Life Class

by Ann Charney

  “You’ve come a long way from sweeping floors at Lorenzo’s salon,” Helena says, when Nerina finishes. “Even back then, I suspected there was more to you than met the eye.”

  So far, so good, Nerina thinks, but she knows Helena is not done with her yet. “I’m so glad I haven’t disappointed you,” she quickly interrupts, hoping to stave off the criticism she feels is coming.

  Helena ignores the interruption and calmly continues. “I wish you the best of luck, my dear. But it would be remiss of me not to warn you that you’re getting yourself into a very risky business. You have a better chance betting on horses than on artists. At least horses respond to the whip.”

  “Thanks, Helena,” Nerina says, eager to end the conversation. “I knew I could count on you to set me straight.”

  XXVII

  Selling yourself

  CHRISTOPHE is late getting back from the gallery — no surprise — and as she waits for him in their hotel room, Nerina keeps thinking about Helena’s cautionary words. They haven’t dampened her interest in Galerie Sarajevo, but they have made her uncomfortably aware that the money she is risking is not her own.

  She decides to call Walter, feeling it’s only fair to let him know about Helena’s negative reaction to her plan.

  “Never mind,” Walter says when she’s finished. “By the time you’re ready to buy into the business, you’ll have spent several months working at the gallery. That should give you a pretty good idea of how well it’s doing. And if that place doesn’t work out, you can look around for a better deal. Anyway, the money is here for you, to use when you need it.”

  “I appreciate your support, Walter. I’m really starting to have butterflies about the whole thing.” She finds herself confessing her worries to Walter more readily than to anyone else. It’s a habit that dates back to the days in Venice when he used to listen patiently while she tried to convey, in her few words of English, her frustrations with immigration authorities.

  “Maybe it will help if I tell you that Helena’s view is tainted by a bad experience she had years ago, when she was first married,” Walter says. “Her husband ran a gallery that soon went bankrupt, and Helena found herself pursued by his creditors. The husband had disappeared by this time. Rumour had it he ran the business into the ground with his extravagant ways. But that’s not your problem. I still remember how well you managed on next to nothing in Venice. Nerina, I have faith in you.”

  Walter’s words are encouraging, but she doubts his explanation of Helena’s motives. Helena’s caution is based on a lifetime of experience in the fickle ways of the art business, not just on a single, longago misfortune. The truth is that Walter and Helena never miss a chance to disparage one another and there is little she can do to change that.

  Fortunately, Christophe and Helena are on excellent terms. It helps that Helena has spared no effort on his behalf, including her latest coup: persuading Lillian Rayner to host a reception following his opening. Christophe doesn’t know about it yet, and Nerina is planning to surprise him with the news tonight — that is, if he ever gets back.

  As for her own news, she’s in no hurry to share it with Christophe. In the midst of his workinduced craziness, the question of her joining him in Montreal is not uppermost in his mind. For the time being she’s been put on the back burner, but she knows her turn will come. She will inform him of her decision then, once she has his full attention.

  She dozes off at the hotel while waiting for Christophe. When he finally arrives, she can tell from the speed with which he strips off his tee shirt and jeans that he has not had a good day. They have not been together long, but already Nerina is familiar with the signs that indicate his varying moods. The need to shed his clothes after a day in the gallery — socks and underwear included — is a sure symptom of distress.

  Half asleep, she watches Christophe, naked, examine the contents of the sparse wardrobe he’s brought along with him. She considers luring him into bed, but she can tell he’s feeling miserable, not sexy.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks, although she’s pretty sure the answer has something to do with Rémi. She hasn’t met him yet, but ever since Christophe started working with him his feelings have swung between gratitude towards the man for giving him a show and irritation with his constant, interfering presence. Either way, Rémi is never far from Christophe’s thoughts these days.

  She’s pretty sick of hearing about Rémi, but knows the surest way to improve Christophe’s mood is to encourage him to vent his frustrations.

  “Come on, talk to me. What’s got you so riled up tonight?”

