pictured him in my place, a young man, holding her, threading her hair between his fingers, looking at Almonds while he kissed her.
So I drew her face to mine. I could smell the familiar honeysuckle scent behind her ears and on her neck. Upstairs, I heard the radio turn on and off, then on again, then off. It was my parents, fighting over the dial and its stream of bad news. The orange silk skirt of Rose's dress pooled around her legs. I thought of the poem where the woman says, I am half sick of shadows. The bells outside rang midnight, then the first hour of the day.
Rose whispered, between our breaths, “Your father paid three hundred thousand francs for the Degas in 1931 and did not exhibit it for five years. Then Alain de Leonardis bought it for a million francs.” She let me unhook her brassiere. “The Cézanne sold for sixty thousand at auction and your father has reserved it for the Mariotti collection for eight hundred thousand francs.”
I put my hands under the hem of her dress and lifted it to her waist. Rose gasped. I grew dizzy and single-minded. She pushed me away when I tried, with what I thought was considerable charm, to remove another article of clothing. “The Picasso was part of a lot: three paintings for three hundred seventy-five thousand francs. The nude alone will sell for three hundred fifty thousand.” The church told us it was half-past two. We began to fall asleep kissing. Soon dawn hovered outside the diamond-paned skylight, a gray cat pressing its back against the glass. “The almonds seem to glow, don't they?” she said.
“It's strange that my father has never been able to sell it,” I said, and tried to kiss her some more. She drew away.
“Max, I file his correspondence. He gets letters every week asking after that one—from São Paulo, New York, Peking—and he just tells me to throw them out. Almonds is not for sale. He bought it for thirty thousand francs in 1918 from—”
“Yes, I know,” I said. I didn't.
The diamond-paned glass grew light. I gathered up Rose's shawl. Holding her shoes, Rose made her way toward her apartment, and I could swear the paintings turned to look.
As we crossed from the gallery to the hallway leading up to the Nurse's Room, Rose put her hand back to stop me. My father stood before Rose's door, still dressed in his tuxedo. Twice he lifted his hand to knock, then dropped it to his side. Shaking his head, he thrust his fists in his pockets and walked back to the kitchen.
“What …” I began.
Rose shook her head. “I don't know.”
I left her. It was nearly 5 a.m. I heard the cook moving about and the hiss of gas and the clank of a cabinet sprung open. A pot rattled against its shelf and then against the stove.
WHEN MADRID CAPITULATED AND VALENCIA CLOSELY followed, my Anatomy professor Negrín, whom I had never really thought of as Spanish, stepped in front of a train at Abbesses. According to the newspapers, Negrín had shouted, “Death to the Fifth Column!” I suspected the paper embroidered the details of his suicide. He had been a soft-spoken man.
Our exam was therefore postponed. I had attended the class in only a desultory fashion, it was true, yet I could not believe that Professor Negrín had died, and thus for once I reviewed for the test. Rose offered to help. We studied in the Jardin Labouré, which was garishly sunny and blooming.
“Did you go to the lecture today?” Rose asked, her voice odd.
“No,” I replied. I did not want to see Negrín's substitute at the front of the hall, pretending that nothing had happened.
“Will you get the notes?”
“No intention of it.”
“Ivan said the lecture was interesting—”
“He's a brute.”
“—on the birth ailments of children.”
“You shouldn't talk to him.”
“He came to the Louvre to tell me about a case study from your class.”
“I have enough case studies here at home,” I said.
“I'll say,” said Rose.
Though the sun remained bright overhead,
So I drew her face to mine. I could smell the familiar honeysuckle scent behind her ears and on her neck. Upstairs, I heard the radio turn on and off, then on again, then off. It was my parents, fighting over the dial and its stream of bad news. The orange silk skirt of Rose's dress pooled around her legs. I thought of the poem where the woman says, I am half sick of shadows. The bells outside rang midnight, then the first hour of the day.
Rose whispered, between our breaths, “Your father paid three hundred thousand francs for the Degas in 1931 and did not exhibit it for five years. Then Alain de Leonardis bought it for a million francs.” She let me unhook her brassiere. “The Cézanne sold for sixty thousand at auction and your father has reserved it for the Mariotti collection for eight hundred thousand francs.”
I put my hands under the hem of her dress and lifted it to her waist. Rose gasped. I grew dizzy and single-minded. She pushed me away when I tried, with what I thought was considerable charm, to remove another article of clothing. “The Picasso was part of a lot: three paintings for three hundred seventy-five thousand francs. The nude alone will sell for three hundred fifty thousand.” The church told us it was half-past two. We began to fall asleep kissing. Soon dawn hovered outside the diamond-paned skylight, a gray cat pressing its back against the glass. “The almonds seem to glow, don't they?” she said.
“It's strange that my father has never been able to sell it,” I said, and tried to kiss her some more. She drew away.
“Max, I file his correspondence. He gets letters every week asking after that one—from São Paulo, New York, Peking—and he just tells me to throw them out. Almonds is not for sale. He bought it for thirty thousand francs in 1918 from—”
“Yes, I know,” I said. I didn't.
The diamond-paned glass grew light. I gathered up Rose's shawl. Holding her shoes, Rose made her way toward her apartment, and I could swear the paintings turned to look.
As we crossed from the gallery to the hallway leading up to the Nurse's Room, Rose put her hand back to stop me. My father stood before Rose's door, still dressed in his tuxedo. Twice he lifted his hand to knock, then dropped it to his side. Shaking his head, he thrust his fists in his pockets and walked back to the kitchen.
“What …” I began.
Rose shook her head. “I don't know.”
I left her. It was nearly 5 a.m. I heard the cook moving about and the hiss of gas and the clank of a cabinet sprung open. A pot rattled against its shelf and then against the stove.
WHEN MADRID CAPITULATED AND VALENCIA CLOSELY followed, my Anatomy professor Negrín, whom I had never really thought of as Spanish, stepped in front of a train at Abbesses. According to the newspapers, Negrín had shouted, “Death to the Fifth Column!” I suspected the paper embroidered the details of his suicide. He had been a soft-spoken man.
Our exam was therefore postponed. I had attended the class in only a desultory fashion, it was true, yet I could not believe that Professor Negrín had died, and thus for once I reviewed for the test. Rose offered to help. We studied in the Jardin Labouré, which was garishly sunny and blooming.
“Did you go to the lecture today?” Rose asked, her voice odd.
“No,” I replied. I did not want to see Negrín's substitute at the front of the hall, pretending that nothing had happened.
“Will you get the notes?”
“No intention of it.”
“Ivan said the lecture was interesting—”
“He's a brute.”
“—on the birth ailments of children.”
“You shouldn't talk to him.”
“He came to the Louvre to tell me about a case study from your class.”
“I have enough case studies here at home,” I said.
“I'll say,” said Rose.
Though the sun remained bright overhead,
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