CH 10
"Did you see her? Did you see her?" the Bohemians excitedly asked the moment I walked into the studio the following day. Thank goodness it was finally Friday as I desired two full days spent outdoors without the interruption of a dark theater in the middle of my afternoon.
"Who?" I asked, looking around the room.
"Christine!"
"Who?"
"Daae!"
If I said 'who' once more, I was going to magically turn into an owl.
"Christine Daae? The chorus girl?"
My words were met with gasps. "Christine Daae is no longer a chorus girl. She's the star of Don Juan Triumphant!"
Star indeed. Her voice and acting skills had yet to be proven. For the time being, she was simply Christine Daae, an actress assigned the leading role in a virgin production by a virgin composer.
"Yes, I believe I saw her briefly."
They were far too thrilled to have seen a mere chorus girl climb into the carriage of the vicomte with the windows shuttered. That meager glimpse renewed their excitement, and although we had our regular curriculum to complete first, they were eager to start their third day.
"She's singing today, at the rehearsal."
"Good," I said. "Perhaps she will inspire you to paint faster, which I suggest you do."
They were certainly in need of a miraculous change in pace as one background was complete and two still in the planning stage. Since their time was volunteered, however, and the theater had no crew still gainfully employed to take over, the ghost would either need to extend his deadline or do it himself.
I grunted at the thought of an apparition floating over the backdrop, back and shoulders aching from the labor. Certainly, if he was truly listening in, the ghost had heard them commiserating over their aching lower backs as if they were a group of elderly citizens complaining of their faulty, swollen joints.
"Have you thought about asking the other twelve in your class if they would be willing to assist? You could use extra hands," I pointed out before the rest of the class joined us. I moved several items off my desk, including the unclaimed lunch pail as I had no desire for a colony of mice to move into my studio.
"We could do that?"
I briefly closed my eyes and took a breath. Love them as I did, it seemed as though often they shared a single brain that didn't fully function.
"Yes," I slowly said. "Of course. In truth, though not advisable, I suppose you could invite the whole university."
By the end of class, they had recruited three more students to assist for the day, bringing their total to a more confident nine. On Monday two more had promised to join them.
As I had done the previous days, I walked them down to the opera house where we took a shortcut through one of the parks and saw a handful of artists chatting while they worked on their landscapes and portraits.
The weather seemed more confident as well, and collectively moods seemed to have been lightened. We stopped briefly, and I recognized one of the artists, with whom I had met at the Salon de Vive on Thursday evenings for a number of years.
Hugo Duarte also happened to be my mentor once painting became more than a hobby, and despite numerous reasons for him to dismiss me from his tutelage, he never gave up-at least permanently.
"Where have you been, Phelan Kimmer? You have a handful of shows under your belt and you abandoned us?" Hugo asked, his tone light.
"Hugo," I said, smiling at the older man with his wisps of black hair turning silver and soft frame. He looked very much like a potato had grown arms, legs, and a head with an untrimmed beard that had gone silver well before the rest of him.
He was thirty years my senior, had enjoyed a bit of success with his own art, and was the person who had not only recommended me for the art department at the university, but whose retirement had set the stage for me to finally leave the bank and have full-time employment in art.
"Abandon you? Never, Hugo," I said, squeezing his soft shoulder. "How are you, my friend?"
Hugo complained of his aching, swollen feet and terrible knees. He was having trouble getting out of bed in the morning and his left arm ached every time he lifted it. He was in the middle of telling me about his prostate issues when he paused mid-sentence and smiled at me.
"I suppose you don't want to hear about that. How is the semester going? These are your students, yes?" he asked, nodding at the younger artists who were speaking with another gentleman. He must have been quite amusing as they were all giggling.
"Half of them."
"Have you lost the other half?"
I grunted. "Surprisingly I have not lost a single one in six years. The other twelve had prior commitments."
"Six years already?"
"My thoughts exactly."
"I miss the university sometimes," he said, observing my Bohemians with the faintest of smiles. "Perhaps next week I will pay a visit and see how my old studio looks."
