Mira's Diary

by Marissa Moss

  I read the letter through a second time, searching for answers in what she didn’t say, but this time all I noticed was the rule about people who are related not traveling together. I didn’t get how stopping to talk to me would change anyone’s future. What was so risky about that?

  Stupid rules, with no useful information at all. But I had to admit, I was relieved. She hadn’t cheated on Dad. She hadn’t run away from us. She was stuck in another century. With me, which meant I wasn’t alone here. And I would be able to get home somehow. I just had to find a touchstone, whatever that was.

  There was something else about the letter that gave me a hint of satisfaction, even as I worried about how I’d ever get home. Mom said I’d inherited her ability to time-travel. So maybe I wasn’t pretty, smart, or artistic, but I had something from her.

  Now here I was in a house full of great art, about to meet one of the most famous painters of all time. It seemed ironic that the gift I’d actually gotten from Mom showed me how much I hadn’t inherited the artistic talent I’d always secretly wanted. Looking at the pictures around me, I knew I’d never come even close.

  Claude came back with a clattering of cups on a tray. I folded the letter up and stuck it in my sketchbook. I didn’t have a pocket, a purse, a backpack. What else was I supposed to do?

  “Why were you so angry with that man and woman? And what means ‘mom’?” Claude handed me a teacup with a gilt filigreed handle.

  “Mom, you know, that’s English for thief, pickpocket,” I lied. “She stole my purse when I was on the train. Which is why I have no money.” The excuse just popped into my head and Claude seemed to believe it. I wished I could forget about Mom, forget about the letter, and just enjoy being with him. I liked the way he looked at me, like he was really paying attention, like he cared what I said. But I couldn’t shake off how angry I was. And under the rage was a sharp sliver of fear. What was I doing here?

  I was saved from any more awkward explanations by Monsieur Degas. He was tall, thin, and stoop-shouldered, with a long nose and full lips. But what I noticed most were his eyes. They looked right into you like they saw into your soul. But in a nice way, as if you were sharing a joke.

  “Claude,” he said. “Veux-tu faire la présentation?”

  “I beg pardon, monsieur. This is Mademoiselle Mira. She is American and in need of a place to lodge. I thought perhaps she could stay here. Mira, this is the eminent painter, Monsieur Degas.”

  Claude had stood up, so I did too. I was so nervous that my cheeks were hot and pink. “I’m honored to meet you, monsieur,” I said, not sure if I should offer my hand to shake or curtsey or bow or who knows what.

  “The honor is all mine.” Degas dipped his head in a short bow and gestured for me to sit again. He folded himself up into a chair, looking far too tall and angular for its roundness, stroking his chin with his elegant fingers. I have this thing about hands. Some are stubby and thick; other people have flat, shovelly fingers, and then there are hands like Degas’s. His were supple and intelligent. I could imagine them shaping the sculptures all around us.

  “How is it that you speak English so well?” I asked, ashamed of my few words of French.

  “I have family in your New Orleans, and I have spent many happy months visiting them. I must say I love the English language! I am enchanted to have the occasion to practice it with you. Do you know my favorite phrase at the moment? Turkey buzzard! Such a marvelous sound! Do you know them, the turkey buzzard?”

  I was talking to a famous artist about turkey buzzards?

  “I have seen them, but it is not the bird itself which interests me,” Degas continued. “They are rather ugly, you know. But what a word—turkey! And buzzard! And then, you have the two together—turkey buzzard!”

  “And what do you call them in French?” I asked.

  “Turkey buzzard!” laughed Degas. “Because they do not exist here, so we have no name for them. Like that other creature that is so distinctly American, the one with the white stripe on its back and the foul smell when it is fearful.”

  “A skunk?”

  “Yes, a skunk! Now that is another marvelous word. Skunk!”

  And the way he said it, it was. Degas was funny and gentle and curious about me. I didn’t have to worry about what to say because he asked me questions and all I had to do was answer.

