I remember to switch off my phone the very moment I notice a large woven screen in the corner. I stumble over to it in total darkness, reach it and swing myself around to the other side, and a light turns on in the next room.
Hard objects dig into my back as I try to shrink against the wall. Fumbling around, I feel tall wooden frames behind me. More paintings are stacked behind the screen. Some are as tall as I am. Perfect! I worm myself into the space behind them, leaning them back against the wall so they form a kind of tent over my head. Then I crouch down and wait, breathing in dust and trying not to make any sound.
The man is moving around, switching on lights, calling again and again, “Who’s there?” and pushing things around so he can look into all the rooms. He sounds big and he speaks with a British accent. This scares me even more for some reason.
The bedroom light goes on. The guy checks the big cupboard and rattles the locked doors. He moves toward the bed, and I hear the torn curtains being pushed aside. He sneezes and mutters something about how filthy the place is. I hold one hand over my mouth and nose and try not to breathe, but I’m sure he’ll hear the sound of my heart, banging on my ribcage like a prisoner who wants to get out.
He moves closer. The screen rattles as it’s pushed aside, and my insides are flooded with ice. The tall paintings that protect me shudder. He’s moving them away from the wall, one by one. I’m frozen with terror. Every self-defense class Mom made me take did not prepare me for this. The guy’s voice seems to come from ten stories above my head. Trying to stay calm, I clench my phone in my fist and get ready to strike. If I can hit him in the face, maybe I’ll have a few seconds to get away.
The final painting shifts and begins to move. I tense, ready to spring forward and strike, but a sound comes from another room. Jangling bells! The ones on Fat Cat’s collar.
The man hears them too, because the paintings suddenly drop back into place, hitting the wall above my head as they fall like dominoes. I gasp in shock and pray the guy didn’t hear me.
Luckily, he must not have. His rapid footsteps thunder away and the bedroom plunges into darkness. I strain to listen as the man continues to search, pushing things to the floor, opening and closing cabinets, doors, stomping, muttering to himself, calling out, but Fat Cat’s bells are now silent. Finally, the glow from the other rooms go out as he switches lights off, one by one.
Footsteps pound back up the stairs. I wait, my legs scrunched up under me, my feet numb. At last, a door slams above. The dead, dusty silence that falls once more in the ancient apartment is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. I don’t want to move. I sit, hugging my cell phone and mentally thanking Fat Cat. I count to one hundred. Then I count to three hundred. When I get to four hundred forty-nine, I hear Jada’s laugh in my head, and know she would think I was a complete loser for cowering in here for so long. I finally move.
My numb legs don’t work at first, so I crawl on the gritty carpet in the dark, and make it back to the bedroom door. By this time, the moon is shining softly through one of the windows in the room I call the menagerie. It lights the other doorways and I find the one I missed. Able to stand on tingling legs, I inch my way through the crowded rooms, back through the dwarf-door to the narrow passageway and the door in my bedroom wall.
Fat Cat is on my bed, purring.
“Stupid cat,” I hiss at him, after I’ve grabbed him and hugged his solid body to me. He did save me. What would have happened if the man hadn’t heard the bells? Fat Cat starts to purr. I collapse onto the bed. My nose if full of old dust and moldy smells, my feet, hands, and knees are filthy, and there are new holes and cracks on my bedroom wall that I’ll somehow have to hide.
In the bathroom, I wash away the evidence of my nighttime adventure. I’ll figure out a way to hide the holes in my wall tomorrow. I dry my hands and see my face in the mirror. My dark eyes are smiling.
That was terrifying, but . . . it was also amazing! I’ve never done anything like it before. How could I have? I was always locked in my room.
For a minute, I sit on the edge of the tub, staring down at the ugly bathroom rug decorated with roosters, and think. I’m sure I know what’s going on. That British guy must be connected to the old lady who warned me to “mind my own affairs.” They go into the empty apartment, but only at night.
Why? Because they’re looking for something, and they don’t want anyone to know about it. Maybe they’re stealing that stuff. Those paintings might be valuable.
