A Sitting in St. James - Rita Williams-Garcia Page 0,97

this French white man, speaking directly to her, not ordering her, but telling her things that she must know, and she was overwhelmed by it all. It was clear she grasped little, but listened. It was clear to him, the teacher, and to her, the learner, that he was doing the thing Madame had told him to not do. Le Brun was filling her with ideas.

“The canvas must be treated, so we start with the primer. Yes. This mix,” he said, pointing to a bowl of thick white roux, but smoother, like a cream. He pointed to each item he named. Canvas. The thick white substance—the primer. The broad brush. The sandpaper. “When that is dry, we sand the surface. This is what I’m doing now. What you’ll do. And then we repeat, until the canvas is ready to receive the next layer. And with this sanded and dry, you will apply the last coat of the primer. The gesso. Say it.”

“Gesso.” She hesitated. “I will do this?”

“Why else are you here?” he asked flatly. “Now, touch the surface,” he said in the voice that was more suitable for teaching. “Run your fingers gently from end to end. This is the texture. The smooth feel. Perfect. That is what you’ll work for. Smooth, perfect canvas. Since I must rush the work, I must spend more time with the canvas before we actually paint.”

“We?” she asked.

Le Brun didn’t clarify. He gave her a sweeping glance and shook his head disapprovingly. “You cannot wear your dress to mix the primer. Those clothes are not right for this work,” he said. “Wear something plain.”

Thisbe looked down at her clothing. “This is my dress, Monsieur Le Brun. I have one other to wear when I go with Madame to church.” She spoke Madame’s French and not the Creole spoken by Marie and Louise and, at times, Master Lucien. She looked to the door again, afraid to be overheard speaking proper French.

He unbuttoned his overshirt, what he called a smock, and removed it. “In the meantime,” he said, “put this on.” He handed her the large cotton shirt.

She took it and rubbed paint that had been dried on the shirt.

“We have work to do. Put it on.”

“Yes, Monsieur Le Brun.” When he saw her steady herself on her hands to rise, he gathered, to change into the shirt, he said, “Over your clothes.”

She smiled a small, embarrassed smile, and then put her hands and arms through the sleeves of the paint-speckled garment. The smock seemed to swallow her up.

“There is much to learn . . . ,” he said. She uttered “learn,” but he didn’t hear her. “. . . Much to do in too little time. But if you can do these rudimentary steps, then I can focus on the greater task before me.”

“Yes, Monsieur Le Brun.”

“We are almost finished building up the canvas,” he said. “But now I will show you how to apply the last coat. How to apply the stroke. Up and across. And here, up and across. At angles. When it dries, you will learn the proper way to sand the canvas.”

His words gave her too much to consider, and he spoke fast. She watched him with the hope that the words would match the actions.

“There are so many opportunities to ruin the canvas before a drop of color touches the surface of the portrait. You must be steady. Mindful. We want no globs here. Everything even. Even strokes. See?”

“Yes, Monsieur Le Brun.”

He paused for a moment. “Do you understand, or do you just say, Yes, Monsieur Le Brun?”

She looked to the open doorway, for assurance that they were alone.

“I understand, mostly, Monsieur Le Brun.”

He gave a dubious grin. “Oh?”

“Yes, Monsieur Le Brun.”

To her shock, he handed her the brush. She held it for the longest time. Before he spoke, and she was certain he would, she dipped the tip of the brush into the thick white solution and made the smallest effort onto the canvas. He gripped the hand that held the brush, pushing it down into the bin of white glue, then stroked the brush decisively against the canvas. “North, south,” he said. “East, west.” And then he let go of her hand.

“Dis Be. Fry you some eggs if you go’n get them.”

Lily didn’t have to repeat herself. Thisbe preferred the smaller pigeon eggs to those found in the henhouse. She took the straw basket and climbed the ladder inside the wooden silo. She was grateful the pigeonnier