Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [64]
Michael said nothing; Sacrament of Extreme Unction was the painting Pierre Dauphin guarded so zealously. Michael wanted it for his own reasons. First, because it was a prime example of Poussin’s work. Reminiscent of Michaelangelo in its foreshortening and the sculptural heft of its people, it had been painted by Poussin during his long sojourn in Rome. Michael felt moved by its subject—the ministration of last rites. Also, he liked the woman in it. Leaving the room, she glanced over her shoulder with a sad, secret smile that alternately reminded him of Lydie and the St. Pauli girl.
“I have a feeling I’ll wind up with Apollo and Daphne,” Michael said after a while.
Anne shook her head vehemently. “It is too late an example. Exquisite in its way, but not representative. Poussin died before it was completed. Fight for the Sacrament.”
Barricades kept tourists out of the hall, but the workers’ activity attracted a certain amount of attention.
“Everyone wants to see what is happening,” Anne said. “I want to tell them: history is being made!”
Hearing that, Michael thought of Lydie, of how she should be here. He looked around, noting change: restoration of the mosaic floor; two walls, nearly complete, to redirect flow through the French painting galleries; signs done in words, not glyphs, hung where Michael thought they would best be seen. The workers swept shreds of paper into small piles. It was nearly twelve, time for their lunch break. Michael felt relieved they had finished the hard part before lunch, knowing they would return at two drowsy from red wine.
“I have to make a phone call,” he said to Anne.
“And I must go upstairs to work,” she said. She stood on her toes to reach her arms around his neck. She collapsed against him, pressing her pelvis against his. “My zizi remembers this morning,” she whispered. When he didn’t reply, she nudged him. “Say it,” she whispered.
“My verge remembers.”
She giggled. “You are so cute and embarrassed. So American!”
Walking toward the pay phone, Michael wondered whether his embarrassment was particularly American, whether Didier or Gaston would feel ridiculous calling their body parts cute names in the middle of the day. In bed was a different story. Then that made him wonder whether he had created the embarrassment as punishment for thinking of sex with Anne before calling Lydie.
In any case, Lydie was not home.
Never had Paris seen such a crowd of people. Never has the city been so aroused, so intent on a spectacle.
—TO FRANÇOISE-MARGUERITE, JULY 1676
“IT MIGHT BE possible,” Lydie said to Kelly. They sat in a café overlooking the Beaubourg Center. Lydie drank tea, Kelly drank Coke. “Mr. Morrison was nice on the phone, very sympathetic when I told him about you.”
“What did you tell him?” Kelly asked.
“That you are a Filipino, in Paris illegally, that I want to take you to the United States. I told him that you are my assistant.”
“Your assistant? How do I assist you?”
“That’s what we have to discuss.” Lydie spoke softly, in case some of the Americans jamming the café were embassy spies.
Kelly stared into her Coke, trouble evident in her eyes. “Lydie,” she said. She glanced up at Lydie, then averted her eyes again.
Lydie waited, holding herself back. She knew she could make this too easy for Kelly. She could imagine taking over, devoting herself night and day to Kelly’s cause as if it were a religious mission. It would distract her from Michael, and when it was over, she would feel like a hero. But it was Kelly’s cause, not Lydie’s, and Lydie could only help her along with it.
“Lydie, what about my fish market?” Kelly asked after a moment.
“I don’t really expect you to be my assistant,” Lydie said, smiling. “It’s just something I thought up for the authorities. You can still have your fish market.” She withdrew some papers from her briefcase.