In my room, I snuggle back under the covers. I’m smug, self-satisfied, exhilarated. I know a secret. And I can get back into that apartment any time I want.
Maybe I can find what they’re looking for.
Eight
A soft knock at the door wakes me.
“Rosie?”
The bright sunlight piercing through the blinds stabs my eyeballs. Why am I so tired? Then I remember my adventure last night. I groan.
“Our painting lessons begin today!” Sylvie calls in her musical voice, as usual slowing her words for me. “We’ll go outside, to paint en plein air, like your Impressionists.”
My Impressionists? I think in a fog of blank confusion. I crack open the window and the morning air that flows in and rolls across my face smells like bread from the bakery down the street, layered with exhaust fumes and a mixture of wet leaves and the scent of the ocean. I gulp a few deeps breaths and wake up and it all comes back to me.
When I started to pretend I wanted to paint, I mentioned Impressionist artists. A lot. It was part of the act I created to convince my mother that I belonged at a summer art camp. I chose Impressionism because they didn’t go for exact detail or realism. Easy, right? And tons of artists who painted like that lived here in Nice, where I found this awesome summer art exchange program. So, like Sylvie said, they’re my Impressionists. I can’t forget. I stand up and moan. I just want to sleep.
“Vite!” Sylvie calls through the door. Hurry. Her light footsteps fade away.
After a quick shower I pull my hair into a wet braid that hangs heavy down my back, and get dressed. There are purple smudges under my tired eyes. I trudge down the hall. I don’t want to learn how to paint. Unfortunately, I have to. I’ve got to keep playing along with my charade, to make sure I can stay in my chosen home when summer ends.
Bring it on, Rosemary. This is it.
Sylvie is beaming and bouncing around the kitchen, gathering supplies and shoving them into a canvas backpack. Her hair is twined into a million tiny braids that flow down her back and she’s wearing a coral-pink skirt that floats as she moves, a black t-shirt and a sparkling silver and shell necklace. To me, Sylvie looks like a living work of art, full of color and life.
She hoists the backpack and winks at me. “We go now, okay?” Sylvie says with a smile. She adds something about breakfast. I think she’s saying she’ll buy it later. I nod.
We head down the narrow stairs that lead to the shop, greet Émile, who waves us away, his nose in another cookbook, and move into the street that’s already starting to feel like home. Tiny shops, a bit like Sylvie’s, line our path, but one sells only stationary, another, furniture, and the next place is an internet café. We pass the bakery that sends so many delicious smells our way, a restaurant, and finally a church.
The scent of incense and candle wax wafts from its tall, open doors as we pass. The smell is warm and somehow mysterious. Through the doorway I catch a glimpse of deep blues, reds, and greens on a stained glass window, flickering candles, and rows of wooden pews. Then a woman emerges from the cool darkness of the church, clutching the hand of a little girl. The girl looks up at me with wide, dark eyes and pauses to stare. Without bothering to find out what’s causing the holdup, the child’s mother yanks the girl off her feet and drags her along behind. I stop where I am, watching them go, hearing the high pitched protest of the girl’s voice, the deeper, scolding tones of he
r mother floating in my ears.
Then I turn to watch Sylvie as she floats ahead of me, still chattering like one of the bright finches that flit among the trees. Joy breaks over me like a wave of the ocean. I dive into it. My plan will work. It has to. I hustle to catch up with Sylvie.
We come up to a little restaurant called La Banane de Guadaloupe. I blink a couple of times as I read and try to translate in my head. “The Banana of Guadalupe”? Or is it, “The Guadeloupian Banana”? The restaurant’s sign is a big banana (what else) and the color yellow is everywhere. Sylvie motions for me to wait. She pops into the restaurant and my heart starts to do a little tap dance. I’m alone again. Even if it’s only for a few minutes here and there, it feels so incredible. I smile stupidly at a man who sweeps by, carrying a briefcase and jabbering into his cell phone. He gazes at me with surprise and nods his head before he hurries on with a confused expression. I laugh out loud.
Then, Sylvie is back with a paper-wrapped sandwich, which she presents to me. It’s hot and smells sweet, kind of like . . . bananas?
