The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [3]
She turned a comer and entered a small, unpretentious apartment block. As she passed the booth with its tiny window, there was a high-pitched cry from the concierge.
″Mademoiselle!″
The gray-haired woman pronounced each syllable of the word, and managed to give it an accusatory inflection, emphasizing the scandalous fact that Dee was not married to the man who rented the apartment Dee smiled again; an affair in Paris would hardly be complete without a disapproving concierge.
″Telegramme,″ the woman said. She laid the envelope on the sill and retired into the cat-smelling gloom of her booth, as if to dissociate herself entirely from loose-moraled young girls and their telegrams.
Dee picked it up and ran up the stairs. It was addressed to her, and she knew what it was.
She entered the apartment, and laid the bread and the telegram on the table in the small kitchen. She poured coffee beans into a grinder and thumbed the button; the machine growled harshly as it pulverized the brown-black nuts.
Mike′s electric shaver whined as if in answer. Sometimes the promise of coffee was the only thing that got him out of bed. Dee made a whole pot and sliced the new bread.
Mike′s flat was small, and furnished with elderly stuff of undistinguished taste. He had wanted something more grand, and he could certainly afford better. But Dee had insisted they stay out of hotels and classy districts. She had wanted to spend summer with the French, not the international jet set; and she had got her way.
The buzz of his shaver died, and Dee poured two cups of coffee.
He came in just as she placed the cups on the round wooden table. He wore his faded, patched Levi′s, and his blue cotton shirt was open at the neck, revealing a tuft of black hair and a medallion on a short silver chain.
″Good morning, darling,″ he said. He came round the table and kissed her. She wound her arms around his waist and hugged his body against her own, and kissed him passionately.
″Wow! That was strong for so early in the morning,″ he said. He gave a wide California grin, and sat down.
Dee looked at the man as he sipped his coffee gratefully, and wondered whether she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. Their affair had been going for a year now, and she was getting used to it. She liked his cynicism, his sense of humor, and his buccaneering style. They were both interested in art to the point of obsession, although his interest lay in the money to be made out of it, while she was absorbed by the whys and wherefores of the creative process. They stimulated each other, in bed and out they were a good team.
He got up, poured more coffee, and lit cigarettes for both of them. ″You′re quiet,″ he said, in his low, gravelly American accent. ″Thinking about those results ? It′s about time they came through.″
″They came today,″ she replied. ″I′ve been putting off opening the telegram.″
″What? Hey, c′mon, I want to know how you did.″
″All right.″ She fetched the envelope and sat down again before tearing it open with her thumb. She unfolded the single sheet of thin paper, glanced at it, then looked up at him with a broad smile.
″My God, I got a First,″ she said.
He leaped to his feet excitedly. ″Yippee!″ he yelled. ″I knew it! You′re a genius!″ He broke into a whining, fast imitation of a country-and-western square dance, complete with calls of ″Yee-hah″ and the sounds of a steel guitar, and hopped around the kitchen with an imaginary partner.
Dee laughed helplessly. ″You′re the most juvenile thirty-nine-year-old I′ve ever met,″ she gasped. Mike bowed in acknowledgment of imaginary applause, and sat down again.
He said: ″So. What does this mean, for your future?″
Dee became serious again. ″It means I get to do my Ph.D.″
″What, more degrees? You now have a B.A. in Art History, on top of some kind of Diploma in Fine Art. Isn′t it time you stopped being a professional student?″
″Why should I? Learning is my kick—if they′re willing to pay me to study for the