A Nearly Perfect Copy - By Allison Amend Page 0,36

an auction?”

“I haven’t seen her.” Ian continued to look at his computer screen. Elm couldn’t see what was requiring such rapt attention. “At school she was into modern dance, I think,” Ian said, still not looking at Elm.

Elm stared at him, his profile sharp, his neck tucked neatly into his collar, his hair gelled to obedience. The computer screen threw off light that reflected off his high forehead. Suddenly, such a wave of loneliness overcame Elm that she thought she might faint from despair. He was shutting her out.

This was a recurring paranoia she’d felt since Ronan had died. In therapy, she had discovered that she felt he had rejected her, as silly as it sounded. That he had somehow chosen to perish in order to get away from her. Her psychiatrist had teased this out of her one day after she related the dream she’d had a million times, so cliché she dismissed it as embarrassingly banal and mainstream: she was returning from a journey to her childhood house and no one recognized her.

Knowing that this fear of abandonment was irrational did nothing to dispel it. So Elm had learned to at least acknowledge that what she was feeling was probably in her head, and to try to assemble evidence to the contrary. One, Ian loved her and was fiercely loyal. Two, she had done nothing to incur his annoyance. Three, he wasn’t one to suffer in silence. When he was angry, you knew it. Ergo, whatever was bugging him was him, and not Elm.

“Well,” she said. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Bye,” he said, waving.

Gabriel

As soon as Klinman left the gallery, Gabriel began to think about his new business opportunity. He could get Didier to help him; the man could do a passing Pissarro. Marie-Laure worked for hire too, he knew. Recently she had illustrated a children’s book. Surely she’d be more interested in this work.

A team thus mentally assembled, Gabriel closed the gallery early. After he checked his various pockets for the money (he’d spread it out both to avoid losing it and because the wad was too big to fit into his tight pocket), he locked the door behind him and pulled down the grate. Paris was in the midst of a cold snap, its regular mist hanging heavy like a compress. Gabriel turned up his collar, but it did little to warm him. He arrived at his studio in the banlieue jumping up and down to shake the cold from his limbs. Both Marie-Laure and Didier were there, and he told them about Klinman’s visit. Marie-Laure looked at him with such blatant gratitude that Gabriel was embarrassed.

“Who is this man?” asked Didier. “Our benefactor?”

“He’s English,” Gabriel said. “A dealer or collector or something.”

“Who cares?” said Marie-Laure. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s an angel from God sent to pay my rent.” Marie-Laure’s live-in boyfriend dabbled in heroin; he was always stealing money from her wallet and threatening to hurt her.

“Angels pay your rent?” Didier baited her.

Marie-Laure opened her mouth to answer, but Gabriel cut her off. “We have until next week only. The paper will arrive tomorrow.”

The paper was delivered by messenger to Rosenzweig’s the next day. It did look like nineteenth-century artist’s paper, irregular and obviously not mass-produced. Gabriel took it to the studio, ready to hand it out, feeling a dry-mouthed panic. He was not used to being in charge. He was not a leader. He was an outsider, and this new role of cheerleader/whip cracker was an unfamiliar fit. He didn’t like being responsible, especially for other people’s work. He liked to work alone, rely on no one, and certainly not flaky Didier or weepy Marie-Laure.

Today, Marie-Laure didn’t complain as Gabriel lit incense, and did him the favor of turning her American pop music selections down low. Gabriel sat down at his table. He took out the sketch he had started the day before, planning to transfer it to Klinman’s paper. Some of the elements weren’t working. The perspective was not quite uniform. The clock tower in the background was elongated at the top, the point of view low to the ground. Yet the women’s skirts were viewed from above. This inconsistency bothered Gabriel. He suspected this fussiness was related to the lack of spirit in his art, his preoccupation with structure at the expense of emotion. These kinds of imperfections further falsified the piece of art. Yet there was no time to obsess over details in his current assignment. It was all