two diesel engines of the kind you used to find in London taxis. Those are the babies Groot’s going to rebuild this spring. Getting parts will probably be the main problem.”
Running behind Rachel’s head was a long window box of brilliant red geraniums that now came into focus. Max panned slowly along these flowers until Odile’s head entered the frame and the shot included both women, Odile squinting into the sun.
“What happened to the boat after that?” asked Max. The vidcam, a beta-built HD digital, was on loan from a Japanese company that Jacques had been badgering for days. Something had been said about product endorsement, but Max had no intention of providing any such thing.
“Basically she was worked to death,” Rachel explained, “then left to rot. When Groot found her in Utrecht, she was sunk up to her wheelhouse in sludge and looked much worse than she does now. He raised her and patched her up, then had her towed here by barge. We’ve been working on her and living on board ever since.” She appeared thoughtful. “Two years now.”
“So thanks to you, the
Nachtvlinder
will have a whole new life,” Max suggested.
“Um. We don’t think of it like that, not really.” Rachel gathered her lustrous black hair in her hands, gave it a twist, and held it up off her neck. “She has her history. All we’re doing is giving her a little rehab. Right, Odile?”
Max kept both women in the viewfinder as they looked at each other.
“Yes and no,” Odile answered after a moment. “It’s a question, I suppose, of how much of a thing can be replaced before it becomes another thing altogether.”
Rachel cocked her head. “You’re kidding, right?”
Reaching out across the frame, Odile squeezed her friend’s hand. Then, looking straight into the camera, she said, “Enough for today, Max. It’s the weekend.”
He lowered the vidcam. Rachel excused herself and, ducking into a low oaken doorway, went below to help Groot.
“Are you really going to use that footage?” Odile said when they were alone.
“No, that was just for posterity.” He sat down beside her in the deck chair Rachel had vacated. “Anyway, according to Eddie, I’m in creative transition.”
“But that’s good, isn’t it?”
“Neither good nor bad. Real, though.” He put the camera down in the small shade cast by his chair. “I’m looking for something, so it goes without saying I’ll find something else. I accept this now, even embrace it. Do you think I’m old?”
“Don’t be morbid, Max,” she told him. “You have no gift for it.”
The two of them looked out over the Seine in companionable silence. Weekend pleasure craft—sailboats, ski boats, outboards, rowboats—plied the river in both directions, and the
bateau mouche
heading upstream now sent these lesser vessels scrambling. From its loudspeakers came a steady blast of tour commentary, and in its wake bobbed assorted flotsam—a shoe, a soccer ball, a hat, a bloated pig carcass.
“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Max said. “I saw from this month’s bill that you paid off the back rent. Was that the fruit of your Moscow trip?”
She extended her lips in a pout of feigned boredom.
“Odile.” Reaching out, he took her chin in his hand and turned her toward him. “My love. There’s nothing to worry about. Raising money’s a sport I play. I’ll sell the Giacometti drawing.”
“Why?”
“So that you don’t have to—”
Brushing his hand aside, she put her own impatiently over his mouth. “Enough. When the time comes, you’ll do what must be done. I require it, and you won’t fail me.” His breath in her palm was warm, and she held it for another beat before releasing him. His eyes shone. “I see that we understand each other,” she said. “Good.”
Around four o’clock, Rachel called for Max. Groot needed his help in cutting away the old oil storage tanks. Odile remained topside. Across the river a patrol boat of
la
Running behind Rachel’s head was a long window box of brilliant red geraniums that now came into focus. Max panned slowly along these flowers until Odile’s head entered the frame and the shot included both women, Odile squinting into the sun.
“What happened to the boat after that?” asked Max. The vidcam, a beta-built HD digital, was on loan from a Japanese company that Jacques had been badgering for days. Something had been said about product endorsement, but Max had no intention of providing any such thing.
“Basically she was worked to death,” Rachel explained, “then left to rot. When Groot found her in Utrecht, she was sunk up to her wheelhouse in sludge and looked much worse than she does now. He raised her and patched her up, then had her towed here by barge. We’ve been working on her and living on board ever since.” She appeared thoughtful. “Two years now.”
“So thanks to you, the
Nachtvlinder
will have a whole new life,” Max suggested.
“Um. We don’t think of it like that, not really.” Rachel gathered her lustrous black hair in her hands, gave it a twist, and held it up off her neck. “She has her history. All we’re doing is giving her a little rehab. Right, Odile?”
Max kept both women in the viewfinder as they looked at each other.
“Yes and no,” Odile answered after a moment. “It’s a question, I suppose, of how much of a thing can be replaced before it becomes another thing altogether.”
Rachel cocked her head. “You’re kidding, right?”
Reaching out across the frame, Odile squeezed her friend’s hand. Then, looking straight into the camera, she said, “Enough for today, Max. It’s the weekend.”
He lowered the vidcam. Rachel excused herself and, ducking into a low oaken doorway, went below to help Groot.
“Are you really going to use that footage?” Odile said when they were alone.
“No, that was just for posterity.” He sat down beside her in the deck chair Rachel had vacated. “Anyway, according to Eddie, I’m in creative transition.”
“But that’s good, isn’t it?”
“Neither good nor bad. Real, though.” He put the camera down in the small shade cast by his chair. “I’m looking for something, so it goes without saying I’ll find something else. I accept this now, even embrace it. Do you think I’m old?”
“Don’t be morbid, Max,” she told him. “You have no gift for it.”
The two of them looked out over the Seine in companionable silence. Weekend pleasure craft—sailboats, ski boats, outboards, rowboats—plied the river in both directions, and the
bateau mouche
heading upstream now sent these lesser vessels scrambling. From its loudspeakers came a steady blast of tour commentary, and in its wake bobbed assorted flotsam—a shoe, a soccer ball, a hat, a bloated pig carcass.
“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Max said. “I saw from this month’s bill that you paid off the back rent. Was that the fruit of your Moscow trip?”
She extended her lips in a pout of feigned boredom.
“Odile.” Reaching out, he took her chin in his hand and turned her toward him. “My love. There’s nothing to worry about. Raising money’s a sport I play. I’ll sell the Giacometti drawing.”
“Why?”
“So that you don’t have to—”
Brushing his hand aside, she put her own impatiently over his mouth. “Enough. When the time comes, you’ll do what must be done. I require it, and you won’t fail me.” His breath in her palm was warm, and she held it for another beat before releasing him. His eyes shone. “I see that we understand each other,” she said. “Good.”
Around four o’clock, Rachel called for Max. Groot needed his help in cutting away the old oil storage tanks. Odile remained topside. Across the river a patrol boat of
la
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