  For some reason I’d always thought he was an old crank who painted beautiful pictures, a lonely old bachelor who hated people. But from the way he talked, he had loads of friends and went out almost every night—to the opera, the ballet, the symphony, gallery exhibitions, dinner with friends. I liked him not just as an artist, but as a person. He was so easy to talk to that I almost told him the truth about who I was and where—I mean, when—I really belonged.

  But I remembered Rule Number One and said I was supposed to be with my aunt, only she’d been called away to visit a sick friend in Italy. There was no room for me to go with her and I really wanted to see Paris, so my aunt was supposed to arrange for my hotel and I’d wait for her here. Only it seemed like my aunt had forgotten and there was no hotel. Normally I’m a terrible liar, but after the Mom-equals-pickpocket story, I felt more inventive. Degas and Claude both swallowed my story.

  “Claude thought maybe I could stay here,” I said hopefully.

  Degas shook his head. “Much as I would love to have you as a guest, it is not proper for a young lady who is no relation to stay with two such bachelors as ourselves. It would be better for you to rest with my good friend, Mary Cassatt. She is American like you and has a tender heart. I am sure she would welcome a fellow countryman. See that painting over there, the one of the girl combing her hair? That is her work. Charming, no?”

  I thought the girl’s neck was too long and the pose was awkward, but maybe that was what Degas meant by charming. Like the word “interesting,” which basically means “I don’t like it but don’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings.”

  Anyway the important thing was whether I could stay with her, not admire her painting. So I smiled and nodded and took a sip of my tea, trying to behave the way a young lady should in 1881. My version, that is.

  I guess I was lucky that if I had to go back in time, I ended up in Paris on the opening day of the sixth exhibit of the Impressionist painters. Except I wasn’t supposed to say “Impressionist” or “Impressionism” because Degas hated those words. Critics called the pictures that because they showed a specific moment in time, a fleeting impression, rather than the stiff, classical paintings of mythological subjects that had been the standard before. But Degas hated the term, which came from a picture of a sunrise by Monet called—you guessed it—Impression: Sunrise.

  He considered their painting “realism,” and he detested Monet. Which was probably why there weren’t any paintings by him in the show. Claude said there were plenty by Degas, Cassatt, and Gauguin. I wondered if those artists were at the exhibit, if I’d get to meet Gauguin. I’d heard of him. He painted pictures of people in Tahiti in bright colors with bold outlines. Not like Degas at all, almost the opposite in fact, but still striking and beautiful.

  Before we left for the exhibit, while I was waiting for Degas and Claude to change into evening clothes (whatever those were), I walked around the studio, wishing I could magically change my own sweaty dress into a proper gown. But when I saw a sculpture of a dancer, I didn’t care what I was wearing, where Mom was, or how I had gotten here. All I could think about was this absolutely perfect figure, so different from the abstract metal shapes—all sharp angles and brushed steel—that my grandfather made.

  It was a ballet dancer, standing with her hands behind her back, her chin tilted up. The kind of thing you’d see in bronze in a museum. Only it wasn’t bronze in 1881. It was wax that had been painted to look like skin and the tutu was real cloth, the hair real hair, the ribbon real ribbon. It was s
o perfect that you’d swear the girl was breathing. Looking at it, the world seemed whole and perfect. I could feel my lips smiling, my eyes brighten, my body fill with air and light, a gift the statue was giving me.

  There was something magical about the figure. I was drawn to it just like the gargoyle and had the sudden urge to touch it. I thought about Mom’s letter and wondered if the statue could be a touchstone even though it was wax, not stone. I reached out a cautious finger and delicately touched the toe of her slipper, holding my breath. I closed my eyes, waiting. Nothing. Except when I opened them again, I noticed a small scrap of paper sticking out from under the base. I was super careful to work the paper free without disturbing the statue.

  Something was written in cramped handwriting on the narrow strip.