“Croque chocolat-banane,” Sylvie says, her eyes sparkling. The crunchy, grilled sandwich is filled with banana slices and bits of dark chocolate. It’s heaven. Sylvie laughs and hugs me. “Ansel’s favorite,” she says. Then her face clouds and she turns away, pretending to rearrange the backpack, but she wasn’t fast enough to hide the tears that glisten in her eyes.
I know why she cries. It’s one more reason I chose her to be my new mom. Her son, Ansel, is dead. After he left for Paris, there was an accident. A car skidded on wet pavement and plowed into a group of art students sitting at a table outside a café. I read about it on Sylvie’s blog.
Suddenly, it’s hard to swallow.
Sylvie turns back, blinking tears away, smiling at me in a shaky sort of way. I smile back around a mouthful of mushy banana and we keep walking while I lick melted chocolate from my fingers, promising myself I’ll make my plan work. Sylvie’s son is one of my “keys.” He’s one of the reasons my plan came together. There’s a hole in his mother’s heart that I can fill. I have Ansel’s room. Soon, I’ll have his family, too.
I’m in no hurry for the art lesson, but soon the narrow street opens before us and we are suddenly in a huge open space: Place Massena, the main square of the city. My eyes take in blue sky, pink and white buildings, and green palm trees and shrubs and bushes, dotted with vivid splotches of orange, yellow, and fuchsia flowers. The pavement below my feet is a giant checkerboard of alternating black and white squares. If you’re an artist, I guess it really is the perfect place to paint, like Sylvie says. Everything is a jumble of colors and shapes, warm with sunlight and the smell of growing things and ocean.
So I’m not surprised when Sylvie stops to place her backpack on the raised edge of a small fountain and pulls out a tiny square of canvas. I help her unfold a small wooden easel that sits at the right height when placed on the edge of the fountain. I sit down to watch my first “official” art lesson. Sylvie is smiling and opening tubes, squirting blobs of paint onto her palette. Then, she hands me a brush.
“C’est pour toi,” she says with a twinkling smile. “For you.”
The color drains out of the day. Everything is now black and white.
“Me?” I sputter.
Sylvie thrusts the paintbrush into my hand, laughing. “I’ll watch and help if you need it, Rosie,” she says in her careful French, always so slow, so clear, just for me. “There is much to see here. The sky, the ocean, the trees, the fountains, the people. Paint what your heart sees.”
“But, I don’t . . . I thought . . .” I splutter in English, and then stop. My cheeks flood with warmth that has nothing to do with the hot Mediterranean sun overhead. So here is where the lies end. Here is where my plan crashes and burns to ashes. I was so sure she’d actually teach me how to paint before expecting me to do it on my own! But of course, she thinks I already know a lot about painting, because of the stolen pictures. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
There were only three paintings. A tiny cityscape that Jada’s brother did a long time ago. A field of flowers painted by a stranger, which ended up at a Goodwill store. A self-portrait my Mom did in a college art class. I sent photos of them to Sylvie, claiming they were my own. I wanted to prove that I belonged here. With her, the painter, to study art.
Why did I think this would work?
A man walks by and tosses his cigarette butt into the fountain. It fizzles out with an angry hiss. I stare at it as it floats on the surface, bobs for a moment, and then disappears. I gulp, feeling like my own head is sinking under murky water. I don’t know what to do! How do you even hold a paintbrush? Is there some “official” way to do that? I try to keep from hyperventilating. My lie is about to catch up with me and beat me to a pulp. Sylvie chatters about Monet and Cézanne, Impressionist artists, while my legs threaten to dissolve. My bones must be melting in the hot sun. What was I thinking? I was so sure that Sylvie would ease me into this whole “artist-thing,” not hand me a brush and expect me to turn into a mini-Monet.
Sylvie seats herself a few feet away from me on the edge of the fountain. She takes a sip from a water bottle and smiles at me. Her eyes gleam, and excitement shines in her face. She has another artist to mentor, like Ansel. Except I’m not like Ansel. I don’t have a single artistic molecule in my body.
