Protest was part of the Core Curriculum. Along with Good Works. We were all such intense little socialists then, sitting on piles of Grandaddy’s money and cursing capitalism like Tartars. Tally here was one of the first Brecons to protest the Vietnam War, weren’t you, Tally?”
“Yes. It was a disgraceful imperialist adventure. Bree was all for it.”
“What? In favor of the Vietnam War?”
“Yes, I was,” said Briony. “Daddy was in the Army. It gave you a different view. If there were any imperialists in that war, they were all Russians. After Americans win their wars, all they leave behind is their dead. Anyway, all that’s a complete bore. And we were having such fun slanging the art school—”
“I know this art school,” said Duhamel, giving her an impish smile. “They have invited me here to Savannah in the first place.”
Briony was not discomfited in the slightest, seemed genuinely delighted.
“Really? Well, you’ll see what I mean, then, won’t you? Poor man. And what was your specific crime?”
“I’m here to discuss a possible photo exhibition later in the spring.”
“Dear God, what is it? ‘Toward a Deconstruction of Dystopia: Panoramas of Open-Pit Slag Heaps’? That sort of dreadfully urgent stuff?”
“Not really,” said Duhamel, clearly enjoying himself. “It’s a collection of photographs, taken of older women. I’m something of a collector—”
“Of older women?” said Tally, cutting in. “Well, you’ve come to the mother lode today, Mr. Duhamel. Doddering Old Bats and Crotchety Crones piled up to the roof beams. Place is crawling with them. What’s your slide show called? Not ‘Toward a Deconstruction of Dystopia,’ I hope?”
“Not at all. The theme is the ‘Odalisque in Autumn.’ ”
“Is it?” said Briony. “How very Ingres. What sort of photos are they?”
“Black-and-white, made with a special gel film. They’ve been compared to Karsh or Hurrell by people who should know better.”
“Are they erotic ?” said Tally with a tone.
“That depends on the woman in the picture. If she is, so is the shot.”
“You find older women erotic?” said Briony.
“I find older women interesting . Often that is also very erotic.”
“And young women?” asked Briony, probing.
“I find young women—what is the word?—like a young bug. Larval? ”
Tally laughed at that, with a bit of a smoker’s bray but real. Briony liked his answer too and warmed to the man, in spite of that fleeting contemptuous flicker in his brown eyes when he had looked at Tally.
“Well, I’d be intrigued to hear your take on the town after a few days. The whole place reeks of that Women’s Institute sort of pious decay. Everyone in Savannah thinks of herself as . . . what is the word, Tally?”
Tally, not happy to have Briony getting all of Mr. Duhamel’s attention, provided the word louche with a bit of a pout. Briony was on a tear, which was unusual for her. Her normal manner, when out and about in a crowd, was to stand resolutely alone in a corner with a glass of single malt and her trademark what-fresh-hell-is-this? expression firmly in place.
Briony Keating, thought Tally, was . . . interested .
“Louche. Thank you, sweet. Where, in actual fact, they’re about as racy and decadent as the DAR. And they have mean mouths. The only way not to get slandered in this town is to never miss a dinner party. Everyone feels they have to burn as brightly as . . . fireflies. One gets terribly tired.”
“Bree, I’ve got to . . . you know?”
Have a smoke
“Of course, Tally, you do that.”
“Will you still be here?”
Briony looked at Duhamel and then back at Tally.
“Of course! Where would we go?”
Tally, who knew Briony pretty well, gave Jules Duhamel a slow, sly smile meant to convey the possible advantages to Mr. Duhamel of waiting for her swift return, patted Briony on the arm, and made her way through the pressing crowd,
“Yes. It was a disgraceful imperialist adventure. Bree was all for it.”
“What? In favor of the Vietnam War?”
“Yes, I was,” said Briony. “Daddy was in the Army. It gave you a different view. If there were any imperialists in that war, they were all Russians. After Americans win their wars, all they leave behind is their dead. Anyway, all that’s a complete bore. And we were having such fun slanging the art school—”
“I know this art school,” said Duhamel, giving her an impish smile. “They have invited me here to Savannah in the first place.”
Briony was not discomfited in the slightest, seemed genuinely delighted.
“Really? Well, you’ll see what I mean, then, won’t you? Poor man. And what was your specific crime?”
“I’m here to discuss a possible photo exhibition later in the spring.”
“Dear God, what is it? ‘Toward a Deconstruction of Dystopia: Panoramas of Open-Pit Slag Heaps’? That sort of dreadfully urgent stuff?”
“Not really,” said Duhamel, clearly enjoying himself. “It’s a collection of photographs, taken of older women. I’m something of a collector—”
“Of older women?” said Tally, cutting in. “Well, you’ve come to the mother lode today, Mr. Duhamel. Doddering Old Bats and Crotchety Crones piled up to the roof beams. Place is crawling with them. What’s your slide show called? Not ‘Toward a Deconstruction of Dystopia,’ I hope?”
“Not at all. The theme is the ‘Odalisque in Autumn.’ ”
“Is it?” said Briony. “How very Ingres. What sort of photos are they?”
“Black-and-white, made with a special gel film. They’ve been compared to Karsh or Hurrell by people who should know better.”
“Are they erotic ?” said Tally with a tone.
“That depends on the woman in the picture. If she is, so is the shot.”
“You find older women erotic?” said Briony.
“I find older women interesting . Often that is also very erotic.”
“And young women?” asked Briony, probing.
“I find young women—what is the word?—like a young bug. Larval? ”
Tally laughed at that, with a bit of a smoker’s bray but real. Briony liked his answer too and warmed to the man, in spite of that fleeting contemptuous flicker in his brown eyes when he had looked at Tally.
“Well, I’d be intrigued to hear your take on the town after a few days. The whole place reeks of that Women’s Institute sort of pious decay. Everyone in Savannah thinks of herself as . . . what is the word, Tally?”
Tally, not happy to have Briony getting all of Mr. Duhamel’s attention, provided the word louche with a bit of a pout. Briony was on a tear, which was unusual for her. Her normal manner, when out and about in a crowd, was to stand resolutely alone in a corner with a glass of single malt and her trademark what-fresh-hell-is-this? expression firmly in place.
Briony Keating, thought Tally, was . . . interested .
“Louche. Thank you, sweet. Where, in actual fact, they’re about as racy and decadent as the DAR. And they have mean mouths. The only way not to get slandered in this town is to never miss a dinner party. Everyone feels they have to burn as brightly as . . . fireflies. One gets terribly tired.”
“Bree, I’ve got to . . . you know?”
Have a smoke
“Of course, Tally, you do that.”
“Will you still be here?”
Briony looked at Duhamel and then back at Tally.
“Of course! Where would we go?”
Tally, who knew Briony pretty well, gave Jules Duhamel a slow, sly smile meant to convey the possible advantages to Mr. Duhamel of waiting for her swift return, patted Briony on the arm, and made her way through the pressing crowd,
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