  Mira,

  I hope you find this because if you do, it means you’re on the right track. I realize now that you have a job to do in this time too, just as I do. I can’t tell you what, except that it has something to do with intolerance, with fighting against prejudice. I’m sure you’ll figure it out for yourself. Just pay attention and do the right thing. Then everything will be okay.

  Love,

  Mom

  A job? The right thing? Pay attention? Why couldn’t Mom just tell me what I needed to do?

  I crumpled up the paper as the door opened and Claude walked in. He looked handsome in his long black coat, starched white shirt, and black silk tie. I glanced back at the statue, mute in its perfection. I was in Paris with a charming young man, seeing incredible art and meeting famous people. That was something I was happy to pay attention to. Maybe I’d figure out what Mom wanted me to, but in the meantime, I wanted to enjoy myself. If I could stop myself from worrying about how strange this all was.

  Claude led me to a carriage waiting outside. Degas was already seated with his elegant top hat resting on his lap. I was embarrassed by my dirty hem, scuffed shoes, and less-than-fresh smell, but Claude’s gentle hands on my waist, lifting me into the carriage, made me feel pretty, despite all the grit. And sitting across from Degas, it was like I could breathe in his classy attitude and make it my own.

  The gallery was already crowded when we got there. The men all wore black like Degas and Claude, while the women wore a rainbow of colors, blues, violets, pinks, yellows, and greens, with hats punctuating their heads.

  “Can you introduce me to people?” I asked Claude.

  “Are you tired of me already?” he teased.

  “Of course not!”

  “But I am not a successful artist with a painting in this show.”

  “Not yet, but next time, I’m sure,” I said. I didn’t know whether to take him seriously or not. Was he really upset not to be included? I thought he was studying art, not a painter already. After all, he didn’t seem much older than me. “I’d love to see your pictures. I’m sure they’re wonderful,” I gushed. And immediately felt stupid. I would hate for someone to talk to me that way, as if I was a baby. Why did I always say the wrong thing around him?

  Claude winced. I couldn’t blame him. I’d never have the courage to show anyone my clumsy drawings. I seemed to keep putting my foot in my mouth around him.

  “There is Seurat—and his new picture,” he said, changing the subject. “You will like them both, I think.”

  He took me by the elbow and steered me to a large canvas of people in their Sunday best relaxing on the banks of a river done in dots of color. It was kind of like a pixel print where up close all you saw were blobs of color, but from far away, the blobs or pixels came together into shapes of people, parasols, trees. Standing near it was a young man with thick, dark curly hair, sad, droopy eyes, and a droopy moustache and beard that made him look even sadder.

  “Georges-Pierre Seurat,” Claude said. “May I introduce my friend, Mademoiselle Mira.”

  “Enchanted,” I said, taking his limp hand. “Your painting is beautiful.” I wasn’t sure if that was the right word to use. Maybe he wanted to hear “modern, inventive, fresh, original.” Maybe “beautiful” was an insult. I cringed, waiting for his response.

  “Kind of you to say so,” Seurat said. “I am honored to be included in such company.” He waved his arm at the other paintings. “I fear the critics will be harsh with my spots of color so I cherish your compliment all the more.”

  “Ah, Seurat, there you are!” A wolfish-looking man in a top hat stepped between us. “I want you to meet the countess.”

  I was curious to meet the countess too, but Claude pulled me away. “We are here to see paintings, are we not?”

  We wedged between knots of people as the exhibit grew more crowded by the minute. I wondered if people would criticize Seurat’s picture as he feared, but all I heard were comments about the lights.

  “It is electricity! Can you believe it?” a woman murmured to the stout man at her side.

  “How does it work?” wondered another. “What if it stops suddenly? How will we see?”

  “The lights were Degas’s idea,” Claude explained. “Many people do not quite trust these new electric lights, but he wanted people to see the art at night when they are free from working. He insisted that gaslight casts a reddish glow that ruins the colors.”

