with forbidden cellphones.
She closed her eyes and made a wish. Since the moment in the hotel dining room last night, when the blond girl had slipped her the note, Nora had been hoping against hope. She had no reason to expect her rosy conclusion, but she wished for it just the same. It couldn’t hurt to wish, could it?
She was an artist of the theater, the most superstitious of all professions. No whistling in dressing rooms, no peacock feathers onstage, no uttering aloud the title of Shakespeare’s Scottish play inside any playhouse, and absolutely
never
wish for good luck,
anywhere
. The Immigration agent on the train had been correct: The accepted phrase for actors was
Break a leg,
on the theory that asking for good fortune was an insult to Dionysus, patron god of the stage, and the muses of comedy and tragedy, Thalia and Melpomene. One had to fool them; if she said what she wanted aloud, they would give her the opposite, but if she said the opposite aloud…
Nora became aware that someone was standing on the path just behind her. There was a presence, breathing softly, and she had an acute sensation of being watched. More than watched: studied. She heard a crunching footstep and felt the warmth of a breath on her neck. Please, she thought. Please…
“Pardonnez-moi, madame, vos gants,”
a thick male voice said.
“Quoi?”
She turned around. A man stood there—big, heavyset, unshaven, about her age. He was almost comically unattractive, with thick, greasy black hair and bushy eyebrows, and he wore an ill-fitting brown jacket and a dull blue shirt, both of which were none too clean. He regarded her intently through small black eyes that all but vanished in the folds of his florid, veined face. As she watched, he bent slowly down to pick something up from the ground at her feet. He was holding out a pair of white cotton gloves.
Her French escaped her, but she was a New Yorker; she knew a street con when she saw it. It was an old hustle—he’d expect her to give him money for the pretty pair of stolen gloves. She wondered how he’d managed to get into the museum, but she had to get rid of him before her contact arrived. She glared down at the delicate items in the big, stained fingers and said, “No, those aren’t mine, someone else must have—”
“Ah, but they are,” the man insisted in English with a thick French accent. He was standing too close to her, his gravelly whisper bringing with it the mingled odors of garlic and cigarettes, and he was keeping his voice low. She had to strain to hear him. “You dropped them here. They are for you.” He said this slowly, with emphasis on each word. Now he leaned even closer and whispered, “Take them, Mrs. Baron.”
Nora blinked. Then she got it. “Oh! Oh yes, thank you!
Merci, monsieur!
” she sang in a loud stage voice. She smiled as he handed her the gloves. He grinned, revealing crooked brown teeth, gave a little nod, and walked quickly away from her, toward the crowd by the statue. He didn’t look back.
She watched him go, unable to move. She couldn’t even think for a moment, so great was her disappointment. She looked blankly down at the gloves in her hand and then dropped them into her shoulder bag. So, this was it, this was all that was going to happen here, now, today. A pair of gloves delivered to her by a strange courier, an ugly man who smelled of garlic. She shouldn’t have even thought her wish; she might as well have shouted the name of the Thane of Cawdor. The gods had denied her.
She wanted to linger in this beautiful setting, gazing at her favorite artworks, surrounded by art lovers. This museum was so peaceful, so civilized. She was all alone on a foreign continent, unable to contact the few people she knew here, not even sure how to call her daughter in New York without her cellphone. She felt detached, isolated, as though she were the only person in the world. The smiling faces around her were carefree; no one could possibly
She closed her eyes and made a wish. Since the moment in the hotel dining room last night, when the blond girl had slipped her the note, Nora had been hoping against hope. She had no reason to expect her rosy conclusion, but she wished for it just the same. It couldn’t hurt to wish, could it?
She was an artist of the theater, the most superstitious of all professions. No whistling in dressing rooms, no peacock feathers onstage, no uttering aloud the title of Shakespeare’s Scottish play inside any playhouse, and absolutely
never
wish for good luck,
anywhere
. The Immigration agent on the train had been correct: The accepted phrase for actors was
Break a leg,
on the theory that asking for good fortune was an insult to Dionysus, patron god of the stage, and the muses of comedy and tragedy, Thalia and Melpomene. One had to fool them; if she said what she wanted aloud, they would give her the opposite, but if she said the opposite aloud…
Nora became aware that someone was standing on the path just behind her. There was a presence, breathing softly, and she had an acute sensation of being watched. More than watched: studied. She heard a crunching footstep and felt the warmth of a breath on her neck. Please, she thought. Please…
“Pardonnez-moi, madame, vos gants,”
a thick male voice said.
“Quoi?”
She turned around. A man stood there—big, heavyset, unshaven, about her age. He was almost comically unattractive, with thick, greasy black hair and bushy eyebrows, and he wore an ill-fitting brown jacket and a dull blue shirt, both of which were none too clean. He regarded her intently through small black eyes that all but vanished in the folds of his florid, veined face. As she watched, he bent slowly down to pick something up from the ground at her feet. He was holding out a pair of white cotton gloves.
Her French escaped her, but she was a New Yorker; she knew a street con when she saw it. It was an old hustle—he’d expect her to give him money for the pretty pair of stolen gloves. She wondered how he’d managed to get into the museum, but she had to get rid of him before her contact arrived. She glared down at the delicate items in the big, stained fingers and said, “No, those aren’t mine, someone else must have—”
“Ah, but they are,” the man insisted in English with a thick French accent. He was standing too close to her, his gravelly whisper bringing with it the mingled odors of garlic and cigarettes, and he was keeping his voice low. She had to strain to hear him. “You dropped them here. They are for you.” He said this slowly, with emphasis on each word. Now he leaned even closer and whispered, “Take them, Mrs. Baron.”
Nora blinked. Then she got it. “Oh! Oh yes, thank you!
Merci, monsieur!
” she sang in a loud stage voice. She smiled as he handed her the gloves. He grinned, revealing crooked brown teeth, gave a little nod, and walked quickly away from her, toward the crowd by the statue. He didn’t look back.
She watched him go, unable to move. She couldn’t even think for a moment, so great was her disappointment. She looked blankly down at the gloves in her hand and then dropped them into her shoulder bag. So, this was it, this was all that was going to happen here, now, today. A pair of gloves delivered to her by a strange courier, an ugly man who smelled of garlic. She shouldn’t have even thought her wish; she might as well have shouted the name of the Thane of Cawdor. The gods had denied her.
She wanted to linger in this beautiful setting, gazing at her favorite artworks, surrounded by art lovers. This museum was so peaceful, so civilized. She was all alone on a foreign continent, unable to contact the few people she knew here, not even sure how to call her daughter in New York without her cellphone. She felt detached, isolated, as though she were the only person in the world. The smiling faces around her were carefree; no one could possibly
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