We walk back to Sylvie and Émile’s apartment. My mind whirls with a parade of colors and brief images that flash in front of my eyes. A girl with sad, dark eyes. A watermelon-shaped woman. A fountain that looks like a toilet. I don’t really watch where I’m going and nearly fall twice. I’m so nervous my heart is drumming fast. Understanding finally hits me and I know why I’m afraid. I faked it today during my art lesson. Somehow, Sylvie still thinks I’m an artist. But that’s only today. What about tomorrow?
Nine
So far, I’ve snuck into the empty apartment three times this week. I can’t tell whether the paintings are worth anything. How the heck would I know? Nobody hears me. Nothing happens. It’s been anti-climactic. Anyway, I find that I’m worried about other things. Right now I’m obsessed with pretending to possess a creative soul.
When I enter the kitchen for breakfast this morning, I’m feeling pretty good about the latest masterpiece I hold in my hands. I’ve painted non-stop for the last four days. Last night I did a lake, a cabin, and tons of trees. Happy trees. I do it by watching that guy with big hair on YouTube. He’s the one who used to have this painting show on TV back in the dark ages, like the eighties, maybe. He paints step by step, I watch and copy.
Late-rising Émile is still snoring, but Sylvie is sipping from a tiny cup and bouncing her foot on the floor. Her high-heeled slipper makes sharp little tap tap tap sounds. Her face lights up when I enter. Practically flying across the kitchen, she swipes the canvas from my hands and plunks it down on the counter without even looking at it.
“Nature morte!” she announces with what sounds like triumph in her voice.
What? Dead nature? While I’m trying to mentally translate, Sylvie takes my shoulders and marches me downstairs to the back of her shop, where there’s a humongous easel and a gigantic canvas. In front of this horrifying setup is a bowl of fruit, with peaches and pears and grapes spilling all over the place, next to a cracked ceramic pitcher, bobbling on a wobbly table.
Dead nature. Still life. I get it.
“Today I would like to watch you paint, chère,” Sylvie says, her eyes twinkling. Crud. I try to smile like I’m excited, but my lips won’t cooperate.
“Petit-dejeuner?” I mumble. I’m not hungry for breakfast, I’m stalling. But Sylvie laughs and grabs something from the table by her cash register. She hands it to me. Another chocolate banana sandwich, wrapped in wax paper. It’s still warm. For some reason, this makes my insides go all mushy. She got up early to get everything ready. She ran to that banana-restaurant to get me the sandwich I like and bring it back, nice and hot.
So I perch myself on the stool in front of the easel and eat, while Sylvie chatters. I feel a flash of surprise tinged with more than a little relief when she picks up the brush and actually starts to paint. While she does, she talks about how light and dark shades create form and space on the canvas. She tells me to think of what I’m going to paint as a group of shapes, like I did when I painted the watermelon woman. It kind of makes sense. I watch as Sylvie does a little color-mixing demonstration.
As I swallow the last of my sandwich, Sylvie hands me my brush. This time, she stays with me. She coaches me along, and shapes begin to appear on the canvas. A few smears of green and yellow merge and morph into something real before my eyes. All of a sudden, it looks like an actual pear! On impulse, I put an arm around Sylvie. She hugs me back, and we both laugh, looking at my painted fruit. A knot in my gut unties. My secret is safe! I faked it until I learned to paint.
Sylvie backs away and leaves me to work on my own. She putters around the shop, and I find myself excited to finish my painting. I’m really getting into it, mixing more colors, adding this and that, so time passes. I can’t wait to tell Jada! Then, Sylvie makes a soft noise like a sigh, and I glance at her, startled. She’s standing by her cash register holding a few bills in her hand, but she’s looking at the screen of her phone with a little frown on her face. She glances up at me, and her lightning flash smile appears, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. What is she looking at?
Pretending to need more paint, I head over to the box Sylvie keeps on a shelf close to the register. As I rummage through the half-squeezed tubes of every color imaginable, I manage to shoot a glance over Sylvie’s shoulder before she puts her phone away. The tiny image of my stolen cityscape is on her screen. My heart drops to my torn canvas shoes. I didn’t fool her like I thought I did.
