turning to the waiter, who was setting down dessert, she informed him that crème caramel was the hallmark of inferiority. She had always led Catrine to believe the hallmark of inferiority is lying but it was crème caramel the entire time. The waiter retreated, she looked out the leaded window at one of the oldest buildings in Portland. It had once been a hotel. A dog stood uncertainly in the middle of the street. She didn’t raise a hand to her cheek. Outside, a man gripped a baguette. They had never hit her. Mother paid the bill. Mother finished the dregs. Mother had slapped her because Mother was dying.
Stewed tea with Blackened Banana. Across the museum café, the ting of dropped silver. School next week. Return without a house. The chair presses a mondrian into the back of her legs. She drains her tea.
Returning the cup weaving the stark tables past the woman pushing scone crumbs with the edge of her map past Soloman scrubbing newsprint from his fingertips through the swing door up the stairs past the grave guard good morning through the Romans earthenware dominoes Greeks one grand gallery oils second one with red walls sketches last corridor bleached with light. Sculpture Court.
Rodin’s hand. Two lovers entwined. Bashful woman on a rock, hands strategically planted, ohmygoodness. Cousin of Gilbert’s blue muse. Naked figure of man throwing plate. Girl kneeling for a better view. Man completely naked. Girl a step closer. Light cue and.
Here’s a painting children love. Four ruddy schoolboys posed against a swampy backdrop. Flash shoe difficult to.
Hurry the fuck up,
Yank
. Mutiny of the odalisques. Hold on. Struggling with the F-stop as the boys marble with the cold, ruining her composition.
Yank hurry
the—suddenly the boys yelp, stumble and scamper away.
She whirls around, letting the camera fall to her side.
A figure stands silhouetted against School House, arms akimbo. Appalled.
You, Evans? You?
Interruption. Trouble. Two days into term two. So this is how it will be. Trouble in the form of Mr. Betts, he of English inflamed with French, the married denying thinning blonde man who, when staring into his Shakespearean ether, sees only Madame Araigny’s expressive fingers which, for ambiguous reasons, number only neuf. Trouble is courage taken after months of
Mr. Betts are you alright sir you look a bit
peaky shall I fetch Matron?
A Comedy of Errors as the English master, spying the object of his philandering thoughts on so many lyric afternoons, four emotive fingers of a left hand in midbring of coffee cup to gentle gallic lips, stiffened his resolve, strode across the staff room and troubled the Widow Araigny for an afternoon stroll. A choice made to forsake the usual path in favor of the pastoral route by the old swimming pool. So.
When trouble interrupts on that flat January horizon it does so in the besotted form of an amateur botanist looking up from nine adorable French fingers to a scene—
Right out of de Sade . . . Mr. Betts fusty strides . . . Indecent. Almost, Headmaster I don’t even like to but . . . hesitant but not at all to mention . . . Pornographic I could say.
Yes . . . Cyclops, doubtful . . . That will do I think.
Camera in her lap, finger wrapped with the edge of skirt wiping the camera lens around and around.
Mr. Betts marches to the window as if to locate decency behind the curtains . . . Our rules may not explicitly prohibit alfresco nudity, but—
Oh we have seen far worse, Betts. This was hardly catastrophic. I think perhaps you should return to your Dickens—
Molière it is, Headmaster. Fourth formers.
Yes. And allow me to deal with Miss Evans here.
As you wish . . . at the door Betts spins on his heel struck by the thought . . . Headmaster, I believe this nasty incident may have unfortunate repercussions for Madame Araigny.
Ahem. I can only implore you then to keep extra counsel on Madame’s health, Mr. Betts. For the good of the school.
Sir . . . a lozenge of
Stewed tea with Blackened Banana. Across the museum café, the ting of dropped silver. School next week. Return without a house. The chair presses a mondrian into the back of her legs. She drains her tea.
Returning the cup weaving the stark tables past the woman pushing scone crumbs with the edge of her map past Soloman scrubbing newsprint from his fingertips through the swing door up the stairs past the grave guard good morning through the Romans earthenware dominoes Greeks one grand gallery oils second one with red walls sketches last corridor bleached with light. Sculpture Court.
Rodin’s hand. Two lovers entwined. Bashful woman on a rock, hands strategically planted, ohmygoodness. Cousin of Gilbert’s blue muse. Naked figure of man throwing plate. Girl kneeling for a better view. Man completely naked. Girl a step closer. Light cue and.
Here’s a painting children love. Four ruddy schoolboys posed against a swampy backdrop. Flash shoe difficult to.
Hurry the fuck up,
Yank
. Mutiny of the odalisques. Hold on. Struggling with the F-stop as the boys marble with the cold, ruining her composition.
Yank hurry
the—suddenly the boys yelp, stumble and scamper away.
She whirls around, letting the camera fall to her side.
A figure stands silhouetted against School House, arms akimbo. Appalled.
You, Evans? You?
Interruption. Trouble. Two days into term two. So this is how it will be. Trouble in the form of Mr. Betts, he of English inflamed with French, the married denying thinning blonde man who, when staring into his Shakespearean ether, sees only Madame Araigny’s expressive fingers which, for ambiguous reasons, number only neuf. Trouble is courage taken after months of
Mr. Betts are you alright sir you look a bit
peaky shall I fetch Matron?
A Comedy of Errors as the English master, spying the object of his philandering thoughts on so many lyric afternoons, four emotive fingers of a left hand in midbring of coffee cup to gentle gallic lips, stiffened his resolve, strode across the staff room and troubled the Widow Araigny for an afternoon stroll. A choice made to forsake the usual path in favor of the pastoral route by the old swimming pool. So.
When trouble interrupts on that flat January horizon it does so in the besotted form of an amateur botanist looking up from nine adorable French fingers to a scene—
Right out of de Sade . . . Mr. Betts fusty strides . . . Indecent. Almost, Headmaster I don’t even like to but . . . hesitant but not at all to mention . . . Pornographic I could say.
Yes . . . Cyclops, doubtful . . . That will do I think.
Camera in her lap, finger wrapped with the edge of skirt wiping the camera lens around and around.
Mr. Betts marches to the window as if to locate decency behind the curtains . . . Our rules may not explicitly prohibit alfresco nudity, but—
Oh we have seen far worse, Betts. This was hardly catastrophic. I think perhaps you should return to your Dickens—
Molière it is, Headmaster. Fourth formers.
Yes. And allow me to deal with Miss Evans here.
As you wish . . . at the door Betts spins on his heel struck by the thought . . . Headmaster, I believe this nasty incident may have unfortunate repercussions for Madame Araigny.
Ahem. I can only implore you then to keep extra counsel on Madame’s health, Mr. Betts. For the good of the school.
Sir . . . a lozenge of
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