Hugo had been making that promise for six years, but he had never shown up. The only consistency in his life was the salon and I was certain that was because there was a woman half his age who worked nearby that he liked to visit before our gatherings.
"How is my old studio? Still the same, I certainly hope?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Same walls, ceiling, and floor."
Which, after a full week of removing all of the rubbish he had acquired in thirty years of teaching, was actually visible for the first time in a quarter of a decade.
The man was incapable of throwing out anything. Beneath his desk there were several shoes beyond repair stuffed into a box with a number of pencils that were so worn down that sharpening wasn't a consideration. Dried out paints and paintbrush handles that no longer had brushes at the end were tossed into a rusted canister along with a tray that contained scraps of paper that were either crumpled or torn, rendering them useless.
He had every rough sketch from every student that had ever come into his studio bound in boxes within a back room, which would have been endearing if not for the complete lack of organization–and the nests made by mice who found a dark nook to take up residence.
Hugo also had at least sixty easels that were broken and stuffed inside the back room like the scattered, skeletal remains of art projects past.
My first full day of employment had almost been my last as despite how much I detested the bank, at least every bank slip and record book was orderly and filed with care.
Still, I loved the old pack rat despite his disheveled appearance and the chaotic surroundings passed on to me.
"Where are you heading? And does Cecil know?" he asked, referring to the dean.
"The Opera Populaire and yes, he is aware."
"What is at the Opera Populaire? Surely not a matinee?"
I explained the project and Hugo lifted a brow. "After all these years, you certainly continue to surprise me, Phelan," he said.
"Is that so?"
"Indeed." He offered the most sincere smile. "And you should know by now, you always surprise me for the better."
oOo
Christine Daae was to sing an aria from the first act for a small crowd of onlookers. A handful of gentlemen from the press, the opera managers, and most of the corps de ballet were in attendance to watch the former chorus girl take her place as the lead.
Raoul de Chagny, strangely, was not present–at least within sight. La Carlotta–or simply Carlotta, sat in the very last row of the theater quietly weeping with her husband comforting her as best he could. Before the official start of the rehearsal, she was escorted from the auditorium, at which time her wails could be heard until she left the lobby and hopefully returned home.
The first backdrop that had been completed hung behind the soprano, flanked on both sides by the costume racks, which had been a struggle to keep out of the way. Every time we came into the theater, they were back where they had been, a prank, apparently, by the immature ghost.
My Bohemians were beside themselves with anticipation of hearing Mademoiselle Daae sing. They sat in the two rows ahead of me, clutching one another as she walked onto the center of the stage and looked around as if she'd never before stepped foot in front of a crowd.
"Flan, are you excited?" one of the female students seated directly in front of me asked. She turned fully around, knees against the backrest and paint-covered fingers curled around the top of the red velvet seat, grinning like a mad fool. I nodded, suggesting that she face the stage.
A quartet of musicians sat in the orchestra pit, led by the elderly conductor, who loudly asked Mademoiselle Daae if she was ready to begin.
The young soprano, dressed in a simple brown skirt and white blouse, looked out into the audience, then above her at the catwalk.
"Yes," she whispered to the rafters. "I think so."
For such a timid creature, I fully expected a weak voice, and for the first few notes, she practically sang under her breath with her gaze pinned to her shoes.
If this was what the Opera Populaire had rested all of their hopes and dreams of success on, I was certain the production would fail before the end of the first act. The girl looked utterly petrified.
And then to make matters worse, something from the left side of the stage crashed down–a tambourine by the sound of it–and Christine nearly ran off the stage in the opposite direction. The ballet mistress caught her by the arm, steadied her, and after a brief moment of consultation, returned the girl to the center of the stage.
"He is watching," the ballet mistress said before she returned to her spot off-stage. I couldn't tell if her words were meant as comfort or a threat.
There were only about thirty people within the auditorium, but all breaths were held, including mine.
As she stood alone, I thought of Valgarde's father–my Uncle Alak–and how he had sent the two of us away to live with his deceased wife's sister in the city I had now called home for more than half of my life.
