first course, but I’ll introduce you around,” Klinman said. “Everyone, this is my niece Colette’s boyfriend, Gabriel Connois, relation of Marcel Connois, of the École des Hiverains.”
Everyone nodded, either in recognition of the name or in pretend recognition of it. It was interesting, but not surprising, that Colette had told her uncle about his ancestor. He wished, not for the first time, that he could be introduced on his own merit. But she called me her boyfriend, Gabriel thought.
Klinman continued, “This is an associate, Avram ben Hakim.” A Middle Eastern–looking man in a dark suit nodded at Gabriel. “And the Bairds, and next to them the Schoenbergs. Do you know Patrice and Paulette Piclut? No? I’m surprised. They run a gallery in Canal St. Martin. Very cool,” he added in English.
Colette kissed Patrice and Paulette and sat down. The waiter brought over an amuse bouche, some sort of dumpling in a spoon. Gabriel lifted it to his mouth and a spurt of hot liquid shot down his throat. He reached for his water glass, determined not to cough.
Colette said, “In fact, PP, you might be interested in Gabriel’s work.” She popped the dumpling in her mouth and chewed it naturally, swallowing without incident.
Patrice crossed his legs. He was wearing pale pink pants, exposing a skinny, sockless ankle. “It’s not street art, is it? Because we are so over street art.”
“Painting,” Gabriel said. “I’m a painter.”
Paulette nodded. “Painting is so retro it’s new again.”
Klinman addressed them, “When was painting out? Painting has always been in style.”
“No,” the person to Klinman’s right said. “Have you been to the Biennale? It’s been all conceptual for years.”
“And Miami Basel is even worse. It was like being in Las Vegas. You’ve been to Vegas?” a woman with a strong American accent asked.
“I love Vegas,” said Paulette. “I’ve never been there, but I know I’d love it.”
“It’s like a psychedelic experience,” said ben Hakim. “Like what taking LSD was like.”
“An artist, how nice. We only ever meet dealers, like art grows out of the ground,” said a German woman.
“Better the ground than the ass,” Gabriel said. There was a pause while everyone considered whether to be offended or amused. Gabriel’s face turned bright red. He was so used to the accepted vulgarity of artists; he forgot that civilians had more refined sensibilities. But Colette saved him by giggling and then everyone laughed. He was proud of himself for making a joke. Maybe he fit in better than he thought he did.
Gabriel sat back to let the waiter replace his plate with one that held a piece of meat with a brown-red sauce on top of it. When everyone was served, the waiter announced, “Filet mignon avec foie de volaille.”
Gabriel took a polite bite. The meat melted inside his mouth, and the sauce had a pleasing peaty flavor. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything like this,” he whispered to Colette.
She stopped eating to take a sip of her wine. “So many things to try.”
From the head of the table Klinman asked him, “So Connois was your relative?”
“He was a grandfather,” Gabriel said in French, unsure of the exact word for a distant, yet direct, relative. “Of my mother.”
“Ahhhh,” the man sighed. “And your real name?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Does it matter?” Gabriel asked.
Klinman caught his eye and winked, which so disconcerted Gabriel that his fork slipped and he dropped poultry innards on his lap. He was not at all disappointed to hear Colette’s delighted laugh, and see her napkin winging its way toward his crotch.
Édouard and his boyfriend took advantage of the “bridge” long weekend to fly to Corsica, leaving Gabriel to deal with the unlikely foot traffic or emergency in the gallery. Gabriel spent the day doodling, drawing geometric shapes on graph paper and shading them by shining a light from the left margin.
He heard the whoosh of air created by the opening of the door. There stood Klinman, dressed elegantly in a bespoke suit, carrying a hat and an umbrella, popping by from a previous century.
Gabriel stammered hello, and a thank-you for the dinner the night before. Gabriel had grown increasingly nervous as the meal wore on, partly from Colette’s hand on his thigh and also because he was unsure of how the payment for the meal would take place. As it turned out, the waiter brought no bill, and no one took out a card or cash.
“Who paid?” he’d asked Colette on the way to her apartment.
“Oh, Augustus has an account there,” she’d