The next day, after Gabriel had gone to work and put in a couple of hours at the studio, he stopped by Colette’s. She was home, and dressed in a business suit that Gabriel thought made her look like a sexily stern airline attendant from the 1950s.
“Oh!” she said when she answered the door.
“I don’t like the telephone,” Gabriel said. “Is it okay?”
“Come in,” Colette said. “Sorry it’s such a mess in here.”
Gabriel thought the words must have been a reflex because they’d both left together that morning. He realized he was still wearing the same clothes. He also realized he should have let a couple of days go by before he contacted Colette again. She made him unnaturally and uncharacteristically nervous. She was so obviously out of his league, intellectually, socially, aesthetically, that he wanted to make sure she had no time to think it over.
“You probably think I’m a strange person to appear on your doorstep.” He leaned in to kiss her and she accepted the kiss on the lips. “I promise I’m not a …” He wasn’t sure of the word and let the sentence trail off.
“I’m not worried,” Colette said. “Let’s go out to dinner.”
Gabriel had to stop at an ATM in order to pay for the evening. In two nights, he spent as much on restaurants as he usually did the entire month for food. Dating was an expensive habit.
A week later, Gabriel, hoping to stem the hemorrhage of money that Colette’s young professional lifestyle was costing him, packed a picnic and took her to the studio. She held his hand on the métro.
In his dark space she examined the paintings by peering at them closely, commenting on shading and color. Though she professed not to know much about contemporary art, she knew what she was talking about. She seemed most interested in his imitative sketches.
“This really looks like Canaletto! How did you do this?”
Gabriel shrugged.
“Do you have any Connois sketches?”
Gabriel dragged out the large sketchbook reluctantly. It was embarrassing, creating sketches in someone else’s style. But she squealed with delight as she turned the pages.
Gabriel unpacked the food, and Colette looked with disgust at the dirty floor, even though she was only wearing jeans. Gabriel was sorry he didn’t think to bring a sheet or a blanket. He borrowed a tarp from Marie-Laure’s studio and they sat on that, the lamp on the table casting long shadows. Colette took small bites at the cheese and sausage he put out, though she drank much of the wine and smoked.
In the morning, the first thing she said when they woke in her apartment was: “I’d like you to meet my uncle.” Gabriel was getting dressed, putting on last night’s clothing, which, he realized, was the previous day’s clothing as well. He had to go home and do some laundry.
“Well, I mean, it’s a figure of speech,” Colette said, lighting a cigarette. “He’s not really my uncle. His and my mother’s families were all refugees from Germany. They lived in the same village, I think. Our family came to France and his went to England, but they reconnected after the war.”
“Refugees?”
Colette said, “If you’re asking if I’m Jewish, not really, though technically, yes, I guess. Poor Maman. She married a destitute Christian and my grandparents disowned her. But they each gave her money secretly every month until they died and left her enough that she could leave my father. She lives in the Canary Islands now.” Colette laughed. “We’ll have dinner with my uncle tonight.”
Gabriel met Colette at a restaurant in the Marais that he was unhappy to see was extremely expensive. There was almost no money left in his bank account, and the end of the month’s payday was still a week away. He would have to deposit the check and deliver the rent to the landlord in cash as it was. And now he was going to be obligated to pay for three more meals. Colette had the habit of ordering fish, always one of the more expensive dishes on the menu, and he could not resist her excitement when she came across some appetizer they had to try. Once the entrées arrived, she merely picked at her food, so Gabriel had learned to order sparsely, counting on being able to eat the rest of her meal.
Inside, the maître d’ led them to a private room in back where Gabriel saw there was a small dinner party.
Colette introduced him to her uncle, Augustus Klinman, an overweight Englishman with thinning hair. He extended his hand for Gabriel to shake, and despite its fleshiness, the grip was solid.
“Sorry we’re late,” Colette said.
“I’m afraid you’ve missed the first course, but I’ll introduce you around,” Klinman said. “Everyone, this is my niece Colette’s boyfriend, Gabriel Connois, relation of Marcel Connois, of the École des Hiverains.”