Val had been thrilled with the prospect of moving to Paris. He had read about the bustling city with paved streets instead of muddy roads and endless trails through wilderness.
There were shops and restaurants on every boulevard, public houses, barbers, tailors and school houses.
"More people than trees!" he had said to me, grinning.
Paris may as well have been a foreign country compared to what we had been accustomed to, living in a two-bedroom cabin on the very outskirts of Conforeit. The thought terrified me.
Quite flippantly, as we stood at the train depot in Calais, Val told me that he would have an opportunity to make friends rather than being forced to be with me at all times.
"I think I will ask to be called by my middle name now," he said. "Joshua. The name my mother gave me."
"Why do you no longer wanted to be called Valgarde?" I questioned.
"It's a name suitable for an old man."
I refused to ever call him by his middle name. He was Valgarde to me, Val on occasion when I truly wished to annoy him. Joshua, as far as I was concerned, was a stranger who had replaced my cousin.
The day we arrived, his aunt doted upon him and made certain her nephew was catered to in every way imaginable because he was family whereas I was the mongrel dog that had followed at her beloved nephew's heels.
Val met people his age, attended gatherings and operas while I found my own sources of entertainment and survived off the scraps his aunt allowed me.
I couldn't blame Val for wanting more; he was older than me and had dreams of making a name for himself, and in truth I had been alone long before we were sent to Paris together. The loneliness, however, was more acute when I wandered the streets Val had told me about with such excitement in his voice.
There had been nothing in Paris for me aside from trouble the first few years, despite how I searched for something different.
Something that I couldn't think about for another thirteen days, I reminded myself.
Mademoiselle Daae took several steps forward, the tips of her ballet shoes so close to the edge of the orchestra pit that I was certain if she fainted, she would fall directly onto the empty chairs reserved for the wind instruments.
Her gaze lifted, and although I wasn't certain she could see me seated in the darkened theater, it felt as though she looked into my eyes. I offered a smile and nodded, willing her to continue.
She placed both hands on her abdomen and poised herself.
The voice that emerged from her throat was not her own. It was powerful, rich, and superbly colorful, the complete opposite of the mousy squeaks that had come out when she originally took the stage.
I felt my lips part and my heart truly stutter as if each note penetrated me through my pores and entered my bloodstream.
"My God," one of my students uttered, hand on her chest.
"This show will never close if she is the lead," the male student beside her whispered.
With each note she transformed, her expression changing before our eyes. The timid chorus girl faded away and in her place, a most intriguing songbird.
Once Mademoiselle Daae finished singing, the crowd remained absolutely still until the ballet mistress applauded off stage and the rest of us followed suit, leaping to our feet.
Christine didn't move from where she stood, appearing like a mannequin that had been posed, the celebrated songstress giving way to the chorus girl once more. Her eyes turned glassy with tears, her lips quivering as she looked into the audience.
It wasn't until the head of the ballet rushed out and placed a shawl around Christine's shoulders that she seemed to come out of whatever trance had gripped her to the depths of her soul.
Eyes narrowed, I watched her, noticing how pallid her complexion had become. She seemed unable to walk on her own volition, instead clinging to the woman who had come to take her back to the dressing rooms.
As we rose from our seats and prepared to leave, a masculine voice filled the theater, seemingly from all directions and none at all.
"My…Christine…"
oOo
The best bakery I had found near my apartment happened to be run by a Danish family of six. The wife made the coffee starting at four in the morning on Saturdays, and I woke to the smell wafting across the street.
Very few people were out at that time in the morning, and with Elvira still sound asleep beneath her blanket, I sat at one of the tables, picked away at a pastry, and sipped my coffee in solitude.
Almost solitude, I suppose, as all four of their young children preferred playing near my table instead of the rest of the little bakery, chattering incessantly in Danish while they crawled around and offered me sticky pieces of their breakfast, which I declined.