  “More of the same, another wasted day,” he says, settling on a pair of jeans and a black tee shirt indistinguishable from those he’s just discarded. “Rémi’s clients kept dropping in all day, no doubt invited by him for a sneak preview, even though I told him I didn’t want anyone around until the whole show was installed. It’s his way of making them feel special. What’s more, he expected me to stop what I was doing and talk about my work with each new arrival. More accurately, he wanted me to amuse them as he does. You should see the way he courts these people, flattering them shamelessly. He’s really good at what he does. I just wish he’d leave me out of it.”

  “Never mind,” Nerina says, filing away his complaint for future dealings with artists. “Just think how happy you’ll be when his annoying ways result in sales. I’m sure Rémi knows what he’s doing. You were the one who told me his gallery is one of the most respected in town.”

  “I know,” he says, tugging at his clothes as if they were the source of his misery. “It’s just that I’m nervous about how the show will be received, and having people around, judging the work before it’s even up, doesn’t help.”

  “Come over here,” Nerina says, tapping the place beside her on the bed. “What you need is a nap.”

  She can feel the tension in his body as he lies stiffly next to her. It’s been days since he’s made any attempt to touch her. Back in New York, Christophe had talked about how great it would be to finally share a room together. But with the exhibition opening only days away, Christophe, like an athlete before a big competition, has been conserving his sexual energy for his work.

  Feeling like Delilah about to sap Samson’s strength, she presses herself against him and begins gently to caress him. It doesn’t take long for his body to respond, gratefully, to the attention it’s receiving. “God, that feels good,” he murmurs between sighs of pleasure.

  “Welcome back from the dead. For a while there, I wasn’t sure I could bring you around.”

  “You should know what it’s like preparing for a show after working for Meredith,” he says, with a hint of reproach.

  “Yes, but I wasn’t fucking Meredith.”

  Christophe laughs, looking relaxed for the first time since he came back. “Fair enough. Come on, I’m starving. Let’s get something to eat,” he says, bounding out of bed with new energy.

  Later, while they’re waiting for their food in an Indian restaurant near the hotel, she remembers that she hasn’t told him Helena’s good news. She suspects it will make him even happier than the sex they just had, but she doesn’t mind. She’d be a hypocrite to hold his ambition against him.

  Christophe’s face lights up with pleasure when she tells him about the party Lillian Rayner has agreed to host in his honour. “Helena is amazing. I’ll owe her big time for pulling this off. Rémi, of course, will be thrilled. He’s been trying to ingratiate himself with Rayner for a long time.”

  “You see, everything is going to work out just fine.” She likes to be the consoling one, but not so much that she’d want to make a career of it.

  He gives her a grateful look and reaches across the table to take hold of her hand. “I know I’ve been pretty distracted lately. Will you give me the chance to make it up to you?”

  Nerina suddenly feels a strong desire to tell him she’s come up with a plan that should allow him endless opportunities for redeeming him
self. But just as she prepares to launch into her story about Galerie Sarajevo and her arrangement with Claire, Christophe’s cell phone rings.

  “It’s Rémi,” he says, glancing at the caller display.

  The conversation that follows is in rapid French; she doesn’t understand what’s being said, but she can see from the way Christophe’s lips narrow and his shoulders stiffen that all her efforts back in the hotel room are being wiped out before her eyes.

  “Tell him about Lillian Rayner,” Nerina whispers, trying to help, but Christophe ignores her.

  “D’accord. Je viens,” he says, ending the conversation.

  Turning to Nerina, he tells her he has to leave. “Rémi insists I meet him right away. He’s in a bar not far from here, having a drink with the art critic from Le Devoir. Feel like coming along?”

  She can tell he’d rather go alone, and in any case her French won’t be good enough to follow the conversation.

  “No, I think I’ll just linger here and enjoy my gulab jamun.”

  He gives her a small smile of regret, and hurries out the door.

