A Nearly Perfect Copy - By Allison Amend Page 0,72

for bad art.”

Lise was impressed by Gabriel’s sudden success. She was full of questions. He did not tell her about having to tailor his paintings to the Picluts’ requests, because he knew she would disapprove. She would wrinkle up her little French nose and scold him like a child. Why was he compromising himself that way? Why had he been true to his art all these years, only to sell out now? What did that make him?

Gabriel was aware of her arguments, because he was making them himself. Why should it matter to him what she thought, this artist-turned-housewife? Except it did.

Sitting in a café near Ambrosine’s, Lise had dedicated her lunch break to brainstorming a title for his show with him. They were talking about Gabriel’s interests, how alienation was always a theme in his works, and they discussed the possibility of the title aliénation, then two words in English, alien nation, and they laughed that they were filming a sci-fi movie. Then it came to Lise. She had to write it down so Gabriel could see the wordplay. “Dé/placement, Dé/plaisir.”

“ ‘Dis/placement, Dis/pleasure.’ I’m happy,” he blurted out. He blushed. He was happy that Lise was his friend, happy to be having a show at last.

Lise laughed. “I’m happy too.”

When he told Colette the title, she scoffed. “It sounds like some sort of Derridean circle jerk.”

“Well, I like it,” Gabriel said.

“You would.”

He was sleeping poorly, partly because he was often at Colette’s and her bed was lumpy. She also generated so much heat when she slept that he awoke sweaty and breathless. Every night he had anxiety nightmares.

One night he dreamed that his painting had made the cover of Art Forum, only to realize, to his horror, that he had copied the Mona Lisa. He awoke panting.

“What is it? Tell me.” Colette stroked his back as Gabriel fought to regain his breath.

“Am I doing the wrong thing?” he asked her.

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I feel like … I feel like I’m pretending to be someone else.”

“Because you’re accepting direction?”

“I guess.” He turned to her. “Doesn’t it seem strange that they want to capitalize on my connection to Connois?”

“Why?” Colette lay back down on the bed. Her breasts pointed opposite ways, like contradictory directional arrows. “I mean, you exploit it.”

“Yeah, but. Wait, I do?”

Colette laughed. “You have his name, though it’s not your true name. You like to sketch like him, I’ve noticed.”

Gabriel froze: was it possible she knew about the work he did for her uncle? But Colette continued on. “Just do what they want. Now is not the time for principles. You don’t catch flies with vinegar.”

Part Two

Summer 2007

Elm

Elm felt such a surge of relief as the wheels lifted off the ground that she sighed more heavily than she meant to and felt her seatmate bristle in annoyance. She loved her family, but escaping from them, even for a couple of days, lifted a tremendous burden. She felt she was never doing enough. When she expressed to Colin, lost in his own anxious space, that she worried about her efforts as a wife and mother, he looked at her as though she were speaking a language he didn’t understand.

“That is so New York, to worry about these things,” he said. “You’re a terrific wife and a fantastic mother and a terrible cook. All my girlfriends say so.” He nuzzled her. “I don’t understand why you worry like this when there’s real stuff to worry about, like aliens and serial killers.” He was being nice, but he wasn’t saying the right words. What were those words? Some form of assurance that she didn’t let her son die, that everyone forgave her for letting her son die.

New York fell away, replaced by a blue that was either ocean or cloud cover. She was flying business class; she reclined and sipped at her not-terrible wine.

It had been a fight to get to go on this trip alone. Ian had wanted to come, even offering to pay his own way, claiming not to have been to Paris in ages. She had laughed like he made some ridiculous joke, but she would have been blind not to see the hurt in his eyes. Then Colin had suggested she take Moira with her. “She’s never been to France, Elm.” Elm wondered if he needed a break as much as she did. “I’ll be working too much,” she answered. “I’d have to find a sitter.”

Colette had, if unintentionally, helped Elm out. Needing to see