Castle of Water: A Novel(22)

“Ooh, the impressionists made an impression on you. But let me guess. You didn’t become an artist.”

Barry shook his head. “Nope. When I was eighteen, I sent my portfolio to Parsons, and I also applied to Princeton. I got into both, but everyone told me I should go to Princeton, so I did. And after graduation, I applied to an M.F.A. program at the School of Visual Arts, but also for a sales position on Wall Street. I was accepted by both, but everyone told me I should get into finance, so I did.” Barry cringed uncomfortably. “For twelve years.”

“So what happened?”

“Nothing. Nothing happened. I had pretty much given up. I hated my life, I was miserable, but I had security and comfort, and I was too scared to leave it behind and venture off into the unknown like that.”

“Something must have changed, then.”

Barry nodded. “It did. Last month, another Gauguin exhibition came to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. And like an idiot, I went.”

Barry tactfully left out the part about the panic attack, and the hyperventilating, and the hour he spent weeping inconsolably in the museum cafeteria, while Ashley, still his girlfriend at the time, filed her nails and stared absently out the window.

Sophie smiled with eyebrows fully arched—maybe there was more to this imbécile d’américain than she had thought. “Let me guess. You decided there, in front of all those beautiful paintings of half-naked Polynesian women, to finally quit and become an artist. In a fit of self-righteous enthusiasm, you bought some tubes of Sennelier, some brand-new Kolinsky brushes, and you flew out to see your idol Paul Gauguin, hoping to find inspiration like he did far away from civilization, lost among the palm trees.”

Barry put his face in his hands and shook his head, tingling with embarrassment. “Yep. Pretty much.”

“Well, congratulations. Mission accomplished. I’m not Polynesian, but you can paint me if you like.”

“Find me some oil paints and brushes, and I will.”

“Deal.” They exchanged ironic, amused glances, leaning back against the volcanic rocks, lost among the palm trees, at the very least. “It is very noble of you,” Sophie went on, “but you know, it’s a dead medium. Nobody paints anymore.”

“Well, it will be even deader if nobody tries.”

“English isn’t my first language, but I’m fairly confident that ‘deader’ is not a word. If something is dead, then it’s dead.”

“Then maybe someone can revive it.”

“And you’ll be the one to keep it alive?”

“I don’t know. At the moment, I’m mostly worried about preserving my own life.”

“Touché.” Sophie nudged him teasingly but approvingly with her foot. “So who do you like, then, besides Gauguin? Let me guess. You had a poster of Starry Night in your bedroom, and Monet’s floating lily pads. A little Pablo, perhaps?”

“No way, Picasso was a phony. He just copied his starving artist friends and took credit for their work. He never suffered for his art.”

“And you’ve suffered for yours, Mr. Wall Street banker?”

She had a point. He winced at the insight. “No, I suppose I haven’t.”

“All right, so no Picasso. Who else, then?”

“Hopper, Balthus, Wyeth, John French Sloan, Hughie Lee-Smith,” Barry answered, rattling off the names like old friends. “And there’s a painting I love at the art museum in Cleveland by John Rogers Cox, but he’s not well-known.”

Sophie did another one of her most disapproving puffs. “I’m afraid your tastes are a little old-fashioned for me.”

“Then let me guess. Your bedroom walls were smothered in Warhols and Basquiats. You get hot for Jeff Koons and Matthew Barney.”

“More like Louise Bourgeois and Yayoi Kusama, but you’re not far off. Anyway, I like photography more than paintings.”

“Architects usually do. I’m sure you have a coffee table book of the Bechers sitting in your living room, too.”

“We don’t have coffee table books in France. C’est juste pour les Américains.” She voiced the last word with uncloaked disdain.

“Too bad, they’re nice to look at.”

“Coffee table books or Americans?”

“Both.”

There was a moment of tension strung taut as a tennis racket, and then they both dispelled it with a laugh. What did it matter, anyway? Barry reciprocated her nudge and rose to his feet.

“Come on, let’s climb up to the top. We’re going to find another island and get the hell out of here.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely. I’ll send you a coffee table book of Gauguin paintings as soon as we both get home.”

“I don’t have a coffee table.”

“Then I’ll send one of those, too.”

Barry led the way, mounting the first round of boulders with two brisk lunges, lending Sophie a hand to help her do so as well. From that initial perch, they made their way with steady determination up the steep ledge of rocks. It was sweaty work, but once they had cleared the tops of the palm trees, the wind came in stronger, smelling fresher, of open sea and open sky. They stopped briefly to breathe it in, then continued on their way. Halfway up, the terns took notice, erupting with great squawks from their nests, circling above them in a wild frenzy. “Watch out for bird shit,” Barry shouted over his shoulder; Sophie puffed out her cheeks and smiled back up in reply. They proceeded onward and upward, with forethought and care, testing each rock before lending it their weight. Not that the ascent was terribly difficult, but they both knew no one would help them in the event of an accident. Sophie asked Barry if he could see any other islands. No, not yet, he answered, but we’re almost there. Ten feet above him, he could make out the summit, where the mountain’s steep sides flattened to a plateau—the crest of their island and the top of their world. Barry pushed himself up over it with his forearms as if climbing out of a swimming pool, Sophie did the same a moment behind him. They hobbled to their knees and stood upright; panting and squinting, they peered at the view their climbing had won them.