Everyone nodded, either in recognition of the name or in pretend recognition of it. It was interesting, but not surprising, that Colette had told her uncle about his ancestor. He wished, not for the first time, that he could be introduced on his own merit. But she called me her boyfriend, Gabriel thought.
Klinman continued, “This is an associate, Avram ben Hakim.” A Middle Eastern–looking man in a dark suit nodded at Gabriel. “And the Bairds, and next to them the Schoenbergs. Do you know Patrice and Paulette Piclut? No? I’m surprised. They run a gallery in Canal St. Martin. Very cool,” he added in English.
Colette kissed Patrice and Paulette and sat down. The waiter brought over an amuse bouche, some sort of dumpling in a spoon. Gabriel lifted it to his mouth and a spurt of hot liquid shot down his throat. He reached for his water glass, determined not to cough.
Colette said, “In fact, PP, you might be interested in Gabriel’s work.” She popped the dumpling in her mouth and chewed it naturally, swallowing without incident.
Patrice crossed his legs. He was wearing pale pink pants, exposing a skinny, sockless ankle. “It’s not street art, is it? Because we are so over street art.”
“Painting,” Gabriel said. “I’m a painter.”
Paulette nodded. “Painting is so retro it’s new again.”
Klinman addressed them, “When was painting out? Painting has always been in style.”
“No,” the person to Klinman’s right said. “Have you been to the Biennale? It’s been all conceptual for years.”
“And Miami Basel is even worse. It was like being in Las Vegas. You’ve been to Vegas?” a woman with a strong American accent asked.
“I love Vegas,” said Paulette. “I’ve never been there, but I know I’d love it.”
“It’s like a psychedelic experience,” said ben Hakim. “Like what taking LSD was like.”
“An artist, how nice. We only ever meet dealers, like art grows out of the ground,” said a German woman.
“Better the ground than the ass,” Gabriel said. There was a pause while everyone considered whether to be offended or amused. Gabriel’s face turned bright red. He was so used to the accepted vulgarity of artists; he forgot that civilians had more refined sensibilities. But Colette saved him by giggling and then everyone laughed. He was proud of himself for making a joke. Maybe he fit in better than he thought he did.
Gabriel sat back to let the waiter replace his plate with one that held a piece of meat with a brown-red sauce on top of it. When everyone was served, the waiter announced, “Filet mignon avec foie de volaille.”
Gabriel took a polite bite. The meat melted inside his mouth, and the sauce had a pleasing peaty flavor. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything like this,” he whispered to Colette.
She stopped eating to take a sip of her wine. “So many things to try.”
From the head of the table Klinman asked him, “So Connois was your relative?”
“He was a grandfather,” Gabriel said in French, unsure of the exact word for a distant, yet direct, relative. “Of my mother.”
“Ahhhh,” the man sighed. “And your real name?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Does it matter?” Gabriel asked.
Klinman caught his eye and winked, which so disconcerted Gabriel that his fork sli
pped and he dropped poultry innards on his lap. He was not at all disappointed to hear Colette’s delighted laugh, and see her napkin winging its way toward his crotch.
Édouard and his boyfriend took advantage of the “bridge” long weekend to fly to Corsica, leaving Gabriel to deal with the unlikely foot traffic or emergency in the gallery. Gabriel spent the day doodling, drawing geometric shapes on graph paper and shading them by shining a light from the left margin.
He heard the whoosh of air created by the opening of the door. There stood Klinman, dressed elegantly in a bespoke suit, carrying a hat and an umbrella, popping by from a previous century.
Gabriel stammered hello, and a thank-you for the dinner the night before. Gabriel had grown increasingly nervous as the meal wore on, partly from Colette’s hand on his thigh and also because he was unsure of how the payment for the meal would take place. As it turned out, the waiter brought no bill, and no one took out a card or cash.
“Who paid?” he’d asked Colette on the way to her apartment.
“Oh, Augustus has an account there,” she’d said.
Mr. Klinman smiled and strolled around the gallery, looking at the art on the walls. He grunted, a noise that betrayed no opinion.
