The Cloisters(50)

The Morgan was closed to the public, and the clubby atmosphere was unmistakable—everywhere people raised hands or cups of coffee in greeting. There were clusters of women in chic black pencil skirts, statement necklaces and bow ties, and various levels of studied deshabille. Everywhere, people gathered with those they knew, gossiping about those they didn’t. If I had been able to listen in on a single conversation, I was sure it would have been like a private language, an insular list of names, places, and courses meant to exclude any individual brazen enough to try to break in. From the coffee bar rang out the sound of a La Marzocco milk frother.

I recognized some of the faces and realized within a few minutes that I had been rejected by at least ten people in attendance. Rejections from doctoral programs being quite personal, I wondered how many of them would be revising their earlier opinions of me, of my work, after this summer, after Rachel and I found the best way to break the news of our discovery.

The list of speakers that day was full of luminaries and up-and-coming faculty, an invitation to the Morgan a sign that you had made it. There were faculty from Chicago and Duke giving lectures on prophecy in the Carolingian gospels and on medieval mysticism as female cult worship. There were talks on the history of dice and Isabella d’Este’s childhood horoscope, the role of astrology and geomancy, superstitious omens and dream interpretations. And we had come, in particular, for Herb Diebold’s lecture on tarot, the question-and-answer session for which Patrick would be moderating.

Aruna was in attendance too, and she made her way over to us on arrival to lean in conspiratorially and say, “I thought I might see you two here.”

“Yes. We wouldn’t have missed it,” I said.

“Nor would Patrick have let us,” Rachel added, so softly I wasn’t sure Aruna had heard.

Aruna smoothed the front of her dress. It was white silk crepe, with big square pockets at the front. A style that would have made anyone else look frumpy, but on her looked simple, elegant.

“Have you had a chance yet to talk to any of these other gossips about what we might be able to expect today?” Aruna said.

“I think they prefer to be called scholars,” said Rachel.

Before Aruna could respond, we were interrupted by a deeply tanned, olive-skinned man who kissed Rachel on both cheeks and said, “She’s right, you know. We prefer ‘scholars.’ Although ‘gossips’ is perhaps more accurate.”

“I thought you were supposed to be in Berlin all summer?” said Rachel, her words muffled against his cheek.

He was, I knew, Harvard professor Marcel Lyonnais, best known for his groundbreaking study that created a typology of symbols in early modern Italy, and also, for having left his wife and three children for one of his graduate students, Lizzy, who was a few decades younger.

“I was. Actually, I am. Just here for a few days. Spending some time with Lizzy. She feels a little left behind…” He drifted off. Marcel reluctantly turned his attention to me. “You must be?”

I held out a hand and he gripped it, his palm soft. “Ann.”

I wanted to say more than my name, to make it clear to him that I was on the inside too, was a valued asset, but around us the sea of bodies began to shift toward the stairs, an indication that social hour would be postponed until after the talks. And as shoulders jostled past me, one set struck me as familiar. At first I didn’t recognize her, the way you don’t immediately recognize familiar faces without context, but after a moment I reached out and put a hand on her arm and said, “Laure?”

Laure had been two years ahead of me at Whitman and the closest thing I had to a friend, and sometimes, a mentor. Although I imagined she had been the same to other students as well. Laure had been a student of contemporary art and someone whose ineffable style and quick comprehension made it clear to everyone that she wouldn’t be constrained by Walla Walla, or even by Seattle, where she had grown up. Back then, she had been trailed by the constant scent of weed and a coterie of emo boys who nipped at her heels.

“Ann!” She threw her arms around me as soon as she saw me. “You’re in New York?”

We were being elbowed and squeezed into the stairwell. “At The Cloisters,” I said, following behind her.

“That’s great. I had no idea. We should get a drink. And next year?”

I shook my head.

“That’s okay. I know it’ll happen for you.”

We had made our way down a flight of stairs while talking and lost Aruna in the process; Rachel was behind me, huddled up against Marcel. It always seemed that adults were eager to impress her, while for the rest of us, the dynamic was often reversed.

“Do you want to sit with me?” Laure said as we walked into the auditorium.

“Actually, I’m with—”

“We’re together,” said Rachel, coming up next to me.

There was a coldness to the way Rachel greeted Laure, and I noticed that Laure looked to me immediately. There was an edge in the way her eyes searched my face.

“I’ll find you at break,” said Laure, quickly squeezing my arm and walking between a row of seats.

The auditorium had been designed with acoustics in mind. It was warmly finished with curved cherrywood panels, under which red seats rose toward the back of the room with a slow, marching gravitas. Already, several of the presenters had settled themselves into chairs on the stage, with Patrick in the middle. Rachel and I chose a row halfway up and took our seats.