  “I can see that he cares about colors! Was it his idea too, to have the gallery painted this way?” The walls were lilac with canary yellow trim, bright blues, and deep reds.

  Claude nodded. “I was not sure, but Degas said they would make the colors in the art richer. And now that I see it, he is right.”

  You would think all that color would clash and make one big ugly mush, but like Claude said, somehow it all worked. It was way better than the regular boring white, cream, or gray museum walls we have in modern times.

  The other thing people talked about was something that wasn’t there. In the middle of one of the rooms was an empty glass box on a stand.

  “I’ve heard it’s a marvel,” a woman with a feathery hat said to the monocled man next to her.

  “So why isn’t it here?” snapped the man. “Is it finished or not?”

  “What’s supposed to be there?” I asked Claude.

  “That dancer you were looking at in Degas’s studio. He says it is not quite done yet.”

  “I thought it was perfect.”

  “You have seen it?” asked an Englishman with a pointy orange beard and matching circumflex eyebrows. “I’ve heard it’s absolutely ingenious, more a living, breathing creature than a sculpture.”

  “It will be on exhibit soon,” Claude said. “Maybe even by tomorrow.”

  There were beautiful paintings by all the big names Degas had mentioned, but the most brilliant thing I saw that evening was the statue back in the studio. Maybe I’d time-traveled just to see that. It was definitely worth paying attention to.

  As Degas predicted, Mary Cassatt kindly gave me a room and a place where I could speak English and not worry about my poor French at all. She was a small, slender woman with a quick smile and warm, inviting eyes. I felt at home with her right away.

  “How do you know Degas?” I asked over croissants and coffee at breakfast that first morning.

  “I met him in the Louvre when I was there copying a painting. I was at my lowest, having been refused by the Salon, and he was kind and encouraging.” Mary smiled at the memory. “You know, the Salon was the official stamp of approval for any artist, but they only accepted the usual classical subjects. They didn’t like pictures of everyday life, so naturally they rejected my art. Not Degas! And his opinion meant so much more to me than the foolish Salon. He had no idea how much I’d drooled over his pastels when I saw them in gallery windows! Truly, seeing his work changed my life. He was a mentor for me before we even met. His pictures were teaching me. And then in person, well…”

  She waved her hand as if summoning up all Degas had
done for her.

  I drew constantly. I couldn’t stop my fingers from grabbing a pen or pencil and trying to capture what I saw. But that didn’t make me anything close to a real artist. For a second I wondered if I could become a painter like Mary if only I had the right teacher. Except that it takes more than a brilliant teacher. It takes a talented student.

  I wanted to ask about Claude but didn’t dare. Where was his family? How long had he worked for Degas? And, most importantly, did he have a girlfriend? Instead I said, “Do you ever miss America?”

  Mary laughed. “Not at all! I missed my family, but my parents and sister moved close by, so that’s home enough for me. I could never be an artist in America. Women simply aren’t allowed.”

  I thought about that, what America would be like in the 1880s. Good thing I was born when I was. If I ever got to live in the twenty-first century again. I felt a sharp pang of homesickness and stuffed it deep down. I couldn’t allow myself to panic. I was safe and being taken care of and should feel grateful for that while I figured out what to do next.

  I reminded myself I was lucky to be with Mary and even more lucky to have found Claude as a friend. Except I wanted him to be more than a friend. That evening, we walked along the Seine, admiring the sunset. The city was so beautiful and his eyes so warm, and it was all so romantic. I leaned into his chest, tilted my lips up to his, and waited.

  Nothing.

  Wasn’t he supposed to kiss me? I couldn’t be the one to kiss him. That would be, I don’t know, pushy, awkward, and just plain wrong. Everyone knows the guy is supposed to pull the girl in close, lean down, and give her a soulful, tender kiss. Especially in the nineteenth century.

  Everyone except Claude knew that. He cleared his throat and turned bright red and pulled away from me. Not toward, but away, completely backward.