  She feels almost sorry for him, watching him rush off for the command performance Rémi has arranged. Yet she knows that most of the artists hanging around Leo’s shop would be glad for the chance to do the same, any hour of day or night. Selling yourself is part of the artist’s job. As Helena puts it, “No one needs art. It’s up to the artist to persuade the world otherwise.”

  “Will monsieur be coming back?” the waiter asks, refilling her water glass.

  “Not tonight. I’ll take his dessert with me. He’ll enjoy it later.”

  Walking back to the hotel, the sticky syrup in which the gulab jamun floats starts to leak through the Styrofoam container, coating her hand. She tosses it into the first garbage can she passes. As for her sticky hand, if Christophe comes back before she’s asleep, she’ll let him lick it clean.

  XXVIII

  Life goes on

  “BAD things happen, life goes on.”

  As Nerina makes her way through the party crowd, words drift past her like puffs of dandelion seeds, some hard to catch, others, like the sentence she’s just overheard, attaching themselves to her without any effort on her part.

  The remark comes from a stylishly dressed woman who’s talking to Helena at the moment. Nerina slides past them, not ready to plunge into the fray. There will be time enough for that when she moves to the city and the routine of starting a new life in a new place will oblige her to be attentive and alert to her surroundings. For now, while the party swirls around her, she enjoys the feeling of being anonymous, invisible, free of all claims.

  “I know you,” a woman with spiky dark hair says, stopping in front of Nerina and shattering her illusion of invisibility. “You’re the girl in the video!”

  Nerina is surprised the woman has recognized her. The images, shot by Christophe while she slept, have been digitally altered to show only brief glimpses of her face behind wavy blue lines. When Christophe first showed her the video, she accused him — only halfjokingly — of wanting to put her behind bars.

  The bars had nothing to do with her, Christophe explained. “The use of verticality superimposed on the reclining, horizontal form is an expression of the dialectic between consciousness and unconsciousness,” he’d told her.

  Nerina wasn’t sure what he meant. As far as she was concerned, the only useful function the stripes performed was to conceal her identity.

  It turns out she was wrong.

  “My name is Caroline,” the woman says, looking at Nerina with an appraising eye. “And you must be Christophe’s new muse. I knew him years ago, you know, when he first came to Montreal. We even dated for a while.”

  The woman’s smile is friendly, but Nerina edges away. This is not the first revelation she’s heard tonight about Christophe’s past. Several people at the opening, and now at Lillian Rayner’s party, appear to know more about him than she does. Caroline, like the others who’ve shared their reminiscences with her, seems to feel this creates a bond between them.

  “You must tell me all about it sometime,” Nerina replies with what she hopes is an equally friendly smile, while looking around for a likely escape.

  She’s been smiling nonstop for hours and feels she has earned a break. The large terrace beyond the French doors of the reception room looks promising, but it turns out to be nearly as packed as the living room. Among the guests lured outdoors by the unusually mild weather is Helena, now chatting with Lillian Rayner, their hostess. Nerina hopes they’re too engrossed to notice her, but no such luck.

  “Come and join us,” Helena calls out, waving her over. “Lillian was just telling me about the city’s history.” For Lillian’s benefit, she adds, “Nerina is planning to move here, you know.”

  The news does not appear to interest Lillian, who resumes her commentary on the scene before them. “As I was saying, this is where the city began, right here, at the tip of the island. The sheltered bay, just beyond the point of convergence of two rivers, made it a natural site for a settlement. Indigenous people lived here long before Jacques Cartier landed in 1535 and claimed the land for France. The harbour is less important now, but when I was a girl, these docks and the grain elevators you see in the distance teemed with traffic. I can still remember the excitement I felt as a child the first time our family boarded one of the Cunard ocean liners bound for Southampton.”

  “There’s nothing as grand about the Rio San Vio, the waterway I look out on every day,” Helena says when Lillian pauses. “A dank, narrow canal, it accommodates only the most modest of boats. But what it reflects is unchanging and comforting. Were I to live in close proximity to the St. Lawrence, or the Hudson for that matter, it would be like looking in a mirror and seeing a stranger every time.”