The shell curtain over the shop door sweeps aside and Sylvie and I both turn to look. Then I feel even worse. Two people are staring at me. The first is Gavin. His black coffee eyes find mine. Why is he still coming around?
The second person is an old woman with sparse, white hair that barely covers her scalp. She’s my upstairs neighbor, the old shuffle-step lady who warned me to mind my own business. A little caffeine-jolt of fear shoots through me. I grab a handful of paint tubes and scuttle back to my perch in front of the giant canvas so I can pretend to work.
“Good morning—”
“—What’s up?”
They speak at the same time. The woman turns to glare at Gavin like he’s an annoying bug she’d like to swat. At that moment I wish I could like her.
“Hello again, Gavin,” Sylvie says. “Good morning, Madame . . .?”
“Mrs. Thackeray. We’re neighbors,” the old woman says in English.
Sylvie introduces herself and starts to introduce me as well, but Mrs. Thackeray cuts her off.
“And you, young lady?” she asks, gesturing to me. “What is your name?”
I forgot my phone, but I can play this game. I pat my throat apologetically, shrug. Sylvie completes her introduction, says my name, something about how I lost my voice. Gavin chuckles softly. I’d like to stab him in the eyeball with my paintbrush.
Despite the fact that I’d prefer to duck behind the huge canvas in front of me and hide, I stare at the old woman to gauge her reaction. Her expression is weird. Something about it is calculating, but also partly condescending, like she finds herself in the presence of someone far inferior. Anger ignites inside me and burns my embarrassment away. I sit up straighter and refuse to drop my gaze. The old lady wears a squashed puff of plaid fabric posing as a hat on top of her wispy hair, and her cheeks are sunken, like she’s sucking them in on purpose. Crimson lipstick is gunked up at the corners of her wrinkly mouth. Without thinking, I make a tiny grimace. Mrs. Thackeray’s wrinkly face puckers even more, which I would not have thought possible. She finally turns away from me.
Keeping her back to me, she speaks with Sylvie in a low voice. When I catch something about selling paintings and drop my paintbrush, Mrs. Thackeray turns and glares at me. I know she doesn’t want me listening in. At this, I hop down from my stool and move closer, pretending to look for more paint. This ends the conversation and Mrs. Thackeray moves to the door. But she pauses with her gnarled hand on the shell curtain, and turns back.
“Rosemary,” she says, with a quavering old lady voice that still carries a tone of command.
I just look at her.
“Was that you outside my flat in the middle of the night?” she asks.
I shake my head “no,” as fast as I can. So that’s it. She knows it was me spying on her that night. Well, she can’t prove it. Remembering that I’m supposed to be engrossed in my work, I grab the first brush I find. It has no paint on it, but I dab at the canvas and stare at it intently, like I don’t want to be interrupted. My heart speeds up. Does she also think I’m the one who caused the noises inside the empty apartment that night the scary guy was looking for me?
“I must have been mistaken,” the old woman says. At that point I risk a glance at her and then I can’t look away. Her eyes are narrowed to slits and her head is tilted to the side. She’s a shriveled snake, waiting to strike. I can’t always tell what people are thinking from their expressions, but at this moment I easily read the suspicion in
the woman’s eyes. She doesn’t believe me, and why should she? I am lying. I try to look back at her with wide open, innocent eyes, but I can’t help the sudden nervous swallow that convulses my throat. Mrs. Thackeray smiles.
“I see,” she says. She turns and moves in her elderly way, slow and bent, through the seashell curtain.
“I shall return soon, Sylvie, to show you my paintings. Good day.” She ignores Gavin, which shows she possesses at least some good qualities.
“Wow,” Gavin says with a chuckle. “Wonder who dug up that fossil?” He materializes in front of me, tossing a sand art bottle from one hand to the other. I can’t help the little lurch my heart gives when his face is right before mine. I hate him, but he’s so cute! I’m drawn to his full, curving lips, gorgeous smile, and dark, liquid eyes. I detest myself for still being attracted to him. Boys are so confusing. I try to grab the bottle from his grasp, but he holds it out of reach.