Both newspapers had front page articles regarding the rehearsal from the previous day with headlines such as 'Don Juan shall surely be Triumphant!' and 'Mystery Soprano Revives Dying Opera Populaire'.
"How are you, Monsieur Kimmer?" the baker's wife asked me as I took another sip of my cup of coffee. She generously topped it off for me without being asked.
"How is anyone at four in the morning?"
She simply smiled and wiped the drops of coffee from the table with her apron before scolding her children for playing so close to my feet. "Always good to see you."
I spent my morning in the one place I didn't need to be on Saturdays and Sundays: the university. The main building was locked for the weekend, but the gymnasium, which was its own separate building, was open to anyone who possessed a key.
There were a dozen burly men waiting for me outside of the gymnasium's entrance when I approached, all of whom went from scowling to quite relieved when I produced a set of keys from my leather satchel.
"We didn't think you were coming," one of them said.
"I blame the two cups of coffee and four children belonging to a Danish baker," I replied.
The first time I had stepped foot inside the gymnasium, I thought the group of strongmen lifting barbells with one hand were the most intimidating bunch of fellows I had ever encountered. They were certainly the most muscular individuals I'd ever seen with veins protruding from their necks and foreheads and their forearms practically bigger than my thighs.
While I stood off to the side observing their techniques on my very first day, one man shrieked, arms flailing around. Seconds later, another man did the same until all of them took off in different directions, screaming like young children. After a moment, I discovered a bee had found its way in through an open window.
After that, I discovered that despite their size, they were really no different than anyone else and had a weakness, which for these intimidating fellows was apparently being stung.
I unlocked the door and the dozen or so men waiting to use the equipment filled in ahead of me and spread out to the various barbells, dumbbells and other equipment used for strength.
The gymnasium smelled like masculinity, or perhaps like barrels of perspiration had flooded the cork flooring, never to be mopped up. I held my breath and lingered behind a moment for them to open a few of the windows and release the smell from the building.
"When does the art show end?" one of the gentleman asked as he began to remove his trousers and shirt, revealing a singlet beneath his clothing.
"Today, actually." I said, unable to make eye contact with him in his revealing weight lifting apparel. Truly there was nothing left to the imagination and in that moment, I would have liked to imagine anything else.
"I took me mum," he continued, selecting his weight from the rack. "I told her I knew one of the artists."
"I certainly hope you both enjoyed the show."
"The willow tree was our favorite. We both agreed it was a very nice tree."
Critics had offered their insight on a few of my paintings. My modest painter group that met at Salon de Vive harshly critiqued my work in order for me to grow as an artist, but my favorite opinions were from people who simply looked at a painting and liked what they saw–or disliked it, if that was the case.
"I am glad you enjoyed the show."
"I would like to enroll in an art class next year," he continued, holding the iron dumbbell over his head as if it weighed no more than a feather.
"You should."
"What if I'm terrible?"
"Well, that's why you enroll in a class so that you can improve."
He seemed to truly consider my words.
"Mum likes amaryllis," he said. "I would like to paint some for her."
I imagined his 'mum' would have been both astounded and pleased that her burly bull of a son had created a delicate, floral still life.
"That can be arranged."
"May we discuss it next week?" he asked.
"I would be honored to guide you through the appropriate steps. Come to my studio Monday if you'd like and I can show you a few of our past assignments."
His face was bright red and covered with beads of sweat, but he glowed in an entirely different fashion.
"What is the charge?" he asked, placing the weight on the ground and grabbing a bigger dumbbell.
"Tell me what you think of my form," I suggested as I reached for a smaller barbell, one that I was certain the man had last lifted as a toddler.
I found I enjoyed the physical challenge far more than the casual conversation, and after a few minutes of small talk and a bit of advice for my novice self, I walked toward one of the corners and sat at the cushioned bench where I wrapped a towel around my left hand and proceeded to lift the same set of weights over my chest until the burning sensation became intolerable. By that time, however, a half hour had passed and one of the gentlemen asked if I would care to jump rope or climb one.
