Free I Looked for the One My Heart Loves by Dominique MARNY

still couldn’t forget the suffering caused by hunger and the cold. And so she reveled in life’s small pleasures: drying her hair in the sun, eating bread that tasted like what she had enjoyed during her childhood, savoring cherries or chocolate.
    The gallery was only a seven-minute walk from her apartment. She began work at ten. Anne took care of the place during the day since Amanda Kircher only showed up after suppertime. At fifty-two, her vitality was surprising. Petite, chatty, speaking with an accent unlike any other, she was second to none when it came to launching artists. More than once, Anne saw her pack up in record time and jump on a train or board a ship, on her way to meet a promising artist. She had lived in New York during the Occupation, so she still had a lot of contacts in America. She inherited a great flair from her father, who had befriended Amedeo Modigliani, André Derain, Kees van Dongen, and many others. Her husband, who died of peritonitis just before they were to come back from the United States, had instilled his business acumen in her. Those two qualities made her one of Paris’s top art dealers.
    â€œYou always have to trust your intuition,” she kept telling Anne.
    â€œYou have to have one first. …”
    â€œI’ve been watching you! Your tastes aren’t like everybody else’s. You’re not wearing blinders.”
    Anne, it was true, was trying to distance herself from the formal education she had received at the École du Louvre. Working for Amanda Kircher had freed her from the old concepts she had learned and opened her eyes to an art world that was in full transformation. Nothing scared Amanda: she had experienced exile, the loss of her privileges, the premature death of her husband. When she came back to France, she had to fight for her rights. An unscrupulous manager tried to rob her of her property. He had underestimated her determination and social skills. In 1951, after a long legal battle, she retook possession of her gallery. She didn’t have any children of her own, and she looked after her godson like he was her own. His name was Roland, and he wanted to become a veterinarian. He was the one taking care of Kircher’s cats, Laurel and Hardy.
    When her boss went on business trips, Anne sometimes fed the cats. As soon as she walked into the apartment above the gallery, she could smell the Amanda’s Miss Dior perfume. Thick carpeting muffled her steps as she crossed the vestibule, where a statue of Buddha greeted visitors. In the living room, furniture by Marcel Coard and Jean-Michel Frank sat next to sculptures by Alberto Giacometti. The walls were very sparingly lined with art. Drawings by Henri Matisse gave way to watercolors by Raoul Dufy, but Joan Miró sketches were sent back to her private storeroom, along with some Picassos and other pieces. Many photos showed her at La Coupole, talking and laughing with Fernand Léger, Elsa Triolet, Louis Aragon. Other pictures were from the French Riviera and in New York. When she stood next to her husband, Daniel Kircher, she always wore extravagant hats.
    â€œMy father introduced me to Fauvism,” she told Anne. “My husband made me understand that abstract art’s time was going to be up soon. He was right!”
    Most of the time, the Parisian artists sent their work to the gallery. But one morning, Anne’s assignment was to pick up a series of watercolors from a studio in Montmartre.
    She hadn’t gone back to her old neighborhood since her parents left Paris. Especially since Agnès now lived in Passy! As the taxi drove up Rue Lepic, she felt overwhelmed with emotion. Before reaching the top of the hill, she asked the driver to stop, and she paid the fare. With autumn’s arrival, dead leaves covered the sidewalks. Ignoring Place du Tertre, she headed toward Rue Gabrielle. Once in front of the apartment building where she had lived, she raised her eyes