Free Mira's Diary by Marissa Moss

out what that was. All I knew was that it had to do with Degas, the Jews, and Dreyfus. And Zola, whoever that was, since Mom’s note said she would “work on him.” How could I ask Mary about that?
    â€œMira? How extraordinary to see you again after so many years! And you haven’t changed a bit. Americans always look younger and fresher than Europeans, but you’re exceptional, unbelievable, truly.” Mary poured me a cup of coffee as we sat down for breakfast.

    â€œYou haven’t aged at all either,” I gushed, though really she had. Her features were softer, droopier, her waist thicker and her hands knottier, but there was also a self-assurance about her that made her more attractive than ever. And looking at the canvases leaning against the walls, the prints framed everywhere, I could see why. Her art was stronger—her pastels as rich as Degas, her lines as sure.
    â€œHow are your parents? Your sister? The last time we talked, she was ill.”
    I tried to remember her sister’s name. Leona? Louisa? Something that started with “L.”
    â€œSo kind of you to remember. Poor Lydia died.” Mary dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
    â€œOh, I’m so sorry!” I gasped.
    â€œI still miss her, though it’s been twelve years now.” Mary sighed.
    I stared at my lap miserably, searching for the right thing to say. I couldn’t imagine Malcolm dying. Suddenly I missed my brother with a sharp intensity.
    â€œLet’s talk about something more cheerful, shall we?” Mary proposed. “Like art. Or better yet, artists.”
    â€œYou must tell me how our friend Degas is doing!” I grabbed the chance to change the subject. “And what the news of the day is.” I paused, hoping I sounded natural, not idiotic. “I’ve been wondering about Zola…and Dreyfus.”
    â€œDegas is much the same, ever the crochety perfectionist. Manet’s death hit him hard, but he’s doing well. You can see for yourself. We can meet him for tea tomorrow.”
    More death! I thought, but I wasn’t going to ask for details about Manet’s. Instead I asked, “Does Claude still work for him?”
    â€œClaude? Why, of course! He’s devoted to Degas.”
    I wanted to ask if he was married. If he was a successful painter himself now. If he remembered me at all. But I wasn’t here for Claude. I was here for Mom.
    â€œAnd what about Zola?” I asked, getting right to the point. “And this Dreyfus I’ve heard so much about?” I wondered what she knew. I couldn’t imagine she’d been part of yesterday’s savage crowd. Being here with her was like being in another Paris entirely.
    â€œThe last thing I read of Zola’s was the dreadful novel he wrote skewering poor Cézanne, you know, The Masterpiece . Degas was disgusted that Zola could betray their friendship that way, though secretly I think he agrees with Zola that Cézanne could be a better artist and he hasn’t lived up to his promise.”
    At least now I knew who Zola was, though I couldn’t see what he had to do with anything, why Mom had to work on him. He was a writer of bad books. Why did that matter?
    â€œAnd Dreyfus?” I pressed.
    â€œHmm, you know, that name rings a bell, though he’s not someone I know. Not an artist, that’s certain. I know! I read something recently…It was in the newspaper, today’s, I think.” Mary flipped through a pile of magazines and journals on a nearby table.
    â€œHere it is!” She folded back the page and handed me the newspaper.

    Next to the article was an illustration of Dreyfus. The artist had sketched him with an exaggerated nose and devil’s horns, nothing like the man I’d seen act so nobly the day before. Would the article help me understand why the mob was so furious? And, more importantly, would it tell me what I needed to do next?
    My