The Cloisters(8)

I followed Rachel and Patrick through a set of doors at the end of the cloister into the museum itself. The room, a shocking medieval world in miniature: thirteenth-century wood beams crisscrossed the ceiling and massive stained glass windows were set in the walls. Cases full of goldwork glinted with precious stones—blood-red rubies and sapphires as dark as a moonless sea. An enamel miniature caught my eye—its colors vibrant despite its age—and I studied its case, my fingers at the edge of the glass. These were the objects, so small in execution, that I had always believed might make me bigger by association.

“Come on,” said Rachel, pausing to wait for me at the top of a set of stairs. Patrick was already out of sight.

There was no way not to be overwhelmed by the jewel box that was The Cloisters—it wasn’t like the Metropolitan, where your eyes could rest. The entire space was the work. I was grateful when the stairs led down to the lobby and main entrance, where visitors handled maps and audio guides, pointing out which galleries housed the most well-known works. Admission to The Cloisters, like the Met, was free for New York residents.

“Moira,” said Patrick, walking toward a woman whose black hair was feathered gray around the temples. “This is Ann. She’s joining us for the summer.”

“You should know,” Moira said, coming out from behind the information desk, “that Leo was smoking in the garden shed again. I could smell it. And if I could smell it, I’m sure visitors could too. He’s still on museum property. Smoking isn’t allowed. It’s the fourth time already this month.”

Patrick brushed off Moira’s concerns with the skill of someone used to brokering institutional peace. “Ann, meet Moira, our front desk manager.”

“And docent program coordinator,” she added, barely looking at me before turning her attention back to Patrick.

“She does an excellent job,” said Patrick.

“I was thinking,” said Moira, placing a hand on Patrick’s sleeve, “that we could install smoke detectors in the garden maintenance area. That might—”

“She’s always like this,” said Rachel, leaning in to whisper in my ear. “If you’re late, just know she’ll remember by exactly how many minutes.”

It felt good to be conspiratorial with someone, even if only for a moment, her breath hot on my neck, burning the words just between us.

“Moira,” said Patrick, “we’re on our way to security. I just wanted to introduce Ann. Do you think we could—”

“Talk about this later?”

Patrick acquiesced. “I’ll have someone talk to Leo.”

“See that you do.”

We continued to the security office, a drab metal door where Patrick finally left us. But not before he offered me a rueful smile and a wink. For a moment, I thought I saw his hand come to rest on the small of Rachel’s back, but it happened so quickly—as had the morning, our arrival, our trip through the galleries—I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t have time to smile before my photograph was taken, a key card issued, and Rachel moved on, down the hallway, deeper into the staff offices.

“You’re coming, right?” she asked over her shoulder while I was still struggling to clip my key card to my skirt. I tried not to run after her.

The offices of The Cloisters were a labyrinth of stone passageways and Gothic doors, darkly lit by wall sconces that were placed a little too far apart, leaving shadowy gaps. Rachel introduced me to the Education department, where leaded glass windows overlooking the Hudson were propped open. From there, she showed me the staff kitchen, which was surprisingly modern and full of European stainless-steel appliances.

Next was the conservation room, where a team of preparators in smocks and white gloves were absorbed in the slow process of scraping away centuries of varnish from a painting whose gold, filigree frame had been removed and set aside. Then, there was a room full of fluorescent lights and storage drawers—accessions, Rachel said—where thousands of smaller artworks were housed like scientific specimens. I filed away as much as I could: faces, the number of doors between the kitchen and the education offices, where I had last seen a bathroom. And finally, after we curved back around toward the lobby, Rachel took me into an additional room full of stacks, all tightly closed, their crank wheels ready to be sprung open.

“The stacks adjoin the library through a back door,” said Rachel, “but the library, where we work, is separate from the staff offices.”

We walked through the stacks, the rubber soles of my shoes squeaking on the terrazzo floors. She leaned on a heavy wooden door that opened onto the library—a long, low room with rib vaults that intersected above huge oak tables and chairs upholstered with green leather and big brass buttons. It was the kind of library that belonged in a lavish country house, with stained glass windows and walls of bound books, some titles written by hand onto the fabric bindings.

“Patrick’s office is the door at the end.” Rachel gestured at a wooden door decorated with curved ironwork depicting two deer, their antlers locked in combat. “But you and I will work here, in the library itself. The Cloisters doesn’t have enough office space to accommodate us elsewhere.”

Looking around the library, I couldn’t imagine having to work within the four white walls of a regular office when this was a possibility. For years, I had lingered over the images, not just of paintings, but of archives—dimly lit rooms full of books and papers, the material history I was desperate to hold in my hands, see with my own eyes. And here was the Cloisters library in person. True, there were no rare manuscripts—although there were plenty on display in the galleries, and still more conserved in accessions—but it was a space, full of first editions and rare titles, that revered the dead as much as I did, and in that, I felt like it was home.