paintings to the First War."
"Did he fight in the war?"
"He was here in Paris, as an army supply manager. The family lived on the rue Madame in a great loft above a church, where his parents had their collection of Matisse paintings. They were the first great patrons of Matisse." I rambled through my dossier of facts. "In the summers they went to Agay, on the Côte d'Azur ."
"Why this part of his life?"
"Mmm?"
"Why his adolescence?"
"Oh, it's my specialty." The truth at last. "I used to be a schoolteacher, and—well, the boy makes the man, and all of that."
"But was he an important man?" Serge wondered. "I don't understand what makes this man's boyhood interesting."
I was silent and fiddled with my glass. I wasn't stumped so much as baffled. What did it matter if Allan was or wasn't important?
"All boys are important." Miriam. "But so few men are." Sainted Miriam.
"Yes, exactly."
"This is one of the features of the Picasso Herbert speaks of, the most erotic and moving aspect of it—that it is a boy. He has a tremendous power because he is nothing yet, no one, and so he has the power in him to be a god, like all children do, you see? If Picasso had painted a man leading the horse, just imagine it. This man would be someone, some man who will never be a god at all, just a man, without the limitless power this boy has." Oh, God bless her. A mother knows so much most men will never know. It didn't matter if Allan was or wasn't important, he was a boy, and that was sufficient. Per and Serge looked at each other and laughed, not maliciously, not really at what Miriam had said but around it, with it; their laughter was easy and meaningless, the way children hold hands. This pair intrigued me, and so did Miriam, who drifted in and out of their orbit. Serge poured more coffee from the scorched chrome pot. I had drained my wine and he offered to get more.
It was 2:30 P.M., according to my warm new watch, when I went down the stairs to bed. Two-thirty at home, that is, and eleven-thirty in Paris. I'd gone past exhaustion into a second day, and now that too seemed to be ending. The stairway was dark, and descending rickrack shelves of books spiraled along the wall. Off the second-floor landing Stéphane's door was open, and it led into a nest of rooms, with a small bathroom where the door was open. I knocked timidly and peeked in. No boy. Full bathtub, plastic morphing men afloat face down in the water, a mirror obscured by steam, interesting toiletries, muppet shampoo, deodorant stick, floating boats and ducks, plus a superfluous razor and shaving cream. The room stank of sneakers. Garish strings of beads filled a second doorway, clattering. Thin music drifted from the speakers, and I pushed through the beads. "Stéphane?" Still no answer. A worse smell, mixed with futile incense, which I saw now, still burning on the homework desk. A body bumped me, slipping through the beads.
"Miriam. You startled me."
"God, it smells in here. I told him to eat more yogurt." She stared past my shoulder, to a dim alcove. And there where maman gazed, on a bunched pile of duvets, with a toasty heater glowing red near the bed, the boy slept. He was still dressed, his flushed face pressed into a book on which he drooled. Miriam unplugged the heater and tugged his socks and shirt off, as if this meant nothing. She threw a duvet over him and squelched the lights as we left. "Charming, isn't he?"
"Mmm."
Al lan Stein, who had just turned ten, woke up in the cold bedroom above the church at 58 rue Madame and listened for his parents. There was nothing. Birds, a very few, sang in the small garden beneath the tall window. The sky was still black. A broom could be heard, straw raking over stone, very near. Madame Vernot kept the steps so clean. Who could tell at what hour she would begin? Allan shivered in his bed and saw that his fire was out. He reached toward the coal. If he stretched far enough, and kept one ankle pried beneath the brass
"Did he fight in the war?"
"He was here in Paris, as an army supply manager. The family lived on the rue Madame in a great loft above a church, where his parents had their collection of Matisse paintings. They were the first great patrons of Matisse." I rambled through my dossier of facts. "In the summers they went to Agay, on the Côte d'Azur ."
"Why this part of his life?"
"Mmm?"
"Why his adolescence?"
"Oh, it's my specialty." The truth at last. "I used to be a schoolteacher, and—well, the boy makes the man, and all of that."
"But was he an important man?" Serge wondered. "I don't understand what makes this man's boyhood interesting."
I was silent and fiddled with my glass. I wasn't stumped so much as baffled. What did it matter if Allan was or wasn't important?
"All boys are important." Miriam. "But so few men are." Sainted Miriam.
"Yes, exactly."
"This is one of the features of the Picasso Herbert speaks of, the most erotic and moving aspect of it—that it is a boy. He has a tremendous power because he is nothing yet, no one, and so he has the power in him to be a god, like all children do, you see? If Picasso had painted a man leading the horse, just imagine it. This man would be someone, some man who will never be a god at all, just a man, without the limitless power this boy has." Oh, God bless her. A mother knows so much most men will never know. It didn't matter if Allan was or wasn't important, he was a boy, and that was sufficient. Per and Serge looked at each other and laughed, not maliciously, not really at what Miriam had said but around it, with it; their laughter was easy and meaningless, the way children hold hands. This pair intrigued me, and so did Miriam, who drifted in and out of their orbit. Serge poured more coffee from the scorched chrome pot. I had drained my wine and he offered to get more.
It was 2:30 P.M., according to my warm new watch, when I went down the stairs to bed. Two-thirty at home, that is, and eleven-thirty in Paris. I'd gone past exhaustion into a second day, and now that too seemed to be ending. The stairway was dark, and descending rickrack shelves of books spiraled along the wall. Off the second-floor landing Stéphane's door was open, and it led into a nest of rooms, with a small bathroom where the door was open. I knocked timidly and peeked in. No boy. Full bathtub, plastic morphing men afloat face down in the water, a mirror obscured by steam, interesting toiletries, muppet shampoo, deodorant stick, floating boats and ducks, plus a superfluous razor and shaving cream. The room stank of sneakers. Garish strings of beads filled a second doorway, clattering. Thin music drifted from the speakers, and I pushed through the beads. "Stéphane?" Still no answer. A worse smell, mixed with futile incense, which I saw now, still burning on the homework desk. A body bumped me, slipping through the beads.
"Miriam. You startled me."
"God, it smells in here. I told him to eat more yogurt." She stared past my shoulder, to a dim alcove. And there where maman gazed, on a bunched pile of duvets, with a toasty heater glowing red near the bed, the boy slept. He was still dressed, his flushed face pressed into a book on which he drooled. Miriam unplugged the heater and tugged his socks and shirt off, as if this meant nothing. She threw a duvet over him and squelched the lights as we left. "Charming, isn't he?"
"Mmm."
Al lan Stein, who had just turned ten, woke up in the cold bedroom above the church at 58 rue Madame and listened for his parents. There was nothing. Birds, a very few, sang in the small garden beneath the tall window. The sky was still black. A broom could be heard, straw raking over stone, very near. Madame Vernot kept the steps so clean. Who could tell at what hour she would begin? Allan shivered in his bed and saw that his fire was out. He reached toward the coal. If he stretched far enough, and kept one ankle pried beneath the brass
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