Due to the burn, physically climbing a rope to the ceiling was impossible, but it was enjoyable to watch the others struggle to reach the top. The smaller two of the weightlifters scurried up with ease, while the largest two could barely manage more than a few labored wriggles before they gave up and slithered down.
"Congratulations on the success of your tree," the same gentleman who had attended the gallery showing said, offering his sweat-covered, calloused hand.
oOo
My first gallery painting sold for eight francs to an unknown buyer. If I had been in attendance, I most likely would have kept the damned painting rather than be insulted by an amount lower than the price of the canvas and paints used to create it, but I had been detained the previous evening and sat in a jail cell across from the two men who had engaged me in the brawl.
'Brawl' was perhaps an exaggeration. The two men who had confronted me outside of Sterois Pub both took swings at me and missed. Fueled by youth and foolish confidence, I taunted them both, which led to me receiving a blackened eye and a split lip, but not before I had tripped one man, who hit the brick wall of the building with his face while the other stumbled into a lamp post before he tumbled into the street.
All three of us had been escorted off together with a complimentary ride in the back of a wagon with several other individuals who had disturbed the peace in one way or another. What kept the two of them from killing me overnight I had no idea, but I was young and brainless and saw no harm in being housed in the same cell as the men with whom I had roughed up a bit earlier in the night.
Given that Val played piano at Sterois three nights a week, I was certain he had caught wind of the incident. Perhaps he had witnessed everything as the altercation took place while he was taking a break from entertaining the crowd.
But he didn't come to the station or retrieve me from my cell, and as the darkness of night turned to dawn outside of my confinement, I became less and less confident that Val would pay my fines and release me from jail.
I sat watching the clock, becoming more and more anxious with each passing hour. The other two men were sent on their way while I remained, hands clasped and agitation turned to a slow boil.
Every moment of my time outside of the bank had been spent on art. I allowed myself four hours to sleep at night, an hour to freshen my mind and body, but the other nineteen were spent drawing, painting, and planning for the art show. It was the only time in my life where I thought of something more obsessively than Erik.
Hugo Duarte allowed me one painting, of his choosing, to showcase alongside his and ten other artists. I was told to be at the gallery by a quarter after eleven as the doors opened at noon. The suit I had planned to wear was hanging on my bedroom door, the new cuff links I had purchased at a nearby jewelry store atop my chest of drawers. The cuff links had been my biggest investment, something I had proudly purchased for myself after a year of working at the bank and saving every franc possible.
By ten I was the only one left in the entire jail from the previous evening. I picked at my split lip, causing it to bleed again, while I tapped my shoe furiously on the floor, knowing that I was dangerously close to not making my very first art show.
I reasoned that if Val arrived at ten-fifteen, I still had plenty of time to walk home. Ten-thirty and it would be a sprint, but I could make it. Ten-forty-five and I would have to run to the gallery, but I would be there as Hugo instructed. Perhaps out of breath, but I would be at the door before opening.
When the church bells chimed eleven in the morning, I began to pace like a caged animal, and at eleven forty-five, a half hour after I was supposed to be at the gallery, I closed my eyes and bowed my head to the sting of tears and lump in my throat.
I had failed, plain and simple. I had failed to attend my first-and most likely-my last art show.
Val did not come for me, but Hugo did at four-thirty in the afternoon. He walked into the holding area with two gendarmes leading the way, took one look at me, and nodded in silence before he walked back out.
It took years for me to realize that the look on his face that afternoon hadn't been anger, but disappointment, an expression that concerned fathers reserved for their wayward children.
"Out," one of the gendarmes ordered, shoving me hard in the back.
When I walked into the lobby, Hugo was nowhere to be found. I was handed my belongings and sent on my way, bail paid in full.
The following Thursday, I walked to the Salon de Vive and discovered Hugo as the only person in attendance. I was relieved to see him, my mentor, and grateful he had bailed me from jail.
"Sit," he told me, his doughy arms crossed over his chest.
I did as he instructed and bowed my head, swiftly realizing I was not quite forgiven. "The bail-"
"Paid."
