The Cloisters(11)

“We’ll meet once a week to go over your progress. In the meantime, Rachel should be able to help you with any questions you might have.”

I paged through the material again. Even dividing the work between the two of us, there was no escaping the fact that there were thousands of pages to read, hundreds of works of art to review, dozens of divination practices to explore.

“Ann,” he said. He was still sitting next to me, the arms of our chairs touching. Across the table, Rachel worked her way through the diaries of Girolamo Cardano, the famed Renaissance astrologer. Although every few minutes, she stole a glance across the expanse of rough-hewn oak that separated us, to where Patrick and I were in conference. “I don’t bring people into The Cloisters lightly. We’re like a family here, and your success is our success. If you do a good job here this summer, we can help you.”

I was facing Patrick, but could feel Rachel watching us at the edge of my vision.

“What do you want us to help you accomplish, Ann?”

I’d never had someone ask me so bluntly about my goals, let alone so clearly offer to help me attain them. While I scrambled to find the right thing to say, Patrick sat companionably with the silence, hands folded in his lap, his eyes watching my every fidget.

Finally, I said, “I’m here because I want to be a scholar.”

It was the truth, after all. And more palatable than the other truths I wasn’t ready to share: that after last year, Walla Walla would always feel like death to me, that I didn’t have any other options, that I wasn’t confident I would be able to survive in a job that demanded I live in the present. That, on some level, I was doing all of this for my father, for us.

“We can help with that,” Patrick said, starting what he was about to say by deliberately drawing out his vowels. “Introduce you to the right people. Get you the right letters of recommendation. I’d even be happy to read your work before you submit it and offer suggestions. And while scholarship is a valuable and important thing, it cannot be the only thing. It does not sustain us. Not really. Even though we wish it could. I’ve seen you out in the galleries, Ann. The way you spend your time with just one work; you look lovingly, slowly. You are more than a scholar.”

Patrick, I realized, had a way of stripping away the pleasant surfaces of human interaction. There was an intensity to the way he spoke and observed, but he was unfailingly polite, always ensuring you were at ease. So while I felt like he was probing beyond the professional facade I wanted to present, it wasn’t uncomfortable. There was a relief in laying it bare to him. To Rachel, even. And of course, he was right. All of this—the place, the objects, the magic of the past, the scholarship—was about more than the work. It was transformation I was after. A way to become someone else.

Before I could say as much, he continued, “You know, Ann. After you came up here, I decided to take a look at your application. Just to be sure that we were using your skills in the best way possible, of course. And I was very surprised. You say you grew up in Walla Walla?”

“Yes.”

“But you speak six languages?”

“Seven,” I said. “Although three of them are dead. Technically I read Latin, ancient Greek, and a thirteenth-century Ligurian dialect from Genoa. I speak Italian, German, and Neapolitan. And English, of course.”

“Nevertheless, this is remarkable.”

“There wasn’t much else to do in Walla Walla,” I said with a shrug. “Besides study. And work.”

I was used to downplaying the influence my father’s fascination with language had had on my life. Parsing long-lost languages and learning their secret codes was something we had shared, just the two of us. It was never in the service of advancing my career. Or his. And in moments like this, our love of languages felt like a secret I wanted to keep for myself, even if Patrick was intent on teasing everything else from me.

“And you worked with Richard. Didn’t you?”

I had never heard anyone call my advisor by his first name, and for a moment I struggled to place who Richard might be. But of course Patrick had read my application materials, had seen Richard Lingraf’s letter of recommendation.

“I did. All four years.”

“I knew Richard, once. Long ago. When I was a graduate student at Penn, he was doing some very daring work at Princeton. You were lucky to have a mentor like him. So curious and so talented.” And then, more to himself than to me, he said, “I still wonder why he went to Whitman. What an odd place to end up for him.”

“He always said he preferred the weather.”

“Yes, well,” said Patrick, his fingers quickly drumming on the table. “I’m sure that was part of it.” After a beat, he added, “I can’t guarantee you anything, Ann. But if your work is as good as I expect it to be, then I’ve little doubt that The Cloisters can help you end up somewhere you’re happy to be.”

“Thank you.” I hesitated. Throughout the whole conversation Rachel had been there, listening. I wanted to let it go at that, to thank Patrick for his offer of support, but I needed to ask just one thing, even if it would put paid to the nonchalance I had been trying to affect around Rachel since arriving at the museum.

“What about after this summer? I don’t yet have a job lined up, but I would love to stay in the city. And here, if you need me.” I looked across the table and met Rachel’s gaze, trying my best to lift my chin a little higher, hold her eyes a little longer.