Chapter 50 - What Sofia Remembered
Sofia Marin invited me to lunch at her apartment.
No collectors.
No catalogues.
She said she had made too much soup.
I suspected she had made exactly enough for the conversation she wanted.
Her apartment smelled of books, lemon polish, and onions.
A photograph of two young dancers stood beside the window.
My mother.
Sofia.
Both looking fiercely convinced that the world had not yet understood them.
“She hated that photograph,” Sofia said.
“Why?”
“She thought I looked taller.”
“Were you?”
“Of course not.”
I laughed.
Then I sat.
Camille had asked whether Sofia remembered any arrangement concerning support payments for me.
She did.
Not the legal terms.
The argument.
Elena had received money from a limited licensing arrangement and wanted a portion kept for my training and ordinary needs.
Vivienne had wanted to apply it against expenses.
“My mother said no?”
“Repeatedly.”
Sofia served the soup.
“Did Vivienne listen?”
“She said your mother did not understand administration.”
The sentence was so familiar I nearly put down the spoon.
Brilliant.
Difficult.
Too sensitive.
A woman could create work that people sold around the world and still be described as unable to understand where the money went.
Sofia watched me.
“You are making the face Elena made.”
“What face?”
“The one before she stopped being polite.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Did she tell you what she did next?”
“She wrote instructions. She asked for statements. She spoke to someone outside the management office.”
“Who?”
Sofia thought.
“A woman. An administrator. She helped several foreign artists with payment records.”
“Do you remember her name?”
“Irena.”
The name reached something in me.
Not a clear memory.
A hallway.
My mother wearing her good coat.
A woman bending to ask whether I wanted orange juice.
I closed my eyes.
Sofia waited.
“I think I met her.”
“Then perhaps she was kinder than the rest of us.”
I opened my eyes.
“You were kind.”
“Sometimes. Not always. I told you that.”
I appreciated her refusal to let lunch turn her into a perfect witness.
Afterward, she showed me the letters she was willing to share.
One referenced Irena Kovacs and a request to redirect future statements.
Camille would contact her.
Not me arriving unannounced.
Not a stranger asked to become useful before she understood why.
Before leaving, I looked again at the photograph.
My mother’s mouth was slightly open.
About to complain.
About to laugh.
I loved the uncertainty.
At rehearsal, Beth worked with the revised chair sequence.
The dancer crossed the room carrying the chair against one hip.
Not gracefully.
Practically.
The first time, she exaggerated the effort.
I stopped her.
“Don’t show us that it’s heavy.”
She frowned.
“Then what?”
“Move it because it needs moving.”
The next attempt changed everything.
I felt the room recognize the person inside the task.
Rossi played the phrase again.
Quietly.
When we stopped, nobody spoke for several seconds.
Then Beth said, “That stays.”
I nodded.
Something inside me settled.
Not the case.
The work.
That evening, I told Alexander about Irena.
He listened.
Then he asked whether I wanted to see the small house Evelyn had suggested as a possible wedding venue.
I looked at him.
“The one with the garden?”
“Yes.”
“Did she book it?”
“No. She sent the available dates.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
I smiled.
“Then yes. Let’s look.”
The house had three windows across the front.
The resemblance to my childish drawing was imperfect.
I was grateful.
It did not need to become a monument to everything I had missed.
It could simply be a place where we married.
On the train home, Camille called.
Irena Kovacs was alive.
Retired.
Living in New Jersey.
She remembered Elena.
She also remembered a payment instruction that had been rejected.
“Rejected by whom?” I asked.
Camille paused.
“Bellweather says it never received sufficient confirmation.”
I stared at the dark window.
“My mother’s signature wasn’t sufficient?”
“Apparently, the person required to confirm the change was Vivienne.”
I thought of Elena in her good coat.
Trying to find the next person.
May you like
Trying another door.
They had made leaving depend on permission from the person she wanted to leave.
