A Nearly Perfect Copy - By Allison Amend Page 0,70
maybe even better because it was a gallery that was cooler, that showcased up-and-comers. Could you be an up-and-comer at forty-two? He hoped so, because he was certainly not an already-there, and the only other option was a has-been.
But they didn’t want him. They wanted Connois. Fuck Connois, Gabriel thought. It was possible that his ancestor had ruined his life. Had made him want to be a painter, had made him forge Febrer, had set him on the path that led him to Klinman.
He should tell the Picluts to aller se faire foutre. If they didn’t want him, his art, then they could find someone else. Let someone else take their direction, be their little bitch.
The woman behind him kicked her legs and pigeons fluttered over to Gabriel. He stamped his foot to make them scatter.
On the other hand, a show was a show. This could really launch him. Maybe what Patrice and Paulette were doing was curating, shaping his work, editing it. Maybe it didn’t matter that it wasn’t his original vision.
The woman shooed the pigeons over toward Gabriel. He shooed them back.
Gabriel went directly to Colette’s, stopping only to buy the cheapest champagne he could find.
“Well, hello!” Colette said, glimpsing the bottle.
“I got a call from the Picluts today. They want to give me a show there.”
“I know!” said Colette. “Isn’t that fantastic?”
“You know? How do you know?”
“My uncle said they were going to call you. Apparently, he really likes you, to set you up with them that way.”
“To set me up?”
“I mean, to put you in contact.”
Gabriel hid inside his champagne flute. Had Klinman put them up to this? Why?
His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Colette put an arm on his. “They love your work. They’d have to. Every show figures in a gallery’s reputation. They wouldn’t risk that. Not for anyone.”
“Do you know how long the gallery has been open?”
“Three years, I think.”
“And how long have they been married?” Gabriel asked.
“Who?”
“The Picluts.”
“They’re siblings.”
“They are?” Gabriel was sure they were married. “I thought they were together.”
“That’s gross. No, they’re siblings.” Gabriel thought about how they shared telepathic communication, how Patrice put his hand lovingly on Paulette’s back. How had he confused that with romantic love? “Silly,” Colette said. She yawned. “I’m jet-lagged.”
“Oh, right, how was your trip?”
“Good. I saw the most beautiful Delacroix.” Colette drained her glass and refilled it, sipping quickly before it fizzed over the side. “It’s upsetting. These people in New York, these Americans, they don’t appreciate what they have.”
“I appreciate what I have,” Gabriel said, taking Colette’s free hand.
Colette patted his cheek and said in English, “So cute.”
The gallery space was exactly how he had imagined it would be. In fact, he thought he’d been in the space in another incarnation. Was it possible that it had been a punk club in the nineties? It was the perfect location for an up-and-coming gallery. Not so trendy that the rents were high, but trendy enough that centre-ville Parisians would feel safe sojourning there, and receive a taste of adventure while doing so. Though small and low-ceilinged, the gallery had a nice flow to it, with plenty of interior walls and new track lighting. Colette came with him, standing so close to him as he paced the room, he could smell her strawberry shampoo.
She asked Paulette and Patrice a number of practical questions, and they had an animated discussion conducted so rapidly, with so many numbers, that Gabriel couldn’t follow it. It seemed almost like an argument.
But Gabriel trusted Colette. It had been so long since someone had been his advocate. It felt odd, improbable, yet Gabriel and Colette seemed to share a certain practicality that made Gabriel feel that as long as his and Colette’s interests were aligned—or at least, not competing—he could count on her.
He smiled as Paulette opened a bottle of champagne, and signed the contract willingly. When they clinked glasses, Colette’s bubbled up and over the rim and she brought it quickly to her mouth to save it. “Now, that’s talent,” Patrice said.
After work, still nursing one of the more vicious and perseverant hangovers he’d ever experienced (he swore never to drink champagne again), Gabriel shuffled home and got into bed, contemplating his luck. Could it be that it had finally changed? He permitted himself a fantasy in which he was the toast of Paris. He wore a tuxedo, a satin pocket square, shirt partway unbuttoned. Around him was a cast of characters like in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.