The Cloisters(5)

“Ferrara. Sometimes Milan.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Most recently celestial vaults,” I said, thinking of my work with Lingraf. “Renaissance astrology.”

“The unlikely Renaissance, then.”

The way he looked at me sideways, with half his face but all his attention, made me forget, if only for a moment, that we were sharing the room with someone intent on firing me.

“It takes some bravery to work in a field where the archive is still a necessity,” he said. “Where things are rarely translated. Impressive.”

“Patrick—” Michelle tried again.

“Michelle.” Patrick brought his hands together and faced her fully. “I have bad news.” He leaned forward and passed his phone across the desk. “Michael has quit. No notice. He took a job with a tech company’s arts and culture division. Apparently, he’s already on his way to California. He sent me the email last week, but I didn’t see it until this morning.”

Michelle read what I could only assume was Michael’s resignation letter on Patrick’s phone, occasionally flicking up and down.

“We were already understaffed before this. As you know, we haven’t been able to find a suitable associate curator, and Michael had stepped into that role. Although he was by no means qualified. That left Rachel doing double duty on everything, and I’m worried we’re putting too much on her. We have some extra hands in Education that can help, but it’s simply not enough.”

Michelle passed the phone back to Patrick and settled a stack of papers on her desk.

“I was hoping Karl could come help us for a few weeks until we can get someone,” he said.

Throughout the exchange I had sat quietly, hoping that if I didn’t move, Michelle might forget I was there, forget that she told me to go.

“Karl has gone to Bergamo for the summer, Patrick,” Michelle said. “I’m sorry. We don’t have anyone to spare. The Cloisters will have to make its own provisions. We’ve been quite generous giving you the budget to pay Rachel through the year already. Now if you don’t mind—” She gestured toward me.

Patrick leaned back in his chair and gave me an appraising look.

“Can you send me her?” he asked, hooking a thumb in my direction.

“I cannot,” Michelle said. “Ann was about to leave us for the summer.”

Patrick leaned over the arm of his chair, his torso now so close that I could feel his body heat. It was a beat before I realized I had been holding my breath.

“Do you want to come work for me?” he said. “It wouldn’t be here. It would be at The Cloisters. It’s north, along the highway. Where are you living? Would it be an inconvenience?”

“Morningside Heights,” I said.

“Good. You’re right on the A train and can take it the whole way. Probably less walking than crossing the park, anyway.”

“Patrick,” Michelle broke in, “we don’t have the budget to send you Ann. Rachel is already taking your summer associate budget.”

He held up a finger and pulled out his phone, scrolling through the contacts until he found the number he needed. On the other end, someone picked up.

“Hello. Yes. Herr Gerber. Look, it’s important. May I have your associate—” He looked at me expectantly and snapped his fingers.

“Ann Stilwell,” I said.

“May I have Ann Stilwell for the summer? Who is she? I think she was meant to be your summer associate, Karl, but you left.” He looked to me for confirmation, and I nodded. They switched to German for a few minutes until Patrick laughed and handed the phone to Michelle.

Mostly, she listened. But every few minutes she would say things like, “Only if you’re sure” and “You’ll lose the budget money.” At the end, she was simply nodding and making agreeable sounds. “Okay… Mmhmm… All right.” She handed the phone back to Patrick, who laughed loudly and repeated the word ciao two or three times with a wonderful trill.

“Okay.” He rose from the chair and tapped me on the shoulder. “Come with me, Ann Stilwell.”

“Patrick,” Michelle protested, “the girl hasn’t even agreed!”

He looked at me, a single eyebrow raised.

“Yes, of course,” I said, the words tumbling out of me.

“Good,” he said, brushing at a stray wrinkle in his shirt. “Now, let’s get this over with and get you out of here.”



* * *



While Michelle had been busy explaining to me why I couldn’t stay, the room had filled with summer associates who could. The program had a reputation for selecting only a handful of graduating seniors from the best schools and working swiftly and silently behind the scenes to ensure their future successes. When my acceptance arrived, I had assumed it was a mistake, but by the end of that summer I would learn there were few mistakes in life.

The full-time staff had been pressed into attendance, and even though they did not wear name tags, I recognized a few of them: the young associate curator of Islamic art who had come directly from Penn, the curator of ancient Roman art who was a fixture on the ancient civilizations series produced by PBS. Everyone beautiful and sharp and inaccessible in person. The weight of my backpack hung more awkwardly against my hips when I realized I was the only attendee who still carried one.