one else could see. Instead of emerging from fog or mist, the figure of Nicole appeared to be walking laboriously through roiling blue water. Her hair flowed upwards, like seaweed, around a heart-shaped face marked by a shadow -- a bruise? -- above frightened eyes. A shadowy shape wriggled from her left hand, perhaps a fish. Perhaps nothing. The viewer could not be sure.
The ship captain grabbed Madeleine’s wrist. “Isn’t that the girl who made you famous?”
“What?” she asked, pulling her arm away. She reluctantly leaned in to hear him better, though some instinct told her she would not like his words.
“The girl who made you famous twice. Once you tried to save her from drowning, then you brought her back from the grave with that reconstruction I saw in the paper.”
“Yes, it’s Nicole,” Madeleine said. “Her name, as you can see, is on the card beside the picture.”
“Nicole Whitehead, wasn’t it? The Dunes. The Fourth of July, 1990. I remember. ” The man’s voice was a hushed monotone. His eyes were flat like slate.
“You remember what?”
“I watched the two of you from a boat.”
Alarmed at his tone, which was faintly menacing, and at the approach of the reporters looking for a story, Madeleine frowned, massaging the spot where he had grabbed her arm. Without a word, she glided into the safety of the crowd.
After that, he followed a few feet behind as she moved from buyer to friend and back to buyer. Though he did not ask her questions or utter any comments, he appeared to be eavesdropping on every conversation she had.
As the exhibition drew to a close, Madeleine glanced around the room in search of Babette. She wanted to know how many paintings had been sold, how many people were in attendance, what kind of comments had been overheard. But Babette was nowhere to be seen and she wasn’t in her office.
And then, emerging from Babette’s office, Madeleine once again spotted the strange man slowly moving toward her. She quickly headed toward the temporary bar, where Anthony, dressed like a diplomat, was standing at attention, listening with a bemused expression to an art critic as famous for her eccentric costumes as for her erudite reviews. He flashed a smile at Madeleine. “Oh, my dear, you know Dr. Beatrice Eagleton, of course.”
Taking Anthony’s arm, Madeleine nodded at the androgynous figure with the prominent nose and pock-marked cheeks. Her gravelly baritone voice and big, bony feet clad in designer stilettos confused people who didn’t know her. Dr. Eagleton, who could make or break an artist, was due a great deal of deference, but Madeleine was too upset for niceties. She politely tipped her head in greeting but directed her words to Anthony. “Quick! Who’s the man who’s been following me all night?”
“What man?” Anthony and Beatrice asked in chorus. Both stretched and peered around.
“The man in the double-breasted navy blazer, looks like a ship captain. Spooky eyes. Speaks in a monotone. I think he’s right behind me.”
Anthony took a few steps to the side, swept the room with his eyes, and shook his head. “I don’t see anyone of that description.”
“Look again.”
Instead, he put his arms around Madeleine and leaned in so Beatrice could not hear. “Schatzi, you’re imagining things again.”
“No, I’m not,” she whispered. “I swear. You must have noticed him. About your height, longish white hair, deeply furrowed forehead burnt by the sun. For hours he’s followed me like a shadow.”
“Sorry, never noticed. If I’d known someone was bothering you, I’d have hurried to the rescue, you know that.” He gently took her shoulders and turned her around. “Look for yourself. Don’t be embarrassed. If some man is following you, then confront him.”
But the man had disappeared.
Anthony turned her around so she was once again facing the art critic. “Now our dear Beatrice has two questions for you. The first is whether your
The ship captain grabbed Madeleine’s wrist. “Isn’t that the girl who made you famous?”
“What?” she asked, pulling her arm away. She reluctantly leaned in to hear him better, though some instinct told her she would not like his words.
“The girl who made you famous twice. Once you tried to save her from drowning, then you brought her back from the grave with that reconstruction I saw in the paper.”
“Yes, it’s Nicole,” Madeleine said. “Her name, as you can see, is on the card beside the picture.”
“Nicole Whitehead, wasn’t it? The Dunes. The Fourth of July, 1990. I remember. ” The man’s voice was a hushed monotone. His eyes were flat like slate.
“You remember what?”
“I watched the two of you from a boat.”
Alarmed at his tone, which was faintly menacing, and at the approach of the reporters looking for a story, Madeleine frowned, massaging the spot where he had grabbed her arm. Without a word, she glided into the safety of the crowd.
After that, he followed a few feet behind as she moved from buyer to friend and back to buyer. Though he did not ask her questions or utter any comments, he appeared to be eavesdropping on every conversation she had.
As the exhibition drew to a close, Madeleine glanced around the room in search of Babette. She wanted to know how many paintings had been sold, how many people were in attendance, what kind of comments had been overheard. But Babette was nowhere to be seen and she wasn’t in her office.
And then, emerging from Babette’s office, Madeleine once again spotted the strange man slowly moving toward her. She quickly headed toward the temporary bar, where Anthony, dressed like a diplomat, was standing at attention, listening with a bemused expression to an art critic as famous for her eccentric costumes as for her erudite reviews. He flashed a smile at Madeleine. “Oh, my dear, you know Dr. Beatrice Eagleton, of course.”
Taking Anthony’s arm, Madeleine nodded at the androgynous figure with the prominent nose and pock-marked cheeks. Her gravelly baritone voice and big, bony feet clad in designer stilettos confused people who didn’t know her. Dr. Eagleton, who could make or break an artist, was due a great deal of deference, but Madeleine was too upset for niceties. She politely tipped her head in greeting but directed her words to Anthony. “Quick! Who’s the man who’s been following me all night?”
“What man?” Anthony and Beatrice asked in chorus. Both stretched and peered around.
“The man in the double-breasted navy blazer, looks like a ship captain. Spooky eyes. Speaks in a monotone. I think he’s right behind me.”
Anthony took a few steps to the side, swept the room with his eyes, and shook his head. “I don’t see anyone of that description.”
“Look again.”
Instead, he put his arms around Madeleine and leaned in so Beatrice could not hear. “Schatzi, you’re imagining things again.”
“No, I’m not,” she whispered. “I swear. You must have noticed him. About your height, longish white hair, deeply furrowed forehead burnt by the sun. For hours he’s followed me like a shadow.”
“Sorry, never noticed. If I’d known someone was bothering you, I’d have hurried to the rescue, you know that.” He gently took her shoulders and turned her around. “Look for yourself. Don’t be embarrassed. If some man is following you, then confront him.”
But the man had disappeared.
Anthony turned her around so she was once again facing the art critic. “Now our dear Beatrice has two questions for you. The first is whether your
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