causing Miriam and her neighbour to glare at him, but he only noticed Katyaâs gaze, which flickered like the unfixable light before returning to Barryâs painting in the mirror.
André put on his glasses to watch Barry write in the details with a long narrow brush, a form of calligraphy, shaping fine, finger-like branches and a flourish of leaves.
âA few more touches,â Barry said. âAnd itâs done.â
âYou said I didnât miss anything.â Katya frowned.
âI didnât want to upset you,â he said. But sheâd already grabbed her sketchbook and was dashing to the front of the room to join the students crowded around Barryâs table.
André followed. He wanted to say something that would make her smile in gratitude, or even admiration. He watched her study Barryâs painting and scribble in her book.
Up close, the painting looked sketchy and insubstantial. When André took a few steps back, it started to gain strength. Its power lay not in its strokes and colours, but in the way they played off each other, the contrast of light and dark, the illusion they created of moodiness and movement. The rocks and branches in the foreground seemed to beckon to the glistening sailboat on the horizon where the deep indigo of the ocean faded into mauve.
âI donât know how you do it,â he said to Barry.
âPractice,â Barry said. âThatâs all it takes.â
André didnât believe him. He suspected there was some trick Barry was keeping to himself, that to make the magic work heâd need to find the right brand and shades of paint, the right weight and grain of paper, the exact alchemical formula.
âIs that a new red?â he asked, leaning over the table to point to a deep crimson next to the yellows on Barryâs palette. Some of the other students moved in to examine the colour.
âNo,â Barry said. âThatâs just alizarin.â
âI thought so,â said Miriam, whoâd left her seat to take a closer look. She shook her head at André. âYouâre always suspecting a colour conspiracy.â
He shrugged. âIt looked different tonight.â
Barry scraped the edge of a razor blade across the paper to make flecks of white surf. âIâm going to stop there,â he said.
âBeautiful,â Katya said.
The students dispersed. André followed Katya back to her seat. He watched her tape paper to a board and squeeze paint onto her palette.
âIs this sable?â He picked up one of her brushes, stroking it across the knuckles of his other hand, imagining Katyaâs lush brown hair falling against his skin.
âJust start your painting.â She pushed him away. âGet on with it. Youâre up to your old delaying tactics. You have to jump in, get your brush wet.â
âSo to speak.â He smiled. âYou wonât let me get away with anything.â The place on his shoulder where sheâd touched him felt warm. His shirtsleeve, resting lightly against his skin, seemed to kiss the imprint of her hand. Maybe it would be a good night after all.
He looked at his copy of the photo Barry had given the class. It differed a little from the teacherâs. The boat was larger, closer to the shore, and there was an island. He made a small sketch to get the composition right. Then he laid down washes, lost himself in the act of painting. He looked up when Barry walked by, nodding at him. That meant things were going okay, so far. He painted the oblong of a big rock, but started to do the shadow too soon, and the paint ran. That flower of dark spreading across the rock tweaked his old impatience with himself. He felt the bad mood rise in his chest, rush through his blood. Now he wouldnât be able to finish. Now the night was goddamn ruined. Liz was the one responsible for these moods. The goddamn divorce couldnât come soon enough. Katya was
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