Starry Nights (4 page)

Irène waggles her hand high. He calls on her. Figures.

“The square root of a negative number,” she pronounces.

He nods and returns to the board, and all I can think is, when will I ever need to know the square root of a negative number? Come to think of it, when will I ever need to know an imaginary number? Maybe if one of my imaginary friends at the museum wants to call or text me. I grin at the prospect of an imaginary phone chat.

When class ends a few minutes later, Simon informs me in a singsong voice that all I need to remember about negative numbers is this: “What goes up must come down, negative exponents turn around.” He faux-pirouettes into the musty stone corridor, and I laugh.

“Pretty sure that was from about six years ago, which is probably where my level of math is these days anyway,” I say.

“You can copy my work if you want.” Simon does infinitely better in classes than I, something he pulls off with even less studying. We walk down the long hallway to the final class of the day, another one we share, and the only class I like: English. Thanks to working at the museum since I was able to walk, I've heard English and had to speak it every day of my life. I can even do flawless Australian, British, and American accents, including—step right up and take your pick—a range of California, Midwest, southern, and even Bostonian. I can drop my
R
s and turn my
A
s into “ahhs” like nobody's business. Unfortunately, my party tricks are as good as currency from the moon at this school. The teachers say we sound like we're making fun of other cultures when we try on accents. I want to say, have you ever heard anyone make fun of ze way ze French talk?

“I owe you,” I say to Simon.

“You're coming up with those date plans for Lucy tonight. Don't forget.”

“Social coordinator in exchange for math? Totally fair. Besides, I have something planned already. I'll tell you later,” I say as we settle into class.

When school ends, Simon and I head through the square in the middle of the classrooms, down the stone steps and out onto the sidewalk into a crowd of classmates already forming their groups and heading to cafés or to homes. We don't have clubs or teams like most American schools do, so my after-the-bell activities can involve a little bit of legwork today.

“I am in need of your services,” I tell Simon as we head out to the crowded avenue, unleashed into the freedom of a Friday afternoon. “And I don't just mean the copying.”

“Ah, my dear Julien, I knew this day would finally come.” He holds his arm out grandly. “Let me take you down to Pigalle and find a woman for you. How much money do you have? We can finally rid you of the
American Infection
once and for all.”

“Yeah, not those services,” I say, but this time I can laugh, because Jenny's fading even faster from my heart.

I met Jenny last fall on one of the tours I lead at the museum. She was wearing jean shorts, white sneakers, and a green T-shirt with a swirly slogan on it for a shoe brand. She asked me out for coffee, and I said yes, taken with both her big brown eyes and her directness. We went to the Café Montifaud around the corner from the museum for a café noisette and an île flottante, a kind of
meringue that floats in a vanilla custard with caramel. She asked millions of questions.
Where were you born?
Here, in a hospital in the sixth arrondissement.
Have you lived here your whole life?
Yes.
What's it like to live in Paris?
It's like home.
This île flottante is so delicious. Can I get one in the States?
I shook my head and said, “You'll have to come back to Paris.”

“I'm staying in France,” she said, all cheery and bright because Jenny is one of those people for whom every day, everything is a grand adventure. “I'm starting boarding school here for my last two years of high school, but my French is terrible. Maybe you can tutor me?”

A flutter of the lashes, a soft hand on my arm, and I was hooked on her for the next six months. I must have been a great teacher too. Her French became so impressive she was able to hit it off in one night with the young French sculptor Christophe, who spoke no English.

C'est la vie.

But now there is a new girl, a painted one. I want to know more about her, and I can't exactly look her up on Facebook. “I need to do some research on a house. An address. I want to see how long it's been in someone's family,” I say to Simon.

“Ah, thinking of going into the burglary business, are you? Now
that
I'm going to want a piece of.”

“You want a piece of everything, Simon.”

“So what's it for?”

“An artist I want to check out. Do you still know that hot chick who works at the Société?”

