stomach clenched as I read about Dreyfus being found guilty of treason. Then the writer described the ceremony Iâd seen. Except according to the newspaper, Dreyfus was barely human, more demon than man. If I was supposed to make Degas like Jews, then I guessed my job was to make Degas help prove he was innocent. But seeing anti-Semitism in person, it didnât seem like changing peopleâs minds would be easy.
These were real people, real lives being ruined. How could people read about such injustice and not be outraged? Even if they believed that Dreyfus was guilty, how could they present him as a demon? To the newspaper writer, he seemed barely human.
If I couldnât clear Dreyfusâs name somehow, that would be my jobâto show the public that Dreyfus was accused simply because he was Jewish. And that he was a man like any other, not some kind of evil monster. I had no idea how I would do that, but I was so angry I had to figure something out. I didnât care about changing something in the future. What mattered was this right now, this ugly anti-Semitism.
âOf course, youâre welcome to stay here as long as you like. It will be nice to have the company.â
I looked up from the newspaper, from the horrible caricature of the demon Jew to Maryâs kind face. Sheâd never said anything about me being Jewish, and suddenly that really mattered to me.
âThatâs so generous of you!â I said, folding over the paper so I couldnât see the ugly drawing. âYou must have thought me rude, leaving like that without saying good-bye or thanking you after all your kind hospitality.â
âActually I thought you must have run off with a young man. Claude thought so too.â
I blushed hotly. âNothing like that! My aunt called for me urgently, and I had to hurry to catch a train. I did write to you from Italy, but it sounds like you didnât get my letter. The post can be so unreliable,â I lied.
âYes, terrible really, since your letter to Monsieur Degas was also lost.â Maryâs eyes twinkled. She clearly didnât believe a word Iâd said, but she didnât seem to care that I was an ungrateful liar.
Iâd dug myself a hole and felt myself falling deeper. What a nuisance this time-travel stuff was! How did Mom handle all the lame excuses and clumsy lies? If I didnât care about these people, it wouldnât matter, but I wanted Mary, Degas, and Claude to like me. Or at least not think I was a horrible person.
I could almost hear Momâs voice in my head saying, âStop worrying about your reputation. It doesnât matter what other people think of youâit matters what you think of you.â Right now I thought of myself as someone who wanted very much to be friends with Mary. And Degas. I wasnât sure about Claude. After all, Iâd disappeared just as he was going to kiss me (wasnât he?). That would be pretty hard to explain away.
Degas had moved to a bigger place, not far from his old apartment, and when I got there he was sketching a woman crouched in a tub washing herself. His marks were looser and thicker than I remembered. I could lose myself in their energy and beating pulse, as his fingers skated over the paper. He leaned into the drawing, peering closely at it as if he needed glasses, even though he was already wearing a pair perched on his nose.
âMira?â he asked, turning toward me. âIt has been years! I thought you had decided to stay in America and abandon your French friends.â
âIâm so sorry that I left the way I did. You must think Iâm awful.â I watched the colors bloom under his fingers as if I was in a trance. Iâd never seen him draw like this before. It felt intensely private and magical.
âI would say it is good to see you, but as you can tell, I do not see well at all these days. My eyesight has long been poor, and now it is so
Landon Dixon, Giselle Renarde, Beverly Langland