I Looked for the One My Heart Loves Page 17

  “You have to get hit on for your vacations to be fun?”

  “Easy for you to say,” Agnès said. “François is at your beck and call. You don’t have anything to complain about.”

  Her words corresponded precisely to the impression that Anne and François gave everyone, that of the perfect couple.

  “I’m going to be forty soon,” Agnès continued. “I don’t plan on being alone for the rest of my life. And so I have to hurry. Time is not on my side, you know.”

  On whose side was it? Anne asked herself. Ever since Alexis had asked for a break, she had begun to hate all the empty days during which they didn’t communicate. Many times, she had tried to answer his letter. She would begin to write, and then tear the sheet of paper to shreds.

  But one evening, she took her pen and, without hesitating, jotted down:

  Alexis,

  I’ve tried to write to you more than once, but everything is still too raw for me to express my thoughts properly. You said that I should trust you. As I’m not strong enough to decide for the both of us, I’m going to leave things in your hands.

  Anne

  As she sealed the envelope, Anne felt a bit better. For thirty years she had carried their relationship on her shoulders. From this day on, she was gong to let him control the situation. It was now his turn to choose. …

  At the end of September, the exhibition opened. Hiding her own doubts, Anne tried to find buyers for Serge Sakalov’s paintings. Not only did she fail, but the gallery’s habitués seemed puzzled by Amanda’s decision to select this particular artist’s work.

  The following morning, Amanda admitted she had made a mistake.

  “You were right!” she told Anne. “I should’ve listened to you.”

  “Let’s wait,” Anne said. “The show just started. All we need is one good review in the papers …”

  “We can’t count on that. No, for the first time, I’ve made the wrong choice. …”

  For the past few months, Amanda had been backing her artists with less enthusiasm. Was it time for her to quit the business? Her vacation in Switzerland and the French Riviera had given her a taste for freedom. For the first time in her life she was able to consider living for herself, and not being a slave to a gallery and the responsibilities that came with it. Not having to wheel and deal with artists and art collectors. In other words, no more stress!

  26

  Serge Sakalov insisted that Amanda hadn’t fulfilled her promises, so he got on the gallery owner’s case to the point where she refused to speak to him anymore. Anne was stuck with him. Two to three times a week, she had to put up with his insults. Why wasn’t the press talking about the show? Why wasn’t anyone buying his paintings? Of course, nothing was his own fault. The gallery had botched the show. When he had too much to drink, he threatened to sue Amanda.

  “What for?” Anne asked.

  “She misled me. And so did you. And now my reputation in Paris is ruined. And worse, I didn’t make a penny off it!”

  Pounding the top of the desk with his fist, he barked, “You’re going to write me a check this second!”

  “We don’t owe you anything. The terms of the contract are clear. In case of a sale, your cut is fifty percent.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the contract! I need some money! Right now! Get your checkbook.”

  “I’m not allowed to write checks for the gallery,” she lied.

  “You think I’m stupid?”

  Sick and tired of Sakalov’s antics, Anne got up from behind the desk.

  “Sit back down!” he said.

  “You can’t order me around!”

  “Says who?”

  Salakov grabbed Anne by the hair and pulled it back. In spite of the pain, Anne remained calm.

  “You’re nothing but Amanda’s peon around here,” Sakalov said. “What do you care about her damn money?”

  “Let go of me!”

  “Not before …”

  Disgusted, Anne smelled his foul breath and then felt his lips against hers. She tried to free herself to hit him. With a burst of energy, she managed to bite him hard and then scratch his face. He let her go. She ran to the front door and opened it. Passersby looked at her with a surprised expression.

  “Get out of here,” Anne screamed at Salakov, “or I’ll call the cops!”

  Salakov walked to the door.

  “You bitch,” he said as he walked past.

  As soon as he stepped outside, Anne locked the door and waved at the people still standing in front of the gallery as though everything was fine. This was not the sort of publicity that the shop needed. Her arms and wrists were hurting, but she paid that no mind. However, her entire body was shaking. That horrible man scared her to death! What would have happened if she hadn’t been able to get away from him?

  She heard a rap on the front window and her heart leaped. But it was Amanda, coming back from the frame maker.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “What happened?”

  Anne’s explanations made Amanda go from worried to furious.

  “He’s going to regret this,” she said. “We’re going to start by taking down his paintings.”

  “I think we should talk to a lawyer first,” Anne said. “Sakalov wouldn’t hesitate to take us to court.”

  As no one had witnessed what happened, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to cancel the contract that linked the artist and the gallery. It was, however, possible to deny him access to the gallery.

  With Christmas approaching, Anne felt edgy. Paris was becoming festive, with decorations and Christmas trees springing up everywhere in town. Children stood in front of department store windows to gawk at the mechanical toys, thinking about the presents they were going to receive. Isabelle and Aurélie were also coming up with their lists. The oldest wanted trendy clothes, while the youngest was dreaming of flamboyant costumes and powdered wigs she could wear during the shows she was putting on with her friends. Passing by people with their arms filled with shopping bags, Anne felt the weight of her solitude. In California, Alexis had already celebrated Thanksgiving. How was his relationship going with Geneviève? Alexis’s silence didn’t bode well, Anne figured. And yet, she refused to lose hope. She was dreading the holidays that would be spent in Cormery as they were every single year, when a change of plans cheered her up.

