A Nearly Perfect Copy - By Allison Amend Page 0,100

come by. Yes, Klinman had the contacts to dispose of the drawings, but what would stop Gabriel from entering any gallery in town and concocting some story about how he’d found this in the closet of his aunt (who was titled, of course; French people love royalty)? What would he need to strike out on his own? Appropriately old paper, a good backstory. Fuck it. He was going solo.

On the banks of the Seine the kiosks of rare-book sellers would certainly have some early- to mid-nineteenth-century paper. He could just buy an old book of prints and either split the paper or cut out the page glued to the cover. He had done that before, in liceo, taking the precious sheets of good, thick (though modern) paper and soaking them to peel them apart, splicing them into multiple sheets. He had also taken art books from the university library and liberated their back pages or the odd blank page left over from uneven pagination. Occasionally, he checked out a book and someone had already removed the page. He was not the only paper thief in town.

The quais were mostly deserted and the men sat in the shade of the linden trees fanning themselves. He stopped to take money out of the bank. He passed the postcard vendor and the LP stand and stood in front of a kiosk of larger folios that looked of appropriate age. Gabriel pretended to be interested in a vintage edition of Molière. Its spine was leather, revealing lighter beige suede inside. It looked like craquelure on an old oil painting. He opened the volume. The paper was ticklishly soft. But that wasn’t what he was looking for. Too small, too yellowed. He put the book back and nonchalantly moved over to the larger books. He took one out, a loosely bound collection of botanical prints from 1863. The pages held smooth engravings, glued or partially glued to just the sort of old paper he needed. The man behind the kiosk eyed him suspiciously. Gabriel held his breath. He didn’t need for the man to see him getting excited about a book; that would drive up the price.

“You’re interested in botany?” the man asked.

“Hmmm,” Gabriel said noncommittally. “I’m looking for something more …” He tried to think of something he could be looking for instead, but the word didn’t come to him in French or Spanish. “I don’t know how to say it.” He smiled sheepishly. “But maybe this is okay. How much does it cost?”

“The price is on the inner cover.” The man reached a thin arm over the mound of books to grab the prints from Gabriel. “One hundred euros.”

Gabriel shook his head. “Sixty,” he said, repeating the French number in his mind to make sure.

The man scoffed. “Ninety is the best I can do. They’re original prints. Beautiful.”

“And how long have you had this book?” Gabriel asked. “Maybe you are looking to get rid of it. Seventy-five.”

“Eighty.”

“Fine.” Gabriel handed the man four twenties. “Do you have a bag?”

The man sighed, annoyed. He handed him a plastic Monoprix bag and Gabriel gingerly put the book inside, tucking the whole package into his messenger bag.

When he got home, Gabriel put a pot of water on to boil. He opened the botanical volume and, with an X-Acto knife, cut off the back cover. Then he held the board over the pot of water, tapping his foot.

He stood over the pot for forty-five minutes, his bladder growing full. But he didn’t dare put the cardboard down to go to the toilet. The glue was almost fully softened. Finally he judged it ready. He sat down at the table, and carefully, so carefully, pulled the paper from its cardboard backing. He laid it facedown on the linoleum. Then he took a blunt butter knife and scraped off all remnants of glue. Now he let himself use the bathroom.

After sizing it and replenishing his period ink stash, Gabriel let the paper dry for twenty-four hours. Then he took it to the studio and drew on it. His finished Connois looked not half bad, if he said so himself. He had managed to draw the local market at his house in Spain from memory. His mother made an appearance in the drawing, toward the back, selling her bread. He gave the other market vendors wry expressions, as was Connois’s custom, and made sure to sketch the figures with great detail, leaving the kiosks and wares only suggested. Concerned mostly with