He handed me eight francs.
"What is this for?" I questioned.
"Your painting."
My mouth dropped open. "It sold?"
Hugo shrugged. "That is what I was told."
"I wish to apologize for not attending," I said without looking at him.
"Unfortunately, Phelan, an apology will not do."
My heart dropped into the depths of my belly. I sat motionless, staring at the banknotes clutched in my fist.
He told me that the rest of the group had decided it was best that I not attend for a while. Six months, at least, perhaps longer, he told me.
"Why?" I asked. The hurt was replaced with anger when I spoke. I felt like I was sinking, as though a rock had been tied to my ankle and I was drowning in the middle of the ocean. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"For your own good," Hugo answered.
"You wish to punish me?"
He could have called me insolent, immature, an ungrateful pain in his ass or any other number of names and all would have been correct. Instead he simply looked me over, frowning as if my dismissal fate pained him.
"I want you to return home, Phelan, and think about what it is you want from yourself."
"I want to paint."
"Then you had better make art a priority. You are no longer a boy of seventeen or eighteen who is searching for his identity. You're in your twenties. If you want to make something of yourself, do it."
I crumpled the bills in my hand and tossed them back on the table. Rage blinded me and I walked out of the salon, insulted, ashamed, and uncertain of what the future held for me. I hated him, almost as much as I hated myself.
oOo
As I walked to the gallery closing some thirteen years after the first show, I thought of how many years had passed between the first gallery exhibition and my next invite.
It had taken me far longer to make art my priority as I didn't have sufficient income and the straight and narrow road was not as appealing as the tumultuous path I had traveled for more years than I wished to admit.
The gallery closing, however, was packed when I arrived. Upon entering, I squeezed past several people and found the owner.
"Is Jules Grevy in attendance?" I asked.
"Better than the president," Stefan said. He leaned toward me and whispered, "Edgar De Gas."
The gallery owner was an exceptionally petite man. He was thin as a reed and had apparently stopped growing at the age of twelve. With his delicate features and shoulder-length hair he resembled a waif of a woman.
"De Gas? Really?"
"He will be exhibiting some of his sketches starting next week," Stefan excitedly told me.
I nodded in approval and scanned the gallery for De Gas, whom I had met on several occasions. Despite his work as a painter, I'd met him originally through his father, Augustin, who had been a senior banker when I first started. We had spoken from time to time of his son's love of art and how he and his wife encouraged Edgar to pursue painting full-time.
Several times Augustin invited me for a Saturday afternoon spent at the museums with him and his son, but after one full day of listening to him discuss business finance with no possible escape, I declined future offers, deciding his son could listen to him ramble on about ledgers and balances.
I located De Gas in the rear of the gallery wearing his typical frown of disapproval. For a decent looking man in his mid-forties, he was an impossible curmudgeon who seemed to derive little pleasure from the world around him–particularly when it came to women. In all the years I had known him, Edgar never had a woman accompany him whether it was the museum, the opera, or a gallery show.
He was peculiar, to say the least.
When he spotted me, I considered darting in the opposite direction, but he weaved the crowd with exceptional speed and practically cornered me.
"Kimmer," he said, looking me up and down.
"How is your father, Edgar? Well, I hope?"
"Fine," he muttered. "Did I see correctly? You have two paintings on display?"
I hesitated to answer as by his tone it sounded as though he wished to rip them from the temporary walls and toss them into the refuse bin.
"Well do you?" he snapped.
"Yes, Monsieur De Gas," I answered. "Willows on the Shore and Woman at Cafe."
"Hmm," he responded. "I thought they were your style."
I couldn't tell if he meant it as praise or an insult. Knowing him, it was most likely the latter.
"Not nearly the caliber of your ballet dancers, but I am honored to have my work made available to the public."
"Ballet dancers," he grumbled. "Those horrid little monkey girls."
Having no response to his words, I was grateful to see Jean Moreau speaking with a small crowd of people and swiftly excused myself.
"Ah! The man of the hour!" Jean exclaimed. "He makes an appearance!"