He speaks in a low voice as we cross the river. “Corinne. Of course. But don't say that so loudly. I don't want anyone to know about my geek side, hanging out in archives and whatnot.”

“Right. With hot chicks. So geeky.”

“So tell me you've thought of something incredibly adventuresome I can do with Lucy tonight? She's bringing Emilie along, so you're coming too, and I won't take no for an answer.”

“‘No'? What is that? Oh, right. It's a word you're not familiar with. Anyway, I'm going to a party tonight,” I say, then tell Simon about Bonheur and his family's house full of oddities. Simon nods approvingly.

“I knew I could count on you for this.”

“I have mad skills plotting your social life.”

We arrive at the Grand Palais, an absolutely massive exhibition hall with a glass vaulted roof. Many steps lead up to an imposing entryway with tall brass doors. A security guard tells us the palace is closing in fifteen minutes, which translates to
go away now.

“Fifteen minutes before closing might as well be closed. And it's a Friday. No one works late here,” I say to Simon.

“Don't worry. It's cool,” Simon says and we take the stairs quickly, then head down a long hallway to a room marked SOCIÉTÉ DES ARTISTES. “Corinne loves me because I make her laugh.”

“What with your history-geek side and all.”

Simon introduces me to Corinne, who is packing up. She's about twenty-one or twenty-two, has short red hair and muted green eyes. She is, as promised, totally hot. Simon explains I need to look up an artist.

“That's why everyone is here. To look up an artist,” she says as she jams her phone into a gray purse. She doesn't look like she's going to laugh at all.

“Can you give him a few minutes? Pretty please.” He places his palms together plaintively. “Besides, I really wanted your opinion on whether you think it would have made a big difference or a little difference if Jean Valjean had had a smartphone when he was down in the sewers?”

He bats his eyes, and she laughs instantly. “Little difference,” she declares with a smile. “But you wait right here and I'll tell you why.”

Simon dutifully sits on the edge of her desk, and I shoot him a quick thumbs-up. Corinne takes me to the slate cabinets that hold the records for 1894. That's when Valadon was admitted to art school, that's when she would have joined the Société as well. Corinne takes out the register, an old heavy book, the kind you'd find in a hotel with a guest list.

“Be careful,” she instructs, and she leaves me alone at a desk with the dusty book. I cough as specks of the years gone by float into my nose. I turn the pages carefully, not wanting to damage this record that's seen more than a century of new years. I find the listing of members. I run my index finger down the page, then the next one, then the next one. I reach the
V
s.

Suzanne Valadon. Admitted 1894.

Then her residence. The same address as the house on the curving corner of the hilly street in Montmartre where
The Girl in the Garden
currently resides.

I keep trying to connect the dots between Bonheur's family, Valadon, and the painting by Renoir. I briefly consider that
The Girl in the Garden
might be a fake, or maybe a Valadon instead of a Renoir. But my mother is thorough and all the authenticity tests have checked out. The painting is undoubtedly from the hands of Renoir. Which means I don't know what to make of these disconnected links so I shift my focus to Emilie.

The party starts soon, so Emilie and I are near Bonheur's home, sitting outside at a crowded café with sleek metal tables and creaky wooden chairs, the perfect mix of old Paris and new Paris. Nearby in the square, a boys' choir sings under the direction of a rather stout older woman as passersby drop coins into a hat. Lucy and Simon are down the street, checking out Lucy's favorite American retro shop.

“Do you ever go to the ballet?” Emilie asks me.

“Sometimes. My parents are total fanatics. Season tickets and all,” I say, and sure, guys aren't supposed to know much about the ballet, and that's why I generally keep my knowledge of dance close to the vest. But if there was ever a chance as a seventeen-year-old guy to admit that that you're familiar with this world, it would be with a ballerina.

“Cool. What was the last ballet you saw?”

“
Swan Lake.
”

“
Swan Lake
? Where was that being performed?”