Gabriel reverted to his canned speech. “Our stock is in prints and engravings. Monsieur Rosenzweig has a special fondness for the simple line. Can I show you anything in particular?”
Mr. Klinman looked baldly at Gabriel, while Gabriel tried to look indifferent. “You have a very good eye,” Klinman said.
“Édouard picks out most of our work,” Gabriel said. “Can I get you anything? Water, or a coffee?”
“Coffee,” Klinman said. His French was nearly accentless.
He held out his raincoat and hat, so Gabriel took them and hung them up on a nearby coatrack. Gabriel ground coffee beans, scooped the grounds into the casing of the percolator, and screwed the top back on, placing it on a hotpad. The machine began to hiss and bubble.
They both stood waiting until the coffee was done. “Sugar?” Gabriel asked. The man nodded. Gabriel added one square with the small spoon. He handed it to Mr. Klinman.
“You are patient and you are precise.” Mr. Klinman set down his cup. “Both are qualities I admire. And Colette tells me you are good. Very good.”
Gabriel smiled. Mr. Klinman smiled back. Gabriel could play this game. He uttered what he called the “French hmmm,” a sound that meant neither yes nor no, not invitation or rejection; rather, it was a volley: your turn. Gabriel waited for the man to continue.
Finally Mr. Klinman did. “As you may know,” he said, “I am responsible for the artwork in many of Europe’s finest luxury hotels.”
Gabriel didn’t know, but nodded.
“We are doing the new Andre Balazs. Eighty-six rooms. All will need art.”
Gabriel nodded again. Was the man going to ask for some kind of bulk discount?
“What we would like,” Mr. Klinman said, “is some Impressionist drawings, pastels, and watercolors. Landscapes, decrepit cathedrals, women by rocky seashores, you understand. Connois.”
“We don’t have inventory like that right now,” Gabriel said. “I’m not sure that in his lifetime he even drew—”
“You misunderstand me,” Mr. Klinman said. “I am not speaking of Connois the elder, but rather Connois the younger. You.” He switched to the familiar pronoun.
“You want me to make you eighty-six drawings?” Gabriel must have misunderstood the number. French numbers were impossible, derived from some Gallic counting system that predated Arabic numerals.
The Englishman laughed, and then there was another awkward silence while Klinman rocked forward onto his toes and back onto his heels. His shoes were worn but well made and polished, the laces new, as if to imply that he had the means to purchase new shoes but loved these old ones, and felt secure enough to indulge that fondness. Gabriel fingered the callus on the inside of his left thumb.
“Let’s say by the end of next week? One-half charcoal sketches, one-third those half-finished watercolors your great-great-grandfather liked so much—the landscapes with the sea, perhaps? A few still lifes, the old markets, a couple of pastels.”
“Connois didn’t paint still lifes,” Gabriel said. “He was interested only in movement and light.”
Klinman waved his hand in front of his face as though encouraging a bad odor to waft away. “People like still lifes, find them soothing …” He let the sentence trail off.
He reached into his breast pocket and removed a long leather wallet. “What shall we say, per drawing? I’ll send over the paper I want you to use, to look like the nineteenth century.”
“Umm, I don’t know.” Gabriel tried to put his hands in his pockets, but his pants were too tight. Instead he crossed his arms in front of his chest. His sweater felt itchy against his neck, little prickles of heat. He shouldn’t have to make art for hire. It made him feel like he was prostituting his talent and training. But he desperately needed the money. Colette was proving to be a very expensive habit, one he wasn’t yet ready to give up. He found himself thinking about her more often than he had about any woman in the past decade, so often that he was worried. “What did you have in mind?”
Klinman shook his head. “No. You name what you think your time is worth. I’ll supply the paper; it’s important that it looks authentic.”
What was Gabriel’s time worth? Figure a couple of hours per water-color, some money for supplies: sketch paper, brushes, paints. Would he want them mounted? Matted? Gabriel’s father, a minor musician who played guitar for weddings and baptisms, always told him to name a sum greater than what he expected to get. It gave the client negotiating room, made him feel like he was getting a bargain. But he should not ask for too much, for that would seem like stealing and the client would be suspicious and miserly.
