impertinence." He showed off this unusual word.
"Eat more yogurt, mon petit , or you know what the night is going to be like." Stéphane stuck his tongue out at Miriam's suggestion.
" Merde , Stéphane . That's too much, go now to your work."
The boy withdrew from the table like a fever that, at last, breaks.
"Here we've talked so long about ourselves and asked nothing about your work," Miriam observed.
"Oh, it's nothing." Really, it was. What could they know of Herbert? "I'm researching the American writer Gertrude Stein." Serge smiled benignly while Miriam and Per took some dishes from the table. "And a nephew of hers, though you've probably never heard of him."
"Didn't you know Stein?" Per asked Serge, shouting above the clatter of his chores. "She gave you a tinned ham, didn't she, Serge, after the war?" I'm sure my jaw dropped. In any case, I stopped chewing. A sort of immaculate, disembodied double, a dybbuk of Serge, floated before me, a perfect, unreachable Serge, bleeding irretrievably into the gray photos of Gertrude and family in Herbert's STEIN folder. A kind of tug-of-war was set off in my head, with the silent, flat Stein dragging Serge into the sealed vault of history, while my host dragged Gertrude back into life.
"No," Serge corrected. "No, I never knew Stein."
"Oh." Per sighed, disappointed. "I thought your father fixed her car."
"Your father fixed Gertrude Stein's car?" I asked, a little slow to keep up.
"No. No, he never did."
Serge lit another cigarette and offered more wine, which I took. His smoke drifted out the open window.
"You realize," Per interrupted over the noise of coffee, "that a mechanic was a real artist then, especially a car mechanic."
"Like a great chef," Serge said.
"Yes, like a chef. Monsieur Dupaigne was a famous car mechanic. He worked on the car of my parents when we traveled into France. That is how I met Serge."
"Was the bicycle all right?" Miriam put in. I supposed she had heard this story often enough. "The car reminded me."
"Herbert has my bicycle," Serge pointed out. "Of course it's all right."
"You'd heard of him in Denmark?"
"No, it was coincidence. Our car broke down near the Jardin du Luxembourg. That was before the war."
"The Second War," Miriam added.
"Yes, of course, the Second War."
Miriam smiled at me. Her face was like a fresh-drawn bath, or a bed I could sleep very well in.
"I'm sorry if this is impertinent, Per"—I used Serge's word— "but when were you born?"
"Nineteen-twenty, as was Serge." Now the mathematics tumbled through my head and I couldn't keep from staring at Miriam, who was certainly no older than forty, mother of a fifteen-year-old boy who was almost a decade closer to her, in age, than her husband. The boy was downstairs just then, pinned by duty to his desk and chair, his head full of Metallica (good for concentration), while he struggled with algebra.
"Mmm."
"The year of diamonds, isn't it?" Miriam remarked.
"In May, and it will be grand."
"Who is the nephew?" Serge asked, leaning to get sugar from Per.
"Allan Stein; he was born in 1895."
"He lived in Paris?"
"For most of his life. His family moved here when he was eight. I think he died in Neuilly, in the American Hospital, in 1951."
"A nephew is . . . ?" Serge.
"Neveu." Miriam.
"Was he an artist?"
I glanced at my watch intently, as if it and not Serge had spoken to me. "No, no. Allan was painted by Picasso, when he was a boy. He is the boy in the Boy Leading a Horse , I don't know its French title."
"Meneurde Chevaux Nu" Miriam said, leaning forward. "It's a very important piece." Another cigarette took shape in her hand. "The end of the période rose , just before Les Demoiselles d'Avignon"
"That's right." News to me. "Picasso also painted a smaller, less important portrait of Allan, at the same time." I sipped a little wine onto my tongue and simply breathed it, letting the aroma billow in my throat. "I'm interested in his adolescence, from the Picasso
"Eat more yogurt, mon petit , or you know what the night is going to be like." Stéphane stuck his tongue out at Miriam's suggestion.
" Merde , Stéphane . That's too much, go now to your work."
The boy withdrew from the table like a fever that, at last, breaks.
"Here we've talked so long about ourselves and asked nothing about your work," Miriam observed.
"Oh, it's nothing." Really, it was. What could they know of Herbert? "I'm researching the American writer Gertrude Stein." Serge smiled benignly while Miriam and Per took some dishes from the table. "And a nephew of hers, though you've probably never heard of him."
"Didn't you know Stein?" Per asked Serge, shouting above the clatter of his chores. "She gave you a tinned ham, didn't she, Serge, after the war?" I'm sure my jaw dropped. In any case, I stopped chewing. A sort of immaculate, disembodied double, a dybbuk of Serge, floated before me, a perfect, unreachable Serge, bleeding irretrievably into the gray photos of Gertrude and family in Herbert's STEIN folder. A kind of tug-of-war was set off in my head, with the silent, flat Stein dragging Serge into the sealed vault of history, while my host dragged Gertrude back into life.
"No," Serge corrected. "No, I never knew Stein."
"Oh." Per sighed, disappointed. "I thought your father fixed her car."
"Your father fixed Gertrude Stein's car?" I asked, a little slow to keep up.
"No. No, he never did."
Serge lit another cigarette and offered more wine, which I took. His smoke drifted out the open window.
"You realize," Per interrupted over the noise of coffee, "that a mechanic was a real artist then, especially a car mechanic."
"Like a great chef," Serge said.
"Yes, like a chef. Monsieur Dupaigne was a famous car mechanic. He worked on the car of my parents when we traveled into France. That is how I met Serge."
"Was the bicycle all right?" Miriam put in. I supposed she had heard this story often enough. "The car reminded me."
"Herbert has my bicycle," Serge pointed out. "Of course it's all right."
"You'd heard of him in Denmark?"
"No, it was coincidence. Our car broke down near the Jardin du Luxembourg. That was before the war."
"The Second War," Miriam added.
"Yes, of course, the Second War."
Miriam smiled at me. Her face was like a fresh-drawn bath, or a bed I could sleep very well in.
"I'm sorry if this is impertinent, Per"—I used Serge's word— "but when were you born?"
"Nineteen-twenty, as was Serge." Now the mathematics tumbled through my head and I couldn't keep from staring at Miriam, who was certainly no older than forty, mother of a fifteen-year-old boy who was almost a decade closer to her, in age, than her husband. The boy was downstairs just then, pinned by duty to his desk and chair, his head full of Metallica (good for concentration), while he struggled with algebra.
"Mmm."
"The year of diamonds, isn't it?" Miriam remarked.
"In May, and it will be grand."
"Who is the nephew?" Serge asked, leaning to get sugar from Per.
"Allan Stein; he was born in 1895."
"He lived in Paris?"
"For most of his life. His family moved here when he was eight. I think he died in Neuilly, in the American Hospital, in 1951."
"A nephew is . . . ?" Serge.
"Neveu." Miriam.
"Was he an artist?"
I glanced at my watch intently, as if it and not Serge had spoken to me. "No, no. Allan was painted by Picasso, when he was a boy. He is the boy in the Boy Leading a Horse , I don't know its French title."
"Meneurde Chevaux Nu" Miriam said, leaning forward. "It's a very important piece." Another cigarette took shape in her hand. "The end of the période rose , just before Les Demoiselles d'Avignon"
"That's right." News to me. "Picasso also painted a smaller, less important portrait of Allan, at the same time." I sipped a little wine onto my tongue and simply breathed it, letting the aroma billow in my throat. "I'm interested in his adolescence, from the Picasso
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