  “I’m taking you to the mountains,” François said out of the blue. “And you can invite Agnès and Thomas.”

  “The mountains?” Isabelle said, surprised.

  “When?” Aurélie added.

  Through a colleague of his, François had rented a cottage in Megève.

  Nestled right beside the slopes, the cottage was comfortable and nicely decorated. The first thing Anne did was to light a fire in the fireplace. Through the windows, she could see the beautiful snow-covered slopes of Mont Arbois. She could hear the kids playing and laughing in the adjacent room. She caught herself humming a tune, until a thought invaded her. Alexis … This is what he didn’t want to destroy, happy family moments like these. …

  For the next ten days, the six of them took ski lessons. François was the only one who had skied before, and he glided down the slopes, even the difficult ones, with elegance and speed. As much as Anne tried to learn, Agnès didn’t bother. But rather than pointing out her lack of effort, the ski instructors had drinks with her at the end of the day. Anne wondered if Thomas could tell how crazy his mother was for men. If he did, he said nothing about it. He also didn’t saying anything about his father, who had settled in Spain with his new wife.

  “Don’t you think he should talk about all this?” Anne asked François

  “He will when he’s ready.”

  “You have a funny way of simplifying things.”

  The words summarized her constant bewilderment toward her hu
sband’s level-headedness. For him, things were what they were. Was it a lack of imagination on his part? Or was it that he was so confident in himself? Many times, she wondered why he didn’t ask her more about who she met in California. He had no suspicions whatsoever. She wondered if he ever gave in to temptation.

  The day before they left, he took her to the top of an easy slope.

  “Don’t think and just follow me,” he said.

  “Promise not to go too fast and to wait for me.”

  At first, she was simply snowplowing.

  “Come on,” François said. “Straighten your skis. Don’t be afraid.”

  Slowly, she listened to him and, for the first time, she enjoyed gliding over the packed snow.

  “Let’s do it again!” she said at the bottom of the slope.

  Back at the gallery, she opened the 1970 desk calendar. No exhibition was planned until the end of February. After the Salakov fiasco, Amanda was only betting on the works of established artists in order to reassure her clients.

  A lot of greetings cards had been sent to the gallery, two of them to Anne personally. One came with a drawing from Phil. Lizzy had written a nice note inside the card. The other was sent by Benjamin Baxter. After her return home from San Francisco, Anne had corresponded with both the couple and the gallery owner. To Phil and Lizzie, she had announced that it was best to wait before trying to organize a show worthy of Phil’s talent. And with Benjamin, Anne traded information about the art market in Paris and in California. Thanks to those three, she had the feeling of not having cut all ties with the United States. On the other hand, Alexis was still silent, which no longer surprised Anne. As long as he didn’t have anything significant to tell her, positive or not, he would remain in the background. In order to protect herself from unhealthy false hopes, she had come up with a deadline. If she hadn’t heard from him by July, she would put an end to their relationship for good.

  Anne was updating the gallery’s address book when Simonetta showed up. For the past few months, she had been dropping by once in a while to chat.

  “I brought you a bouquet of jasmine,” she told Anne. “Here, smell them!”

  “That’s the kind of smell that makes you forget about winter,” Anne said. “It’s like we’re in the Midi!”

  “I couldn’t resist buying them for you.”

  “Did you get any for yourself?”

  “I haven’t brought any flowers home in a long time. Their perfume prevents me from sleeping.”

  After a moment of idle chitchat, Simonetta was about to leave the shop, before saying, “I’d like to take you out to lunch. … When you have time.”

  “The gallery closes every afternoon from one to two.”

  “So maybe we could meet up at the Maison Angelina. How about this Friday?”

  Surprised by the invitation, Anne wondered what Simonetta had in mind. All the paperwork had been taken care of after the exhibition. Knowing Simonetta’s distaste for frivolity and spending money, Anne was curious as to what the artist wanted from her. …

  Formerly known as the Rumpelmayer, the tea house was famous for both its turn-of-the century decor and pastries. For the occasion, Simonetta had put on a gray tweed skirt suit that she had probably bought back in the 1950s, and she wore a superb gold ring with a green cameo intaglio.

  “I haven’t been here in a long, long time,” she said to Anne. “Nothing has changed.”

  After they had placed their order, Simonetta unfolded her napkin and asked about Amanda.

  “She’s still not back from vacation,” Anne said. “She just loves it down on the Riviera.”

  “So you’re all by yourself taking care of the gallery?”

  “Things are always slow this time of year. Too much so.”

  During their conversation, Anne talked about California, Phil Kasav, and how much she loved his paintings.

  “His art is so much more interesting than Sakalov,” she said.

  “I still don’t understand why Amanda was so taken with that man’s work,” Simonetta said.