“Fifty euros per sketch,” he said. “Sixty-five for watercolors.”
Mr. Klinman shook his head, a disappointed expression on his face. Gabriel felt a wave of embarrassment. Had he overvalued himself?
“If you do not think yourself significant, then no one will. Charge high when the client is willing to pay, and then deliver a product that exceeds satisfaction. I will pay you one hundred euros for the drawings and one-fifty for the watercolors, which will be unmistakably authentic Connois Père when viewed from two meters. Here are five thousand euros. I will come back next Friday, is that all right?” Augustus handed him two banded stacks of bills.
Gabriel stared at the money in his hands. He had never held that great a sum at one time. The bills were new. Gabriel wet his lips. “Thank you, sir,” he said.
“Augustus,” he said. “Use the familiar. We are friends now.” He took his jacket and hat.
“Augustus,” Gabriel said. “Eighty-six drawings by next week is more than I can do. So quickly. If you want Connois.”
Augustus turned, his lips pursed sourly. He sighed, exasperated. “Very well, then ring up your old classmates. Reconvene the École des Hiverains.” As he turned, Gabriel thought he saw the man wink.
The door took the air with it when it closed. The papers thumb-tacked to the cork that served as the backsplash to the desks lurched toward the door as if to follow Augustus Klinman out, then settled back flat again. Gabriel’s desk was messy with yesterday’s croissant crumbs and sticky notes stacked like layers of paint. Gabriel looked at the sketch he’d been doodling when the man had walked in. He took the bills and fanned them out over the paper so that the drawing was obscured. A much better source of light, these euros, than anything he could shade.
The École des Hiverains was an inside joke that had escaped its confinement. Marcel Connois, having immigrated to Paris in 1870 from Cataluña, found himself an unpopular second cousin to the more successful Impressionists and so had fled with his circle, which included Del Rio, Monlin, Ganedis (one of the few successful Greek painters of the time), and Imogeney, to the Lowlands, settling first in Belgium and then in the Netherlan
ds, where their talents were appreciated among the lesser nobility. They continued to paint the sunny, arid landscapes of their homelands and the voluptuous women at fruit-filled feasts that characterized their repertoire. They were always cold in the north, wearing scarves, hats, and fingerless gloves even into summer and so gained the nickname Les Hiverains, or “the Winterers.” The active years of the École were few. Monlin died of tuberculosis, Del Rio followed a carnival troupe to Capri where he lost a duel over a gypsy woman, and Ganedis returned home to his native island, where his mother’s cooking still sat warming on the stove for him. Imogeney married a Flemish girl and worked as a portraitist to support his thirteen children. Only Connois survived the dissolution, installing himself back in Paris. Still he painted the Pyrenees, the orange groves, the fish markets of his home.
Gabriel’s mother had owned one painting by her great-grandfather, a half-meter-square oil of the Costa Brava called Febrer. In it, the Mediterranean was an impossible blue, the color changing on the underside of each white-capped wave so that the effect was a mosaic of fractured sea, melting together as the water tumbled back into the roil. Gabriel had spent countless hours staring at the painting, the stiff points of hardened oil paint that revealed the exact motion of the brush. Connois was a meticulous painter; each dab of blue—almost transparent, stark cobalt, aquamarine, nearly glowing, or a navy so dark as to masquerade as black—intentionally rendered. The brushstrokes were visible, small whisks. Connois must have used only the smallest brushes; the canvas would have taken him months to complete.
Gabriel wanted to sell Febrer when his father’s arthritis had set in and playing the guitar became nearly impossible. Gabriel’s father was a proud man with a face that gravity had claimed. His eyes had sunken into the flesh of their sockets, jowls swollen like wet laundry. He continued to give music lessons, but by then they’d moved to the pueblo, abandoning their apartment in the city. They were poor, their neighbors poorer. Gabriel made some money selling his drawings to wealthy weekenders at the markets, and his mother began making pastries for special occasions, but still money was tight.
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