Читать книгу The Supreme Orchestra - David Turgeon - Страница 13

At Moulin Frères, Alban Wouters took his time to pick out wineglasses with a pleasing roundness and reasonable height, and wondered whether there wasn’t something else they needed, before finally settling on paper napkins. Back in his car he had some trouble extricating his vehicle from the iced-over sides of the boulevard, and then tried to avoid a traffic jam by taking an alternate route that proved even more congested. He was more than a little late when he reached the gallery.

Bruno, he was reassured to see, had shown up and was serving wine with that effortless charm he could muster in his sleep. A few visitors were bolting down the canapés the caterer had delivered that afternoon. The gallery owner scanned the room for the artist. He noticed Faya posing, glass in hand, before the drawings of her, moulding her features to enhance the likeness and accepting the compliments of visitors thrilled to converse with such a willing model.

‘Simone’s not here?’ Alban Wouters asked Renée, not without concern.

‘Out back, in the alley,’ answered the employee. ‘Went for a smoke, maybe? We made a sale while you were out. Plus three this afternoon …’

Alban Wouters approved. Closing nights often brought lastminute sales. But the event was mostly an excuse to throw a little party in the artist’s honour, one often less staid than the opening. And now the old familiar faces came trickling in, tugging off hoods and woollen hats and scarves and tracking in clumps of grey snow that it would fall to Bruno to nonchalantly mop up.

In attendance were the splendid Pauline Bogaert, accompanied this evening by the candid Christiane Chorbat, along with the inimitable Kit Polaris, in finery that smacked somehow of the occult, and the lovely Isabeau de Millecieux, dressed as always in black – and in the role of fifth wheel, The Bear, padding around on his great paws, reading each work’s label. Faya recognized the crew and set forth in their direction, dispensing kisses and coy hugs. The decibel level kicked up a notch.

‘Not bad,’ said Isabeau de Millecieux.

‘Look,’ said Pauline Bogaert, showing her a drawing, ‘it’s you.’

‘And me?’ asked Christiane Chorbat. ‘Where am I?’

‘Who wants wine?’ asked The Bear.

‘What about Simone? Where is she?’ Pauline Bogaert inquired.

‘She’ll be back,’ said Faya. ‘And in a real foul mood, I’m warning you.’

‘I’ll grab a couple glasses at the bar,’ said the provident Bear.

‘This place has a weird aura,’ Kit Polaris said, alluding to something on a wavelength inaccessible to most of us.

‘Weird how?’ asked Christian Chorbat.

Kit laboured to explain. ‘It’s everywhere at once, coursing in every direction. The waves are contradictory, that’s for sure – but they don’t cancel each other out.’ Here she closed her eyes and rested a thumb on her temple. ‘Quite the contrary, they are growing stronger. As if they were plotting something together. If it weren’t the middle of winter, I’d say a storm was brewing.’

‘We shall all be struck by thunder!’ exclaimed Christiane Chorbat.’

‘Pshaw,’ said Faya.

At that moment there appeared in the room a tall, upright man, studying the pages of a leather notebook extracted from the pocket of his pelisse. After putting it back in the same pocket, he scrutinized Simone’s drawings, one by one, before his eye came to rest on the one entitled Faya Sitting, 18/20.

‘Thunderstruck indeed,’ said Kit Polaris.