A Nearly Perfect Copy - By Allison Amend Page 0,97

his screen.

Nothing about the opening. Why had he listened to Marie-Laure? He was angry at himself for being disappointed. Sir Veille was a part of the same establishment that had shunted him aside for years. Why should this blogger be any different? He hated that he still craved acceptance.

A couple of days later, Marie-Laure burst into his studio. “Here! I printed it out for you. It’s good. Well, mostly.”

She handed Gabriel a piece of paper. “What is this?” he asked.

“A review. Of your show. By Sir Veille.”

“Oh. I’ll read it later.”

“What?” Marie-Laure said. “That’s ridiculous. Read it now.”

Gabriel had trouble making out the small print in the dim light. “Can you read it?” he said. “I have a headache.”

“ ‘Swimming down Canal Saint-Martin the other night, I stopped in for free booze at Galerie Piclut. The cheese was decidedly low-quality, and there were stems that suggested that once there might have been grapes, now long gobbled by hungry students. It has always seemed uncouth to me (and for this you can thank my mother) to take grapes and leave the stems. Break off the stem and take it with you!

“ ‘Oh, right, the art. The artist, skinny and sweaty, is a descendant of Marcel Connois of the École des Hiverains. Yes, that Connois. But this grandchild is an École des Beaux Arts graduate. Swarthy, sexy, all the usual stereotypes. He’s riffed on his relative’s style, painting marketplaces and still lifes and playing with light, but with an ironic twist. Street scenes become African markets, sun shining refracted off dark black skin. Boats on water are barges carrying fruit. There’s a decent use of color and an obvious flair for satire (if not for a sense of humor. The paintings seem sometimes to not get their own joke). Mostly it appears to be an attempt by a foreigner to claim Paris, which is the subject of the art itself. Whether this goal is worthy of artistic inquiry is up for debate, but the artist does succeed in carving out his own space in the city. Overall, worthwhile if you’re in the neighborhood, to get a glimpse of contemporary Connois.’ ”

Marie-Laure let her hands fall to her sides.

“That’s good?” Gabriel asked.

“It sounded better the first time I read it,” she admitted. “But he called it worthwhile.”

“If you’re in the neighborhood.”

“Lots of people go to that arrondissement,” Marie-Laure said brightly. She handed him the page and left.

Gabriel held it far from his eyes and squinted, reading it again. He hadn’t caught it the first time, but one line stood out. “The artist does succeed in carving out his own space in the city.” He couldn’t help but feel proud. Finally, Gabriel owned Paris.

Gabriel sat in Colette’s apartment. He was mostly living there, though Colette was in New York nearly half the month. Gabriel felt like he was living on a movie set, the views fake and the props hollow. It was still hot, and Gabriel sat on the love seat, watching Colette’s small television. He picked up the top catalog from the large pile Colette used to form a side table. He fanned himself, then saw that it was a Tinsley’s catalog from last spring. He began to flip through it.

He thumbed through glossy pages of antique bric-a-brac. Most of what they auctioned wasn’t even art. It was artisanry, not at all the same thing. So he flipped to the index in the back. Automatically, he looked for Connois’s name and there it was. For sale was Mercat, a pastel.

Gabriel’s heart pounded loudly in his ears. He felt caught suddenly, like in a dream of being chased and then arrested by the police for an unspecified crime that he knew he’d committed. He turned quickly to the page. The pastel was not reproduced. Instead there was a square that said “Image not available.” He read the description next to the entry: “Marcel Connois, 1825–1889. Mercat (Market). Signed by the artist. Pastel on paper. Provenance: Acquired directly from the artist by the family of the present owner. Literature: Connois’s Flights of Fancy, 1901, described.” The dimensions were listed in the ridiculous American measuring system; he wasn’t able to tell if the painting was his or not. The reserve was 750,000 euros. For something Gabriel did. For something Klinman paid him 10,000 euros to do.

Gabriel threw the catalog down and slumped in his chair. He permitted himself a brief fantasy in which he went back in time to New York and burst in on the