begin?” she asked.
    I paused, hoping to avoid the Degas ballerina statue thrusting her bronzed chin and narrow rib cage in our direction. She was eerie, too childlike and too suggestive.
    But Rose pointed to the Degas. “Little Dancer Aged Fourteen. Not beautiful, yet inviting, and likely a prostitute.” Rose tilted her head like a bird.
    “They were in an impossible situation,” I said.
    “Call it what you will. The original was wax, with real human hair and a tutu, and it made the crowds furious.”
    Upstairs, my mother turned on her radio. Music this time, not the news.
    “Le nozze di Figaro,” Rose whispered. Mother had taken her to the opera some weeks earlier, when the orange dress must have been exchanged. I had a sudden vision of Rose pinning the syllables of Mozart's title like a banner on a clothesline. “Non so più. My heart hurts, it is so beautiful.” She touched her fingers there.
    “Bertrand brought a dancer from Pigalle back here once,” I began, aware that my brain was not permitting me to fix ideas (dancer, prostitute, Bertrand, painting, the humming feeling in my blood) together in a sensible way. “She kept asking how much each painting was worth and was disappointed that I didn't know. I made up a figure and she said, ‘Oh, that's not a lot of money’”
    “Why didn't you know?” Rose asked. “Why did you bring her to the gallery?”
    “It was Bertrand. They left after ten minutes.”
    The knuckles on her hand touched my own. We were both exhausted from the party. Her soft speech made me want to lean in and listen to the small intake of her breath. I flushed. I could notthink. What would my father have done? I