Mira's Diary (5 page)

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 so 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.

Then he started babbling about how fond Degas was of me, how he appreciated my wit (wit?), my keen eye, my delightful Americanisms. Nothing as charming as “turkey buzzard,” but close.

“In fact, he was amazed when I told him you're Jewish,” Claude said, totally ruining the romantic mood.

“Why would you tell him that? Who cares whether I'm Jewish or not?”

“He does, of course! Monsieur Degas is a brilliant artist, a kind gentleman, but that hardly makes him a friend of the Jews. He's quite opinionated about it really, though he laughs and says some of his best friends are Jewish. Like me. And now you.”

Instead of being kissed, I was stuck in a ridiculous conversation. “I don't want to be a token Jewish friend,” I snapped. But I liked Degas. He seemed so modern in so much of his thinking—like having faith in electricity, respecting women artists, valuing people like laundresses who did hard drudgery and painting their pictures. Yet he was old-fashioned enough to share that most ancient of prejudices, anti-Semitism. I didn't know how to make all those things fit in the same person.

I thought of Mary Cassatt and how much she admired Degas. And Claude, who was Jewish himself, worshipped him. Did that mean I could still like him? I wasn't sure what I felt anymore.

I hurried across the bridge facing Notre Dame. The square in front of the cathedral was full of people out for a stroll, and I bet I could find somebody there who wouldn't ask if I was Jewish. Maybe even somebody who'd want to kiss me. That would show Claude.

“Mira! I am desolate. I did not mean to do bad to you!”

I could hear him behind me, but I wasn't looking back and I wasn't waiting for him either. I needed to be alone to sort out what I was feeling. Maybe I wanted him to follow me, but I wasn't sure even of that.

I threaded my way through clusters of skirts and trousers, until a pair of stout gray legs under a round belly caught my eye. Something about the man's rolling gait was familiar. It was the walrus-moustache man, the one I'd seen with Mom! Maybe this was what Mom meant by paying attention.

He was walking toward the cathedral, and he kept looking nervously over his shoulder as if he expected to see someone. Mom, maybe? I ducked behind a woman in a wide yellow skirt, then behind the cart of a man selling paper cones of nuts. The Walrus Man zigzagged across the square before darting into one of the side doors.

I followed him inside, being careful that he couldn't see me. That's when I noticed I wasn't the only one following him. A beautiful woman with thick dark hair pinned up under a black velvet hat, flashing violet eyes, and stunningly chiseled features was carefully staying several paces behind Mr. Walrus, ducking behind columns the same way I'd hidden in the square. Maybe she was the person he'd been looking for. She certainly looked like someone a man would want to find, though she clearly didn't want to be seen.

I followed her following him. It would have been funny except it was all so dead serious. When Mr. Walrus slipped into a side chapel, the woman sat in a pew in the last row. I slid behind a column, spying on both of them.

Mr. Walrus looked around. The woman pulled her shawl over her bowed head and murmured as if she was praying. Her act must have convinced Mr. Walrus because he turned to the side altar and slipped something under the flowers there. Then he reached out and touched the statue of Mary over the altar.

There wasn't a bolt of light or a clap of thunder. Just a buzz of static, wavy air, and then where he'd been, there was nothing.

I thought the woman would freak, but she didn't. She scowled, her perfect face blackening with a scary flash of anger. Before she could do anything, I dashed in front of her and snatched what Mr. Walrus had hidden on the altar. Like what I'd found under Degas's dancer, it was a narrow slip of paper. I gripped it tight in my sweaty hand and turned to go.

“Not so fast!” the woman hissed in English. “Give it to me, or I'll break your arm.” She grabbed my wrist and twisted it behind my back, hard. “You have no idea what you're doing. If you did, you'd give me that paper.”

I tried to bite her, scratch her with my free arm. “Let me go!” I yelled as loud as I could.

“You fool!” the woman whispered, wrenching my arm so hard I thought it would break.

“
Help!
” I screamed. “A thief! Stop the thief!”

“
Arrêt!
” yelled a man, running toward us.

“They'll think you're the thief, in your dingy dress, you idiot!” she spat. “Because you are! You're the thief!” With a final twist, the woman threw me onto the hard stone floor and forced open my fingers, snatching the note. “Go home!” she commanded. “You don't belong here. It's wrong, completely wrong!” She rushed off, leaving me panting on the ground.

“Are you all right, miss?” a monk asked in French, helping me up. Another man offered me his handkerchief, and a woman ran to fetch some water. They were all so kind, but I wasn't fine, not at all. I'd let that witch have the note. I unclasped my fingers, licking my palm where the nails had dug in so deeply I'd drawn blood. There was still a scrap of paper there, a corner of the note. All I could see was “Serena, you need…”

The note was to Mom.

The bad news was that the woman had the note. The good news was that Mom would be coming here to pick it up. I'd get to talk to her at last.

So I thanked my rescuers, drank the water, wiped the tears from my face, and sat back down in the chapel. Just like I'd seen the beautiful but nasty woman do, I pulled my shawl over my head like I was a little old lady praying. And waited.

I sat so long that the chill from the stones around me seeped into my bones. Now I was shivering from the cold as well as fear, and Mom still hadn't come. She would never come. Stupid me, to think I could save her from anything. I wrapped my shawl tighter around my shoulders and got up to leave.

And that was when Mom walked in.

“Mom!” I gasped, the shawl dropping to the floor.

This is the part when a normal mother would run to her daughter, hug her, and tell her everything would be okay. Instead Mom looked panicked, terrified really. She shook her head sadly and ran out the heavy front door.

I rushed after her, but sure enough, she'd disappeared again in the darkening crowds of people rushing home to dinner. Was this because of the rule about family members not time-traveling together? That still didn't make sense to me. Or did she know what had happened with the Walrus man, that the beautiful but scary woman had her note? Was Mom in trouble?

I wanted to be mad at her, but instead I was scared. And confused. How was paying attention going to answer all the questions I had?