we heard a gathering storm of tapping, like the sound of a rain shower coming in.
“I left my umbrella at home,” Rose said.
I lifted my gaze to the parted garden gate, and we watched a stream of blind children pass by, walking quickly and ticking their canes, laughing and calling out to one another. “Cailleux has three new Matisses in his gallery,” Rose said, after the children were gone from the street. “And your father has an exclusive contract with Henri for première vue. You understand what that means. Henri can choose what he might want to sell privately or keep in his own collection, but after that your father is the only dealer who can sell the paintings when they first go on the market.”
I nodded. “So tell him. He'll be hopping mad.”
“No,” Rose said, closing my anatomy book with a clap, “you are going to pay the Cailleux Gallery a visit. I have my own suspicions, but I want to hear what you think before I tell you.” She walked ahead of me out of the garden. “Go and beguile whatever imbecile is working there. Pretend you're interested in buying and ask all the naive questions you're afraid to ask your father—or me—about the paintings. He'll fall right into your lap.” I grabbed her by the waist, and she let me kiss her, briefly, and then appeared to change her mind.
AT THE CAILLEUX GALLERY ON RUE WASHINGTON , a girl with a pink sweater and a vacant stare followed behind me as I circled the room, where three Matisses were displayed. I asked her when they had been painted, if Cailleux had others, what they cost, and if I could take the photographic plates home with me (as was standard practice when one considered investing thousands in a painting). The assistant's name was Mademoiselle Clothilde, and I told her I only liked pretty paintings and pretty girls.
“They're Matisse's most recent work.” Mademoiselle Clothilde smiled weakly. “And these are the only ones we have, though more are expected. Of course, the master's genius is hard to predict.” She adjusted the kerchief at her neck.
I paid a small deposit for the photographic plates and left, puzzled as to why Rose had sent me.
Later, Rose and I were in the gallery.
She was looking at the Morisot on the wall, the Woman in White.
“Why did you send me to Cailleux's?”
“Think of it as a gift.”
I did not understand. Rose sighed. “Max, you're too kind, too full of humility. I seem to share more with your father in this regard. We both doubt, calculate. What do you think of Cailleux's Matisses?”
“Not as nice as ours,” I said.
“And why not?”
“They lack motion, fluidity,” I said.
“That is your first thought—can you guess mine?” I shook my head. “They're forgeries.”
“Not more fakes,” I said.
Rose lowered her voice. “Your father will want to lose his mind and explode at Henri, and then he will have risked his contract altogether. Tell him to approach by telephoning Matisse and saying that Cailleux is selling fakes and that Daniel knows Henri isn't paid for them. That way, even if your father is wrong, he still looks like he's acting on the side of his artistic client, and he only confirms what all the artists think anyway: that dealers don't understand their art, they're just moneymen. No more.”
I took this in unhappily, but followed Rose's scheme the next day. By April, her theory of the fakes was vindicated, and I had never seen my father so pleased with me.
INCREASINGLY ROSE LET ME VISIT HER IN HER ROOM AT night. I tried to tell myself she acted out of desire, though I had come to suspect that Rose never possessed motives so simple. Sometimes we drew so close to each other that she would push me away with both hands, turn on the light, and pick up a comic—as if the levity of the material could soften her rejection. Worst of all, she might turn on the radio. Two foreign ministers, von Ribbentrop and Mussolini's son-in-law, made their alliance, and we all said the Italians were
“I left my umbrella at home,” Rose said.
I lifted my gaze to the parted garden gate, and we watched a stream of blind children pass by, walking quickly and ticking their canes, laughing and calling out to one another. “Cailleux has three new Matisses in his gallery,” Rose said, after the children were gone from the street. “And your father has an exclusive contract with Henri for première vue. You understand what that means. Henri can choose what he might want to sell privately or keep in his own collection, but after that your father is the only dealer who can sell the paintings when they first go on the market.”
I nodded. “So tell him. He'll be hopping mad.”
“No,” Rose said, closing my anatomy book with a clap, “you are going to pay the Cailleux Gallery a visit. I have my own suspicions, but I want to hear what you think before I tell you.” She walked ahead of me out of the garden. “Go and beguile whatever imbecile is working there. Pretend you're interested in buying and ask all the naive questions you're afraid to ask your father—or me—about the paintings. He'll fall right into your lap.” I grabbed her by the waist, and she let me kiss her, briefly, and then appeared to change her mind.
AT THE CAILLEUX GALLERY ON RUE WASHINGTON , a girl with a pink sweater and a vacant stare followed behind me as I circled the room, where three Matisses were displayed. I asked her when they had been painted, if Cailleux had others, what they cost, and if I could take the photographic plates home with me (as was standard practice when one considered investing thousands in a painting). The assistant's name was Mademoiselle Clothilde, and I told her I only liked pretty paintings and pretty girls.
“They're Matisse's most recent work.” Mademoiselle Clothilde smiled weakly. “And these are the only ones we have, though more are expected. Of course, the master's genius is hard to predict.” She adjusted the kerchief at her neck.
I paid a small deposit for the photographic plates and left, puzzled as to why Rose had sent me.
Later, Rose and I were in the gallery.
She was looking at the Morisot on the wall, the Woman in White.
“Why did you send me to Cailleux's?”
“Think of it as a gift.”
I did not understand. Rose sighed. “Max, you're too kind, too full of humility. I seem to share more with your father in this regard. We both doubt, calculate. What do you think of Cailleux's Matisses?”
“Not as nice as ours,” I said.
“And why not?”
“They lack motion, fluidity,” I said.
“That is your first thought—can you guess mine?” I shook my head. “They're forgeries.”
“Not more fakes,” I said.
Rose lowered her voice. “Your father will want to lose his mind and explode at Henri, and then he will have risked his contract altogether. Tell him to approach by telephoning Matisse and saying that Cailleux is selling fakes and that Daniel knows Henri isn't paid for them. That way, even if your father is wrong, he still looks like he's acting on the side of his artistic client, and he only confirms what all the artists think anyway: that dealers don't understand their art, they're just moneymen. No more.”
I took this in unhappily, but followed Rose's scheme the next day. By April, her theory of the fakes was vindicated, and I had never seen my father so pleased with me.
INCREASINGLY ROSE LET ME VISIT HER IN HER ROOM AT night. I tried to tell myself she acted out of desire, though I had come to suspect that Rose never possessed motives so simple. Sometimes we drew so close to each other that she would push me away with both hands, turn on the light, and pick up a comic—as if the levity of the material could soften her rejection. Worst of all, she might turn on the radio. Two foreign ministers, von Ribbentrop and Mussolini's son-in-law, made their alliance, and we all said the Italians were
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