Jean greeted me with open arms and a beaming smile as several of our mutual friends politely applauded. It was wonderful to have him in attendance on closing day. He had been there for opening as well, being the first person in the door so that when the show opened I at least had one familiar face.
I was grateful to see him, my most treasured friend.
"I've counted at least six individuals writing down the information for my paintings," he said to me. Stepping closer, he whispered, "My offer still stands, Phelan. Do not be embarrassed by the sum, my brother, you are worth every franc."
"You flatter me, my friend," I said.
"Nonsense," he replied. "It is truly an honor to see you today."
"Is it?"
"Of course, since you keep refusing to attend any of my gatherings, I must come to you," he said loudly, winking at me.
I grunted. "Next week."
"Mademoiselle Guin, did you hear that?" Jean asked, extending his hand.
Guin appeared at his side, champagne flute in her free hand. "I heard, Monsieur Moreau."
"Mademoiselle Guin," I said, greeting her with a nod. "A lovely surprise seeing you here."
She kept her hand in Jean's and smiled back at me. Given the time of day, her silk gown was a bit too elegant for noon, but she didn't appear out of place. If anything, the crowd around her appeared under dressed for the occasion.
"I would endlessly praise your work, but unfortunately I don't know the first thing about art."
Jean looked from Guin to me. "That makes two of you."
"How amusing," I said to Jean. From the corner of my eye I saw Stefan attempting to garner my attention. "If you will excuse me for a moment."
"Next Thursday?" Jean asked.
"Next Thursday," I agreed.
Stefan clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and smiled at me once I approached.
"How does eight thousand francs sound to you?"
I found myself slightly disappointed as I assumed the offer came from Jean. As much as I loved him, I disliked his need to offer such an outrageous sum of money for one of my paintings quite unnecessary. We had been friends for so long that I would have much rather gifted him the work than accepted his offers.
"That sounds like Jean Moreau has written a check."
"Jean wrote a check for six thousand. Highest bid for Woman at Cafe."
I furrowed my brow. "I beg your pardon? Who is the other buyer?"
"Unknown at this time, but Willow on the Shore is currently reserved."
"Unknown?"
"Anonymous," Stefan assured me.
I found myself glancing around the room, hoping one of the patrons would meet my eye and give themselves away with a devious smile.
Stefan cleared his throat. "That was only one topic I wished to discuss with you."
I turned my attention back to the gallery owner. "And the other?"
"Would you be interested in exhibiting three or four more paintings next week?" Stefan asked me.
I blinked at him. "Three or four?"
Stefan's perfectly manicured eyebrows shot up. "Do you have more available, Monsieur Kimmer?"
"Yes. Of course. I have dozens."
Between the studio at the university and the spare bedroom where I did most of my painting, I had at least fifty canvases organized by subject matter. My impeccable organization harkened back to my days spent filing, but with more color, and I prided myself with having the tidiest work space of any artist I'd ever encountered.
Stefan nodded. "Would you care to bring a few by tomorrow? I will be in at nine. We can decide which ones work best with the other paintings."
My heart nearly leapt from my chest. I glanced back to see if Jean was watching our interaction, but he had moved to a different part of the gallery, nearing the exit as he shook hands.
"May I ask what brought about this request?"
"Edgar said he thought that Woman at Cafe was quite stunning and asked if I would invite you to show your paintings alongside his."
I found myself grinning. Years of work, of disappointment, of feeling as though I kept sliding off the path I was meant to take, and I had an opportunity presented to me that was surreal. For the first time in my life, I felt as though I could call myself an artist.
"Yes," I said. "Yes, of course I will be here at nine. Thank you, Stefan. And please, let Monsieur De Gas know I am indebted to him."
A/N: While researching who I wanted Phelan to meet at the gallery, I stumbled on some facts I hadn't previously known: De Gas actually did refer to the ballet dancers as "little monkey girls" and apparently likened women to race horses or "creatures". He remained unmarried. His father (whose real name I used) was also a banker.