considered it at the time--and why not, when it was so clear now?--this man in the tallis was his father, the boys his brothers.
"It's fine work," Vago said. "I wasn't the only one who thought so."
"It's not architecture," Andras said, and handed the cover back to Vago.
"You'll learn architecture. And in the meantime you'll study French. There's no other way to survive here. I can help you, but I can't translate for you in every class. So you will come here every morning, an hour before studio, and practice your French with me."
"Here with you, sir?"
"Yes. From now on we will speak only French. I'll teach you all I know. And for God's sake, you will cease to call me 'sir,' as if I were an army officer." His eyes assumed a serious expression, but he twisted his mouth to the left in a French-looking moue.
"L'architecture n'est pas un jeu d'enfants," he said in a deep, resonant voice that matched exactly, both in pitch and tone, the voice of Professor Perret. "L'architecture, c'est l'art le plus seriuex de tous."
"L'art le plus serieux de tous," Andras repeated in the same deep tone.
"Non, non!" Vago cried. "Only I am permitted the voice of Monsieur le Directeur.
You will please speak in the manner of Andras the lowly student. My name is Andras the Lowly Student," Vago said in French. "If you please: repeat."
"My name is Andras the Lowly Student."
"I shall learn to speak perfect French from Monsieur Vago."
"I shall learn to speak perfect French from Monsieur Vago."
"I will repeat everything he says."
"I will repeat everything he says."
"Though not in the voice of Monsieur le Directeur."
"Though not in the voice of Monsieur le Directeur."
"Let me ask you a question," Vago said in Hungarian now, his expression earnest.
"Have I done the right thing by bringing you here? Are you terribly lonely? Is this all overwhelming?"
"It
is overwhelming," Andras said. "But I find I'm strangely happy."
"I was miserable when I first got here," Vago said, settling back in his chair. "I came three weeks after I finished school in Rome, and started at the Beaux-Arts. That school was no place for a person of my temperament. Those first few months were awful!
I hated Paris with a passion." He looked out the office window at the chill gray afternoon.
"I walked around every day, taking it all in--the Bastille and the Tuileries, the Luxembourg, Notre-Dame, the Opera--and cursing every stick and stone of it. After a while I transferred to the Ecole Speciale. That was when I began to fall in love with Paris.
Now I can't imagine living anyplace else. After a time, you'll feel that way too."
"I'm beginning to feel that way already."
"Just wait," Vago said, and grinned. "It only gets worse."
In the mornings he bought his bread at the small boulangerie near his building, and his newspaper from a stand on the corner; when he dropped his coins into the proprietor's hand, the man would sing a throaty Merci . Back at his apartment he would eat his croissant and drink sweet tea from the empty jam jar. He would look at the photographs in the paper and try to follow the news of the Spanish Civil War, in which the Front Populaire was losing ground now against the Nationalistes . He wouldn't allow himself to buy a Hungarian expatriate paper to fill in the blanks; the urgency of the news itself eased the effort of translation. Every day came stories of new atrocities: teenaged boys shot in ditches, elderly gentlemen bayoneted in olive orchards, villages firebombed from the air. Italy accused France of violating its own arms embargo; large shipments of Soviet munitions were reaching the Republican army. On the other side, Germany had increased the numbers of its Condor Legion to ten thousand men. Andras read the news with increasing despair, jealous at times of the young men who had run away to fight for the Republican army. Everyone was involved now, he knew; any other view was denial.
With his mind full of horrific images
"It's fine work," Vago said. "I wasn't the only one who thought so."
"It's not architecture," Andras said, and handed the cover back to Vago.
"You'll learn architecture. And in the meantime you'll study French. There's no other way to survive here. I can help you, but I can't translate for you in every class. So you will come here every morning, an hour before studio, and practice your French with me."
"Here with you, sir?"
"Yes. From now on we will speak only French. I'll teach you all I know. And for God's sake, you will cease to call me 'sir,' as if I were an army officer." His eyes assumed a serious expression, but he twisted his mouth to the left in a French-looking moue.
"L'architecture n'est pas un jeu d'enfants," he said in a deep, resonant voice that matched exactly, both in pitch and tone, the voice of Professor Perret. "L'architecture, c'est l'art le plus seriuex de tous."
"L'art le plus serieux de tous," Andras repeated in the same deep tone.
"Non, non!" Vago cried. "Only I am permitted the voice of Monsieur le Directeur.
You will please speak in the manner of Andras the lowly student. My name is Andras the Lowly Student," Vago said in French. "If you please: repeat."
"My name is Andras the Lowly Student."
"I shall learn to speak perfect French from Monsieur Vago."
"I shall learn to speak perfect French from Monsieur Vago."
"I will repeat everything he says."
"I will repeat everything he says."
"Though not in the voice of Monsieur le Directeur."
"Though not in the voice of Monsieur le Directeur."
"Let me ask you a question," Vago said in Hungarian now, his expression earnest.
"Have I done the right thing by bringing you here? Are you terribly lonely? Is this all overwhelming?"
"It
is overwhelming," Andras said. "But I find I'm strangely happy."
"I was miserable when I first got here," Vago said, settling back in his chair. "I came three weeks after I finished school in Rome, and started at the Beaux-Arts. That school was no place for a person of my temperament. Those first few months were awful!
I hated Paris with a passion." He looked out the office window at the chill gray afternoon.
"I walked around every day, taking it all in--the Bastille and the Tuileries, the Luxembourg, Notre-Dame, the Opera--and cursing every stick and stone of it. After a while I transferred to the Ecole Speciale. That was when I began to fall in love with Paris.
Now I can't imagine living anyplace else. After a time, you'll feel that way too."
"I'm beginning to feel that way already."
"Just wait," Vago said, and grinned. "It only gets worse."
In the mornings he bought his bread at the small boulangerie near his building, and his newspaper from a stand on the corner; when he dropped his coins into the proprietor's hand, the man would sing a throaty Merci . Back at his apartment he would eat his croissant and drink sweet tea from the empty jam jar. He would look at the photographs in the paper and try to follow the news of the Spanish Civil War, in which the Front Populaire was losing ground now against the Nationalistes . He wouldn't allow himself to buy a Hungarian expatriate paper to fill in the blanks; the urgency of the news itself eased the effort of translation. Every day came stories of new atrocities: teenaged boys shot in ditches, elderly gentlemen bayoneted in olive orchards, villages firebombed from the air. Italy accused France of violating its own arms embargo; large shipments of Soviet munitions were reaching the Republican army. On the other side, Germany had increased the numbers of its Condor Legion to ten thousand men. Andras read the news with increasing despair, jealous at times of the young men who had run away to fight for the Republican army. Everyone was involved now, he knew; any other view was denial.
With his mind full of horrific images
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