  It makes Nerina sad to think of Helena ending her days alone in the dusty rooms above the stagnant waters of the canal. Or maybe what’s making her sad is knowing how much she will miss Helena. Before she can say anything, she sees that Caroline, the woman with the spiky hair, has found her way to the terrace as well and is heading in their direction. This time she’s interested in Lillian, not Nerina.

  “I just had to come over and tell you what a thrill it is to see the inside of this house,” she tells Lillian. “There are so few eighteenthcentury houses left, especially ones as well restored and maintained as yours is.”

  Caroline, it turns out, is an architect. While she lists the finer points of the house that have caught her attention — its pleasing proportions, the use of reserved and delicate details, the excellent workmanship — Nerina seizes the chance to escape. It’s not that she’s not interested in what Caroline has to say; it’s just hard for her right now to stay still long enough to listen.

  What keeps her on the move is apprehension. Any conversation, no matter how innocuous at the start, soon feels like the grip of an aggressive tendril that is about to entwine her and hold her captive. This isn’t a new sensation. Each one of her moves — to Venice, Smith Falls, Manhattan — was preceded by the same odd mixture of giddiness and stage fright that she feels tonight. It’s all part of steeling herself to take on the hidden pitfalls that come with each new setting.

  She’s done it before and in more difficult circumstances, she reminds herself as she makes her way across the large reception area, now even more crowded than before. She catches sight of Christophe, talking to a small group. He doesn’t notice her, but just the sight of him makes her feel better: this time, she won’t be alone. Once the strain and excitement of the exhibition are behind him, Christophe will be at her side, acting as her guide. This, at least, is what she chooses to tell herself — and to believe.

  A long flight of stairs takes her to the front door. She pulls it open and lights up as soon as she has one foot on the sidewalk; the other remains in the entryway to prevent the heavy door from clicking shut behind her. She doesn’t want to embarrass Christophe on the night of his triumph by locking herse
lf out or, worse, setting off the alarm system.

  A moment later, Rémi Blois, Christophe’s dealer, appears in the doorway, cigarette in hand. They met briefly earlier at the gallery, but he barely acknowledges her greeting.

  Nerina doesn’t take his coolness personally. She has watched him work the crowd and she understands he needs a break even more than she does. She is also aware that of all the people to cultivate tonight, she is the least important.

  Neither one of them is pleased to see the other but at least Nerina can take advantage of his arrival to move forward, obliging Rémi to become the doorstop. The look he gives her as the heavy door slams into his ankle is even less friendly than his greeting, but she doesn’t care. Rid of the burden of the door, she spins away from him into the street, relishing her moment of freedom.

  The ringing of church bells suddenly fills the street and Nerina looks around to see where they’re coming from.

  “That’s NotreDamedeBonSecours, the oldest chapel in Montreal,” Rémi volunteers, sounding a little friendlier, as he points to a church at the end of the block. “Also known as the Sailor’s Church. There is an interesting display of carved replicas of sailing ships hanging from its vault. You should go inside and check it out,” he adds, giving her an encouraging smile.

  “You mean right now?” she asks, scrutinizing his face to see if he’s serious.

  “Why not?” He looks at her slyly. “Christophe won’t miss you.”

  This time it is personal, but for Christophe’s sake Nerina holds her tongue and walks quickly back inside the house. Rémi is right behind her.

  Christophe is now talking to a tall, slender woman wearing what looks like a shrunken human head on a thick, carved chain. Must be someone from the art world, Nerina guesses. Who else would have the courage to wear something so hideous?

  Just to annoy Rémi, who’s caught up to her, she starts out in Christophe’s direction. She instantly feels the grip of Rémi’s hand on her arm.

  “You don’t want to interrupt Christophe right now,” he hisses in her ear. “That’s Alessandra Berman he’s talking to, head of contemporary art at the National Museum. She can be a great help to him.”