“So you’re sneaking out in the middle of the night? I bet you’re meeting your boyfriend to practice a little French kissing,” he says with a wicked smile.
I detest every freckle on his pasty face. Gavin continues to grin at me while he tosses the bottle back and forth in his hands.
I’m dying for something cutting and clever to say.
Jealous, much? Or how about, Wouldn’t you like to know?
No, the first one’s better. I so wish I could do sarcasm. I roll my eyes in frustration and turn my back.
“Listen, I came here to ask y’all over for dinner at our place tomorrow,” Gavin says, louder this time, wanting Sylvie to hear.
“Oh, that’s so nice,” Sylvie says as she bounces over. “Yes, thank you.” She drapes an arm around my shoulder.
“Here’s the address of our apartment.” Gavin hands Sylvie a slip of paper.
“What?” I blurt, forgetting that I’m not supposed to speak out loud.
“We rented an apartment for the summer,” Gavin drawls out in his southern accent. “It’s not far. I bet we’ll run into each other a lot,” he says. Then he smiles at me.
The jerk.
“Later,” he calls as the shell curtain clacks and sways behind him.
Sylvie says it’s time for lunch. We lock the door and clomp up the stairs. Gavin is here for the summer. His mocking eyes and stupid smirking smile make me feel like I’m a side-show freak on display for his amusement.
He seemed like he was about to apologize after he made fun of how I said my name, but he didn’t. He didn’t have time, really, because I dropped that stupid bottle. But then, later at dinner, he was back to operating in full jerk mode.
I head to the rooster bathroom and splash more cold water on my face, like it’s going to just wash everything away. Keeping my face buried in the fuzzy towel that smells like lavender, I breathe for a while. In, out, in, out. Find my feet. Try to forget about stuff. But I can’t.
Gavin could have apologized to me today, in the shop, but he didn’t.
As I enter the kitchen, Émile comes in through the front door. His shoulders slump in a tired, defeated way. Leaving my side, Sylvie rushes to him and they embrace and hold each other tight. I hear murmured words, Ansel’s name. Émile must have gone to the cemetery. He and Sylvie have already visited it several times since I’ve been here, bringing flowers.
The two hold each other for so long that I start to back away from them. I should leave them alone. The air in the room feels ten degrees cooler. At this moment, I don’t exist in their world. I’m paint on the wall or a plant stand, nothing but an inanimate object that forms part of the room. It’s what my life is. I’m a mute member of the audience watching a live scene on stage, not one of the actors.
I move down the hall to my bedroom, but stop with my hand on the knob. I wasn’t ever an actor in my own life before, but what about now?
Sylvie and Émile are grieving for their son. One of the reasons I chose them for my new family is because they need someone else to love.
So I need to do something!
I tiptoe to the fridge.
There’s a platter of cold meats inside. I put it on the table, creeping so I don’t make noise. Plates rattle a bit, but Sylvie and Émile don’t look up from their whispered conversation. I cut cheese into uneven chunks; add a bowl of oranges to the table, bread, bottles of soda. Then I’m suddenly enfolded in a soft embrace as two pairs of arms encircle me. I’m no longer paint on the wall. Sylvie and Émile have pulled me into their world, and I’ll do anything to stay inside its warmth.
Ten
What’s she doing in there, J.?
A warm, salty breeze rustles the leaves of the potted lemon trees around me while I wait for Jada to answer.
That’s where she keeps her dead boyfriends.
I laugh and the noise sends a tiny swallow winging away toward the setting sun. I love Jada’s sense of humor. I love my new life and freedom, and this rooftop garden I found my first night here. No one ever comes up here when I do. Most of the time, the place is mine.
It’s obvious.
She’s stealing the paintings. You should tell.
While I breathe in the sweet, fresh air of my garden in the sky, I think about what Jada said. If I tell someone that Mrs. Thackeray is stealing the paintings next door, I’ll have to tell them how I know that. I’ll have to tell Sylvie and Émile that I broke open the door in the wall and ruined their son’s murals.