I look around in desperation. I have to do something. What do I paint? The square, the pink buildings, the silver tram whirring by? My eyes fall on a pole not far away, near the tram stop. At the top is what looks like a carved man kneeling down on a tiny platform, like he’s meditating or something. There are several more of them, lining the edge of the checkerboard pavement along either side of the metal tracks. Pole guys. Should I paint them?
Sylvie notices where my gaze falls and her face glows. She points and chatters in an explosion of French like a cloudburst of sound and I do not understand a single word. Not one. And then she waits, and I’m supposed to answer. Great. I smile and duck my head toward my canvas, placing my chin in my hand like I’m deep in concentration. Sylvie laughs and stops talking. And I still have to paint. Do it, Ro! Paint something! Anything!
Forgetting the metal pole guys, I take a deep breath, dip my brush into a color that looks a bit like the color of the sky, and smear it across the top of the canvas. The blue is too dark, so I mix in a dab of white, and it turns milky gray. That doesn’t work for the sky, so I decide to paint the base of another fountain I see nearby. I move the brush in a circle as I try to create the fountain’s round shape and end up with something that looks like a large toilet. I dip the brush into more paint, but the brush accidentally touches another color, and suddenly my toilet fountain turns a muddy brown. I toy with the idea of “accidentally” pushing my easel into the fountain.
And then a dog barks, and a shrill woman’s voice shouts, and I glance up to see a short, blonde woman guiding a greyhound that’s almost as tall as she is on a leash. The woman wears a white dress with horizontal black stripes, and white leggings with vertical red stripes. Her white-blonde hair is braided, much like Sylvie’s, but the braids are uneven and lumpy, bundled up into a tangle on the top of her head, like a pile of frayed rope.
The woman lets her dog off its leash and it bounds into the toilet/fountain I’d been trying to recreate, joyfully leaping and splashing in the water. Then the woman sits at the edge of the fountain, tosses a cigarette into the water, and lights another. I watch the light glint on the water as it splashes, and the haze of smoke that circles the woman’s head, and then I notice that the woman is made up of shapes. She’s a striped watermelon on red licorice legs. I’m so desperate at this point that I figure she’s as good a subject as any for my painting. I dip my brush into more paint.
I start with the round bundle of rope that’s her braided hair, and then try to paint her cantaloupe-shaped head. I paint her watermelon-stripey middle, and add two long
red licorice ropes for skinny legs. While the woman lights a third cigarette I paint a chocolate-dog dancing in the fountain.
The woman’s dog jumps out of the water and gets her all wet, and her screams can probably be heard all across town. I look over at Sylvie. She’s enjoying the show. She glances at me and winks. I try to smile back, but I’m so terrified of what Sylvie will think when she sees my painting that I can’t.
Instead, I look down and rummage in the box to find a smaller brush so I can paint tiny stripes on the watermelon-shaped dress. The figure is so flat, with no depth at all. I have no idea how to make her seem round. Everything on the canvas is flat. I dab more paint onto my fountain, and try to make it less toilet-like. I dab dots of white to make splashes of water that spray up in the air around the dancing chocolate-dog. Then I paint a tiny cigarette in the woman’s hand.
I step back to survey my work. My stomach squeezes into a tiny ball. The painting is terrible. It’s a joke. A watermelon with a cantaloupe for a head and a pile of ropes on top for hair, and red licorice for legs. Smoking a cigarette. This doesn’t look anything like what Impressionists painted. Is it Modern Art?
“Ah,” Sylvie sighs. I jump. I didn’t know she was right behind me.
Something in her voice makes me look at her. She’s studying my painting intently, holding her hand to her chin. I start to breathe funny. She knows. What was I thinking? I can’t fool her, she’s a real artist!
Then Sylvie throws her head back and laughs. “Ah, Rosie! What a wonderful way to see the world!” She switches to her halting English, “Your Impressionists would be . . . impressed!” She laughs at her little joke.
“Merci,” I whisper. My throat is dry and my voice cracks. I’m not relieved, like I thought I would be. My lie hurts, because Sylvie might actually believe it. Why do I feel this way? I swallow the painful lump in my throat. Isn’t this what I wanted?
The French Impressionist Page 5