her attitude overvigilant. Lately, he’d begun to consider it ghoulish.
As a teenager he had thought girls cared more about love than boys did. He had understood that certain trappings were important to them: Valentine presents, birthday presents that could be shown off for their intimacy, a willingness to talk and hug before sex and sometimes instead of it. But Michael cared about those things, wanted to do them. Even before Neil’s death Lydie had been more pragmatic than he was, cared less about passion than he did. For him marriage should be romantic, even thrilling and dangerous.
And was it guilt for that thought that made Michael remember Lydie’s loyalty? The pride she felt at having him work on the Louvre? She never missed the chance to put his work into historical perspective; the idea made him feel excited and daunted. She would invoke all the artists and architects over the ages who had been commissioned by kings and ministers to work on the Louvre, and say that now he was one of them. He ran the phrase “over the ages” through his mind again. If his ideas were accepted, the Ministry of Culture would direct builders to place stones and glass and information booths according to the specifications of Michael McBride. He had left his mark on museums in New York, Dallas, Cleveland, and Hartford, but to leave it on the Louvre would, for Lydie, ensure real and certain immortality.
“There it is,” Lydie said.
The Louvre. They had reached the ramp that would take them up to street level. Regarding the museum, its walls long and massive as a fort’s, its niches filled with great, noble statues, Michael was envisioning its blueprint. From the air, its outline was boldand majestic, yet as simple, as symmetrical as a letter of the alphabet.
Michael and Lydie walked past in silence, but something about the way she gazed up the walls let Michael know she was thinking about him and his work. The sun, much higher in the sky than it would be in the States at this time of evening in late spring, threw shadows on the stones.
A barge slid along the Seine, its frothy wake golden in the declining light. Lydie stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and looked Michael straight in the eye. Her expression startled him. She might have been about to set him straight about a major fact of life.
“I’m proud of you,” she said, surprising him, standing on her bare toes to kiss him. His eyes were closed, and he heard the voices of people passing by. Many of them spoke English; this was, after all, the heart of the tourist district. And beyond the simple pleasure of kissing her, Michael liked joining the ranks of lovers he had seen around Paris, kissing with abandon, caring more for the moment of passion than for decorum. Not caring who was watching.
Lydie believed in the process of change. She believed that a cataclysmic or benevolent event could effect a change, of course, send you veering in a direction you might not normally have taken, and just as her father’s death was one such event, that kiss on the quai was another. She believed it signified healing—of her own spirit. She could envision the moment in her mind the way someone passing in a tour bus might have seen it: in a romantic, photogenic haze. The urge to kiss Michael had come upon her suddenly, raised her up on her toes, made her close her eyes and tilt back her head to meet his lips.
Several evenings later they sat in a noisy bistro in the Seventh, just across the Pont de l’Alma from their building. Trays bearing platters of steak
frites
clattered by, and the patrons were happy drinking cheap red wine bottled in Touraine by the owner’s brother-in-law. Lydie watched Michael, who seemed restless. He tapped the pepper mill on the paper cloth, staring at the spilled pepper flecks as if they were tea leaves. Where their dinner hours had once been filled with conversation, for the last eleven months they had been quiet, with Lydie closed off and Michael tired
As a teenager he had thought girls cared more about love than boys did. He had understood that certain trappings were important to them: Valentine presents, birthday presents that could be shown off for their intimacy, a willingness to talk and hug before sex and sometimes instead of it. But Michael cared about those things, wanted to do them. Even before Neil’s death Lydie had been more pragmatic than he was, cared less about passion than he did. For him marriage should be romantic, even thrilling and dangerous.
And was it guilt for that thought that made Michael remember Lydie’s loyalty? The pride she felt at having him work on the Louvre? She never missed the chance to put his work into historical perspective; the idea made him feel excited and daunted. She would invoke all the artists and architects over the ages who had been commissioned by kings and ministers to work on the Louvre, and say that now he was one of them. He ran the phrase “over the ages” through his mind again. If his ideas were accepted, the Ministry of Culture would direct builders to place stones and glass and information booths according to the specifications of Michael McBride. He had left his mark on museums in New York, Dallas, Cleveland, and Hartford, but to leave it on the Louvre would, for Lydie, ensure real and certain immortality.
“There it is,” Lydie said.
The Louvre. They had reached the ramp that would take them up to street level. Regarding the museum, its walls long and massive as a fort’s, its niches filled with great, noble statues, Michael was envisioning its blueprint. From the air, its outline was boldand majestic, yet as simple, as symmetrical as a letter of the alphabet.
Michael and Lydie walked past in silence, but something about the way she gazed up the walls let Michael know she was thinking about him and his work. The sun, much higher in the sky than it would be in the States at this time of evening in late spring, threw shadows on the stones.
A barge slid along the Seine, its frothy wake golden in the declining light. Lydie stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and looked Michael straight in the eye. Her expression startled him. She might have been about to set him straight about a major fact of life.
“I’m proud of you,” she said, surprising him, standing on her bare toes to kiss him. His eyes were closed, and he heard the voices of people passing by. Many of them spoke English; this was, after all, the heart of the tourist district. And beyond the simple pleasure of kissing her, Michael liked joining the ranks of lovers he had seen around Paris, kissing with abandon, caring more for the moment of passion than for decorum. Not caring who was watching.
Lydie believed in the process of change. She believed that a cataclysmic or benevolent event could effect a change, of course, send you veering in a direction you might not normally have taken, and just as her father’s death was one such event, that kiss on the quai was another. She believed it signified healing—of her own spirit. She could envision the moment in her mind the way someone passing in a tour bus might have seen it: in a romantic, photogenic haze. The urge to kiss Michael had come upon her suddenly, raised her up on her toes, made her close her eyes and tilt back her head to meet his lips.
Several evenings later they sat in a noisy bistro in the Seventh, just across the Pont de l’Alma from their building. Trays bearing platters of steak
frites
clattered by, and the patrons were happy drinking cheap red wine bottled in Touraine by the owner’s brother-in-law. Lydie watched Michael, who seemed restless. He tapped the pepper mill on the paper cloth, staring at the spilled pepper flecks as if they were tea leaves. Where their dinner hours had once been filled with conversation, for the last eleven months they had been quiet, with Lydie closed off and Michael tired
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