  “It’s his bad boy image.”

  Simonetta began eating her quiche lorraine.

  “How long have you been working at the Galerie Kircher?”

  “Close to fifteen years now.”

  Simonetta looked right into Anne’s eyes.

  “I have a favor to ask you,” she said.

  “Hopefully, I can help you out.”

  “What I took out of my closets when Amanda asked to exhibit my work was only a fraction of what I have. I actually kept what I liked best.”

  “You mean …”

  “That I still have lots of watercolors and gouaches in storage. The best ones! You’re the only one I’ve talked to about this.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “Since our very first meeting, I’ve liked you. Behind that discreet facade of yours, you’re a woman of passion.”

  “I adore my work.”

  “This storage room, no one knows it exists,” Simonetta said. “If I got hit by a bus or a car tomorrow, everything would be lost. And that’s why I’d like to take you there. Of course, you can turn down my offer. I wouldn’t be mad at you.”

  “I can’t really do that,” Anne said. “Out of loyalty to Amanda …”

  “I understand. But I won’t go to her about this. So it’s up to you.”

  27

  The following Sunday, Anne met up with Simonetta. In an office building next to where she lived, the Italian woman opened an armored door at the far end of a hallway and, once inside the room, turned on the ceiling lights.

  At first, Anne could make out nothing but a bunch of canvases stacked on top of one another. They were of varying sizes.

  “Ali Baba’s cave,” she muttered.

  Making her way through sketchbooks and drawings piled up on the floor, she headed for a large watercolor.

  “It’s a study for Norma,” Simonetta said.

  “How can you keep such beautiful paintings hidden away like this?” Anne said.

  Not answering, Simonetta grabbed a sketchbook and handed it to Anne.

  “Look at what the rehearsals of La Traviata inspired me to do.”

  Flipping through the sketchbook, Anne was taken away by the lush and colorful images of the opera’s courtesans and dandies. These weren’t mere silhouettes quickly drawn in the middle of the set, but living characters. Simonetta had, in her own way, told the story of Violetta, her triumph and then her illness.

  Confronted with so much beauty, Anne was torn between admiration and exasperation. How could Simonetta have decided to stop creating when she had so much talent!

  “Do you come here often?”

  “Only when I have to.”

  “Never for the sheer pleasure of seeing your creations again?”

  “It’s complicated. I can’t bring myself to let go of my work, and yet I don’t like to look at it.”

  She reached for a pastel.

  “Here’s a picture of the heroine of my favorite opera,” she said. “Tatiana, in Eugene Onegin. Tchaikovsky’s opera. His music transports me to another world. It’s the incarnation of the Russian soul, its excesses.”

  “I’ve never heard this opera.”

  “Tchaikovsky managed to express all the love Tatiana felt for Onegin, who was nothing but a pervert and a two-faced creep! Unfortunately, a lot of men are like that!”

  Was Simonetta alluding to Luigi Giancarlo? Anne said nothing and continued admiring the watercolors hanging on the walls.

  “I created that one for the Romeo and Juliet ballet,” Simonetta said, pointing at one of the watercolors. “And this one for Sleeping Beauty, another ballet. The one you’re holding is Tatiana dreaming of her lover.”

  Anne was stunned by so much beauty, so much sensuality.

&
nbsp; “I understand why you don’t want to get rid of these. But why not exhibit your work?”

  “It was already seen by thousands of spectators during the performances. Actors and dancers onstage became those characters.”

  The phone woke Anne in the middle of the night. Slowly she reached for the handset on the nightstand and picked up.

  “Anne … It’s me.”

  It took Anne a second or two to recognize her father-in-law.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “It’s your mother-in-law. She’s in the hospital.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “It’s pleurisy, according to the doctor. She couldn’t breathe. So I called the ambulance. They took her to a hospital not very far from home. I wanted to let François know about it.”

  “Of course! Let me hand him the phone.”

  As François couldn’t get out of the meeting he had the next day, Anne went to visit her mother-in-law at lunchtime. Lying in bed, she was sleeping. Did she feel Anne’s presence? If she did, she didn’t react. For her part, Anne was trying hard to feel bad. Since she had become of part of François’s family, no ties had been established between the two women. Out of obligation more than anything else, Anne squeezed the sick woman’s hand and then left the room.

  Back in the gallery, she took care of the urgent mail. On this late winter’s day, she found doing the same things over and over again tiresome. Was her passion for work wearing away? Amanda’s lack of involvement wasn’t unusual to Anne, as any reason was a good one for her employer to flee down to the Riviera.

  Anne was writing a letter to the director of a Swiss museum who wanted to exhibit some Miró paintings when the phone interrupted her. Annoyed, she let out a rather sharp: “Hello.”

  “Anne …”

  Petrified, she whispered, “Yes.”

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “No. No at all.”

  “I’m in Lyon.”

  “Lyon!”

  “I had a bunch of legal documents to sign. I’m not going back to San Francisco for another ten days. Would you like me to come to Paris?”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. But I’d understand if you didn’t want to see me.”