I catch myself. Because of course the impromptu
Swan Lake
at the museum wasn't being performed anywhere anyone else could see. “Just a little indie theater, I think.”

“Oh, how cool. What was it like? Good production?”

“It was just like a Degas.”

“As all good dances should be,” Emilie says, understanding what I have said perfectly, even though she has no idea I meant it literally. Emilie couldn't be anything but a dancer. When she and Lucy walked over to meet us a few minutes ago, I noticed Emilie's body first because it's impossible not to, especially when she looks as if she can bend in amazing ways. But she also moved like she was onstage, captivating an audience. “Though, I have to admit, I do kinda prefer modern ballet.”

“Like Joffrey, or Martha Graham?” If I were keeping score I'd be earning some serious points right now for tossing out those names.

“Exactly. But honestly, I'd rather do Balanchine with maybe a streetwise type of dance.”

I smile, thinking of the dancers in the museum the other night, and how I had hoped to rearrange them. “Like if
Swan Lake
had been danced to some sort of techno pop,” I muse.

Her eyes light up. “Totally! Like Protracted Envy. Do you know that band?”

“Do I know that band? I love that band,” I say, then we trade song recommendations. She says she's never heard of Retractable Eyes but they sound cool, and I tell her I've never heard of this Dr. Jade she likes so much, so I grab my phone and download some new music, and she grabs her iPod and does the same, telling me that I must check out Jane Black's new album too.

Since we're comrades-in-musical-arms evidently, she leans closer and whispers, “Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course. Keeping secrets is one of my specialties.”

“What are your other specialties?”

“Accents,” I say, sliding into one, which makes Emilie laugh, since one so rarely hears Australian-accented French. I like making her laugh. I move on to California drawl. “That and the tiniest bit of knowledge about ballet. But really, secrets. So tell me yours.”

“I haven't told anyone yet, but I'm auditioning for the ballet next week.” Emilie pushes a hand through her black hair that is straight as a blade and dark as the steel edge of the night.

“The Paris Ballet?”

“The one and only.”

“I thought you were in high school. With Lucy.”

“I am.” Emilie looks side to side, as if she is sweeping the square for spies, before she whispers, “But I got an audition for this new
summer program for high school students who are supposed to be promising or something.”

“That's amazing.”

“Don't tell anyone, though. Because there is
no way
I'm getting in, and then all my friends are going to be disappointed. I'm not good enough.” Emilie's green eyes look defeated, and I hear music again. This time it's the faint sounds of
Giselle.
I turn to look at the choir and they're still singing, so the music must be coming from an apartment close by, drifting out an open window into the early June night.

“I seriously doubt the Paris Ballet gives auditions to dancers who aren't good enough.”

“I'm sure it was totally a mistake that they let me even try out,” she says with a forced laugh, and the music grows louder, as if the notes are swirling around Emilie, wrapping her in a cocoon of sweet sound.

“Oh, right. Of course. Just a little error the Paris Ballet made when sending out invites. Emilie, I suspect you're fantastic,” I say, because she has to be. There's just no other way.

The violins from
Giselle
keep playing. “Is your iPod still on?”

She shows me her iPod. “See? Off. Why?”

Great. I'm not only seeing things, now I'm hearing things too. “I heard
Giselle.
”

Her eyes widen. “You heard
Giselle
?”

I nod, feeling like a supreme idiot. I should know better than to let on that I'm hearing music no one's playing.

“Where is it coming from?”

“I don't know,” I say, because how do I say,
It's kind of coming from you, and it's growing stronger?

“That's my audition piece, Julien,” she whispers.

“
Giselle
?”

She nods knowingly, holding another secret between us, and as she does an image flashes fully formed before my eyes—I can picture Emilie dancing on the stage of the Paris Opera House in front of thousands of people in their red upholstered chairs underneath the six-ton candelabra. The rising sounds of the ballet build toward a gorgeous finale, a dancer pirouetting, her head tipped back, giving in to the dance, giving in with abandon.