Free Pictures at an Exhibition by Sara Houghteling Page B

his hands, then caught himself and put them under his armpits. The veteran held the piece of cardboard in his pink hand while he spoke, and shook it three times, violently. With his other hand, he made the gesture a magician might make when releasing a dove.
    I could not imagine what the two men had in common, and yet when I turned the corner, Bertrand was still at the blind man's side.
    NEARLY AN HOUR LATER, AS I WALKED ALONG THE SEINE , I heard a tinkling and felt a tap at my shoulder. It was Bertrand and his medals.
    “Let's go sailing,” he said. It was blustery and beginning to rain.
    “No.”
    “I promise, thou shalt not think about that contemptible girl for at least sixty minutes. Vale la pena, hombre ,“ he added. I did not know how he knew Spanish. “It's worth the risk.”
    The risk Bertrand was referring to was that, in fact, to go sailing required us to steal a boat. Which we did, which Bertrand often did, somehow with me in tow.
    This one was named Madame de Pompadour , with a flimsy lock that Bertrand broke against the moorings. We tacked through the green-gray water of the Seine and sped under the bridge at the quaide Grenelle while the Métro rattled the trestle overhead. A roar rose from the crowds at the Vélodrome d'Hiver and drifted above us like a cloud. We turned our collars up against the wind, ducked under the swinging boom when we changed course at Garigliano, and floated between the bridge's pilings, as sturdy as giant's legs. Madame de Pompadour was a sleek skiff. Her hull was painted blue and her brass railing shone. Below deck, Bertrand found a melted box of chocolates and three bottles of beer, of which I drank two and Bertrand the other. The sail back to the dock near Austerlitz was more difficult. The wind had switched directions, and we were sailing into it once again.
    When the quay was within sight, the breeze dropped off. On the shore, a man gestured angrily to two policemen.
    “This is the best part,” Bertrand announced. My nerves jangled. “Nice and easy,” he said, landing the boat with extravagant finesse. “Hello,” Bertrand called out in English.
    The two policemen rushed over, nearly tackled us, and shoved us against the wall of the embankment. We had been through this routine before. I did not know why Bertrand would not purchase, or at least rent, a boat like any other Parisian who loved to sail. The owner of the Madame de Pompadour looked on with satisfaction. Shackled, we were prodded along, up the stairs to the roadway and the police wagons. The younger officer pushed down on Bertrand's head and hustled him into the car. The other checked over his shoulder and watched the owner of the Pompadour float out of sight.
    “Easy there,” the older cop told his partner. “It's Patrice Le Tarnec's nephew. We've got to let him go.” Le Tarnec was the assistant chief of police and Bertrand's uncle by marriage. The Camondo-Reinachs believed he granted them universal immunity, like some Swiss diplomat might have.
    Grinning, Bertrand held out his wrists. Once unchained, he fished in his pocket for a few bills. It made it all a game, a pantomime.
    “Gentlemen, thank you,” he said, and we ran to the Métro station at Cardinal Lemoine. The wind that had abated earlier picked up again and licked at my face and hands. It began to rain, a sweet-smelling summer shower.
    “Wasn't I correct?” Bertrand asked.
    “About what, fool?”
    “You haven't thought about the girl in an hour.” He checked his watch. “Or more.”
    I admitted he was right.
    Bertrand slipped past the gate, I paid my ticket, and we boarded the train.
    FOR THREE MONTHS AFTER MY UNFORTUNATE VACA tion in the Isère, I remained in love with Rose, though not as before. She let me creep into the Nurse's Room at night, and sometimes she came to my door and we clung together until the sound of Lucie waking up the kitchen pots roused us from bed. We stayed clothed, like children. At first she permitted me to kiss