Casebook 3: War with Russia - 3.4[index]

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Let me explain: in the bottom corner of the painting, impaled by the blade of a Russian Poruchik (and as a foil to the central tableau the pasteboard informs us), lay a dying soldier. That soldier was me. He had my face. It was unmistakable. I leaned across the rail and peered at it. A guard coughed.

“S'il vous plait, Monsieur.” I ignored him. “S'il vous plait!” I reached out a finger. “Monsieur!” The guard approached me muttering into his radio urgently. As he did so, I ran my finger across the surface of the painting and held it up to him. As he grabbed my shoulder, he looked at the finger in confusion, for it was covered in fresh paint.

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The Curator's office was cold and dry. The Curator sat quietly at his desk, the green light from his computer casting a queasy shimmer across his face. He rifled through a battered file, stopping occasionally to check or recheck before finally coming to what he was looking for.

“Voila,” he whispered, and then unlocked a piece of paper from the folder. “Alors, l'étudiant.” He pushed the piece of paper across the desk. “It is often permitted.”

I looked at the letter; it came from the Conservatoire le Metropoli, granting permission for one of their students to make a study of de Rotelet's painting.