All around me, green ivy climbs white trellises and flowers are everywhere. Bright blossoms explode color. Fuchsias and blues and sunshine yellows fill my brain. My life is so different now. I lived in an old black-and-white movie where I was the prisoner. I was the bad guy. Now, my life is in technicolor, and I’m the heroine. It has to stay that way.
I’m not saying anything, yet.
I’m not totally sure that they’re stealing anything.
It looks suspicious but I want to wait. What if I’m wrong?
“Rosie?” Sylvie calls.
Gotta go!
Hugs, bestie!! Miss you. Bring it.
The air leaves my lungs and I can’t fill them again.
I miss you, too, Jada. More than you can imagine because I don’t know when I’ll see you again.
Of course, I don’t tell her that. My thumb hovers over the screen for a second, but then I switch off my phone.
I wish I could tell her everything. I wish I could come clean, but I know it’s impossible. If I confess too soon, my bright, shining new life could blow up in my face.
Sylvie’s head appears as she climbs the last few steps and emerges onto my rooftop garden.
“I thought you were here.” She smiles and I scoot over and pat a spot next to me on the small marble bench. Sylvie sits and breathes out a sigh.
“I wanted to see the garden,” she says, looking around her with wide eyes. “C’est incroyable. I knew I could have a box if I wanted, but, ah, well . . .” She gives that totally French shrug that says so much without any words and smiles at me.
“Then it’s good that I came here to Nice,” I say slowly, in French, still whispering, always struggling to get the sounds to behave as they fight to get out of my mouth. “I help you learn new things.”
“Absolument,” Sylvie says, beaming. She puts her arm around me and squeezes my shoulders. For a few moments, we say nothing else. We simply sit in a companionable silence, only broken by the twitter of birds all around and the muted rush of traffic below.
“Ma chère,” Sylvie begins, pulling her arm away. “I want to talk to you about something.”
Coldness settles into the pit of my stomach and everything around me is devoid of all sound, as if the world is holding its breath, waiting to hear what Sylvie will say. I hold my own breath; terrified I know what her words will be. I remember the way she looked at her phone yesterday. She knows I lied about being an artist, and I have no idea what I
can possibly say to her to explain.
“I, eh, ben, I want to say, we, uh,” Sylvie says in English, clearly struggling. Finally, she shrugs and says, “I must speak in French, d’accord?”
I nod, swallowing.
She begins, slowly at first, but speeds up right away. Her face is serious. I listen, my hands twisted together, trying to understand. The exchange students who stay with her are artists who come to study painting as well as to learn the French language. Sylvie was thrilled by the photos of the artwork I’d emailed with my application for the exchange program, but now my work is so different. I am hesitant, not confident as a painter.
“And so, you see, Rosie, why I wonder if something is wrong,” Sylvie concludes, her brow furrowed.
She’s worried? I stare into her face, hardly daring to hope. She doesn’t think I’m lying, but that something is wrong. I can work this.
“I, well . . .” my words trail off as I struggle to form them. Sylvie reaches out to squeeze my arm.
“Problems with your mother?” she asks.
Relief engulfs me. The world that was so silent a moment ago suddenly comes to life. I hear birds chirping and whistling all around; the breeze off the ocean rustling the leaves of the surrounding trees.
I nod, and Sylvie’s furrowed brow smooths.
“I wondered. She calls you so often, sends you messages all the time. She does not want her little girl so far away, I think.” Sylvie rises and walks about the garden, trailing her fingers along a dark green vine. Then, she whirls to face me. “I will call her, and say that you are well, and happy. That’s a good idea, no?” she says hurriedly, her face hopeful.
I leap to my feet and blurt, “No!”
Sylvie’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. My mind races. What do I say? Sylvie will need to know why I don’t want to go home at the end of the summer, and I’ve already been trying to figure when and how to tell her everything. I try to come up with the right words, but I’m stuck. I look helplessly into Sylvie’s dark eyes.
The French Impressionist Page 6