A Nearly Perfect Copy - By Allison Amend Page 0,17

and lean over and remove the drawings—”

“That like an idiot I forgot to ask to see,” said Elm, sighing.

“And they’re beautiful. At least, I think they are considering there is no light in the room at all. So I tell her they are beautiful. And then she says to me, ‘Young man, are you a homosexual?’ Ian did his best Katharine Hepburn accent, so that the word sounded like “homo-sucks-shell.”

“What?” Elm burst out laughing.

“I know. So I’m imagining all these great responses, like, ‘The guy I’m fucking thinks I am,’ or, ‘I prefer the term fudgepacker’ or something. But I’m such a good boy that I just say, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Then she looks up at me, and her eyes are all filmy with cataracts, and she says, ‘My late husband was a homosexual.’ ”

“Wow, you wandered into some weird gothic novel or something.”

“Then she turns around and hobbles out of the room. So I put the drawings back. Their archives, by the way, consist of two pieces of construction paper connected with a piece of tape so yellow it’s merged with the paper.”

“People like that don’t deserve art.” Elm breathed disapproval.

“Wait. This is the good part of the story. I follow her, and over the bed there’s this painting. So I walk over and wipe the glass with the glove to see the attribution. There’s a note. ‘À Indira avec tout mon amour, René.’ ”

“So she’s gotten a little action from the love that dare not speak its name too?”

“No.” Ian’s voice rose with impatience. “Try to keep up, Elmira.”

“Don’t call me that. Seriously.”

“René Magritte, my slow one. Indira Schmidt.”

“No! The Indira Schmidt?”

“One and only.”

“Oh, my God. That’s amazing. She’s still alive?”

“Apparently. Or, rather, barely. So I follow her into the kitchen, where she says to me, ‘Young man, can you make me tea in the English manner?’ So I say, ‘One spoonful you think for each who will drink, and one for the pot, the best that we’ve got.’ ”

Elm looked at Ian uncomprehendingly. He said, “Grandmother was English. It’s … never mind. Anyway, that seemed to convince her that I was somebody or something, because she sat me down and talked to me for, like, five hours. And here’s the gist: Georg Schmidt was a poofter.”

“Hardly news to the thousands of young men he ‘took under his wing.’ ” Elm’s fingers made quote marks in the air.

“She had the most amazing life, really. She told me all about escaping Austria, and hiding out in the French countryside, then walking to Belgium, which is where she met Magritte and had this torrid affair. I got the details. All the details.”

“Eww.”

“As you say. She’s totally amazing. She said, ‘My ceramics are on display at every major museum in the world. Well, every museum in the civilized world.’ ”

“That’s priceless,” said Elm. “You are the luckiest guy ever.”

“Someone should write her biography.”

“You should,” Elm said. Her computer gurgled, signaling that she had an appointment coming up.

“I can’t write,” said Ian. “You should do it.”

“In all my free time.”

“The woman has an entire museum in there. She’s saved everything—letters, objets.”

“Can you talk her into parting with some of it? Does she have children?”

“I don’t know. No living ones anyway.” Elm’s heart lurched. Did they die young? How many did she have? “This is why I’m telling you this, Elm. This could be our focus, if you catch my drift.”

“I do,” Elm said. “Let me know when the drawings are back. You’re seeing her again?”

“I’m bringing her croissants from some ancient bakery on the Lower East Side next week.”

“You are truly the best.” Elm grabbed her purse and kissed Ian on the top of his head.

“I hear that all the time,” he replied.

Later that afternoon, there was a quiet knock on the door frame. Colette, from the French office, the one who had the annoying habit of tapping her pen during meetings. That woman was here so often she might as well be working in New York, Elm thought, and saving the company the airfare.

Colette was the type of woman other women disliked. She flirted with husbands out of habit, and picked lint off other women’s shoulders. Elm also objected to her accent, flawless, just enough Gallic to make you ask where she was born and then exclaim “But you speak so beautifully” when she told you Chalon-sur-Saône. She had the most annoying habit of speaking English as though she had learned it from a grammar primer, but occasionally she’d pause and say,