A Nearly Perfect Copy - By Allison Amend Page 0,120
to say,” Lise said. “Say it.”
When he spoke, it came out harsh, like a stage whisper. “I can’t tell you,” he said.
“Why not?” Lise demanded.
Gabriel paused for a while, gathering his words, his composure. “Because I’m ashamed.”
Lise grimaced and stubbed out her latest cigarette. She leaned closely in to Gabriel. For a second he thought she might try to kiss him, but when she spoke it was clearly not out of affection. “I don’t know what you got yourself into. But you dragged me into it. If the police come after me, so help me God, I will kill you.”
Gabriel nodded mutely.
“And I never want to see you again. Never. Understand?”
Lise spoke with such vitriol that little bubbles of spittle landed on Gabriel’s chin. He didn’t wipe them away. He’d never seen her so angry, never seen anyone so angry. It served him right. He had dragged her into it, even if it had been unknowingly. Never seeing her again was a suitable, terrible punishment. He watched her grab her purse and storm out of the café, praying, if he hadn’t used up his celestial currency, that this whole mess would spare her.
He threw money on the table and took the paper with him to Tinsley’s. He ran all the way from the métro stop, and was out of breath when he got to the building. He had to ring the bell twice before they buzzed him inside the building. After looking at the old, rickety lift in the center of the winding staircase, he charged up the stairs instead, and breathlessly asked the receptionist for Colette.
“She’s not in at the moment. Do you have an appointment?”
“I don’t need an appointment. I’m her boyfriend. Where is she?”
The receptionist recoiled a bit, now suspicious of him. “I’m sorry, I don’t know. She stepped out. I don’t know where she is or when she’ll be back.”
“Dammit,” Gabriel swore. Other employees stopped their work to stare at him. He was struck by how shabby the office was, its paper peeling from the walls, the desks yellow with age. “If she comes back tell her to phone Gabriel. It’s an emergency.”
He ran into Colette as he left the building. “You owe me some explaining.”
“I’m sorry?” Colette was carrying three oversized bags. She extended her hand to give him one, but he took a step back in refusal.
“What does this mean?” He pulled Le Monde from his back pocket.
Colette looked at it. “Fuck. Well, it took them long enough. Augustus was arrested last week.”
“What is this bullshit?” Gabriel rarely swore in French. It didn’t feel authentic.
“Kindly keep your voice down.” Colette looked around, smiling too widely. “We can talk about this later.”
“We can talk about it now,” Gabriel said. “Or I can talk about it with the police.”
Colette put her bags down wearily. “My little bear,” she said, with a lilt of condescension. “All right, we’ll talk about it now. Let’s take a taxi.”
Colette put the bags in the trunk of the cab. During the ride she narrated what they were passing as though he were a tourist.
“I do love Paris.” Gabriel thought her voice sounded false, like she was doing an imitation of Audrey Hepburn or Jean Seberg. “Baudelaire has this great quote about Paris changing so much, but there’s a lot that never changes.”
He had calmed down by the time they reached her flat. Once inside, she began to make coffee. “Now, what would you like to discuss?”
“Please,” he said. “I’m not an idiot.”
“He’ll be proven innocent. This will all blow over,” she said. “It’s unfortunate that Augustus takes the fall when that asshole Schnell goes free. But really, it’s not your problem.”
“It is my problem. What, I’m just supposed to believe you the way I was supposed to believe your uncle?”
“Believe whatever you want.” Colette came over and sat next to him on the bed. She pulled his head into her lap and began to stroke his hair.
“I want to know. How much are you involved?”
“You don’t want to know, little bear, actually.” She stopped stroking suddenly.
Gabriel grunted. “And what if they found out I drew the art you sold?”
“First of all, as you well know, I don’t ‘sell art.’ I facilitate its auction. And, not to mince words, it is not your work at all. Your work has netted you a piddling little show way out in the provinces.”
Gabriel sat up, offended at her condescension but unable to defend himself. “It is my work. I drew it.”