Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Grace was trying really hard not to puke.
Obviously, she was used to the feeling. She’d had many first-day-of-class days in many had-no-idea-where-she-was-going places, but no matter what, she always wanted to puke.
Especially now that she was going to be teaching students from all over the world.
Cosmopolitan students who spoke several languages and probably grew up with baby books full of post-impressionist artwork.
They’d analyzed Gauguin and Carr while they sucked on their pacifiers.
They probably had rattles printed with Munch paintings.
Okay, maybe that was unlikely, but it didn’t lessen the need to hurl.
Grace had been so confident while she’d planned her lectures, so sure that even if she had used Alma’s connections to get the job, she was qualified.
Professor Medina had even confirmed she was the best candidate.
She’d already taught loads of classes on twentieth century art and female artists.
She’d done plenty of surveys in art history, from the renaissance to modernity.
It was what she loved to do. However, first day jitters were real, and it appeared that first day jitters in a new country where you barely spoke the language were very real indeed.
Wasn’t it strange that the very things that were often best when they were solitary—studying artwork or painting or writing—often required encounters with the public?
How odd that those members of the community who were wrapped up in their own thoughts and ideas and would be content studying and researching in isolation were required to go out to the masses and make themselves known if they wanted to make a living. And a modest living at that.
Not that Grace didn’t enjoy talking with her students about art.
She loved sharing her passion with them, watching their faces the first time she showed them The Large Bathers or From the Lake.
She loved to observe them as looks of admiration and appreciation and awe settled in, and she loved to talk about their questions and interests.
It was just that all of this involved standing in front of a big group of people and commanding their attention, when Grace would have liked to fade into the background.
It required a place in the front and center, when Grace would have preferred to be a shadow on the wall that no one gave much thought, even though it completed the picture and gave the work a new dimension.
Even though some of the buildings on campus were intimidating Renaissance church-like structures, Grace was pleased to find that her classroom looked similar to almost every small, wood-paneled auditorium that was designed in the 1970s.
That was comforting, at least. The projector and the little podium and the weird lighting.
Those were the things that made her feel a sense of familiarity that might allow her to keep her breakfast down.
She cleared her throat as she watched the clock. Students drifted in and took their seats, and she smiled at them when she made eye contact, but she tried to busy herself with her notes, shuffling her stack of syllabi just to pretend she had a reason not to look up.
But eventually, she had to look up. Class was meant to begin. She was meant to teach it if she could figure out how to speak.
“Good morning, everyone,” she said too softly. She cleared her throat, pushed her shoulders back, and tried to project. “I’m supposed to remind you that this course will be taught in English, though you may have guessed that immediately.”
There were a few smiles throughout the room. “The first thing I like to do,” Grace continued, “is to have everyone introduce themselves, so we can start to get acquainted and feel comfortable with each other. And then we can start talking about art.”
The students were actually eager to introduce themselves, and they already showed way more confidence than Grace, unafraid to ensure that she understood why they took the class—because they needed a cultural studies credit or because they had to fulfill something in fine arts or because this was their major, and maybe they had no idea what they would ever do with it, but they loved art, just like she did, and they wanted her to know that.
Grace listened and nodded, making notes on her attendance sheet about preferred names and tricks to try to remember all of them. Armand with the big glasses and Zhou Xi with the pink lip gloss. Elyse with dark, haunting eyes and Marco with the bleach blonde hair.
She started going through the syllabus, talking about assignments and the different units and time periods they would cover. Before she was even five minutes in, one of the students raised a hand.
“Umm, yes?” She glanced at her notes. Very Blonde. “Marco?”
“What’s your favorite painting?” he asked in enthusiastic, heavily accented English.
“My favorite?” She cocked her head to the side, as if the question was confounding.
Of course she’d been asked her about her favorite painting before.
It was a common question for an art history professor, but that was also part of the reason she couldn’t really choose.
It was like asking someone to choose a favorite song or a favorite child.
The truth was that she couldn’t possibly have a favorite painting.
There were too many brilliant works to choose from, too many different styles that evoked different emotions and reminded her of different moments from her life.
Many were moments she’d shared with her grandmother at the Art Institute of Chicago, where they’d spent weekend mornings when Grace was a kid.
She remembered her grandma staring at Georgia O’Keefe’s Sky Above Clouds IV for so long that Grace worried something bad had happened, but she did the same thing at Water Lilies and Inventions of the Monsters, until Grace understood that this was the kind of dedication and time that art required—to stare and stare and take it all in, every drop and detail, to find a way inside the piece and to feel it as if it were a part of you.
And perhaps, on some rare occasions, it really would become a part of you forever.
Grace’s grandma liked the beautiful stuff, the impressionists and the landscapes and the bright colors and people dancing in summer.
But as she got older, Grace wandered off on her own to explore the weirder stuff, the stuff that seemed to appeal to her more and more.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Francis Bacon’s Figure with Meat.
For all of the complicated feelings about Picasso she’d discussed with Rafael, The Old Guitarist haunted her dreams. And that was before she started to really study art, to actually learn about the techniques and the context.
With all of that, how could she possibly choose a favorite?
“What’s your favorite painting?” she asked Marco, because that’s what teachers did. They just asked the tough questions back to the class, especially when they didn’t have the answer.
Marco scrunched up his face, clearly giving it some thought. “My mother painted a vase of flowers that she hung up in our house,” he said. “It’s very nice.”
Grace smiled. “That’s lovely. Maybe as we start to talk, you can learn about some of her influences.”
“I think she was just influenced by our garden,” Marco said.
“How was it?” Alma asked the second Grace walked through their door. Alma was sprawled across the couch with a magazine and a glass of wine, but she sat up as if she’d been waiting all day to talk to her best friend.
Grace smiled before she could find any words. “Terrifying,” she said at last. “And wonderful.”
“You liked your students?”
“They were kind and enthusiastic and patient with me when I couldn’t work the projector. It was better than I could have imagined. Usually there are a few in the class that don’t care much, and I’m sure that will be the case, but they were engaged today.”
“Oh Gracie, that’s amazing. See? You made the right decision coming here.”
Grace nodded. “Time will tell, I suppose, but Alma—”
“No, don’t you dare. If you thank me one more time, I’m kicking you out of the apartment.”
“I wasn’t going to say thank you.”
“You weren’t? What were you going to say?”
“I was going to say I’m so grateful to you.”
Alma shook her head. “Get out of here. Actually, yes, do get out. We should go somewhere and celebrate your first day.”
Grace leaned against the counter and hung her head. “I’m tired.”
“Come on, we have to do something. A drink? Helado?”
Grace knew it would be suspicious to say no to ice cream.
She never said no to ice cream, but she felt worn out.
She’d felt worn out for the past three months or more, and even with the excitement of a new class, a new city, a new country, she couldn’t help wishing that she could feel like herself again.
It seemed impossible when she’d lost her entire life and imagined future.
Her career. Her partner. Her family. How could she ever be the same?
Alma’s face fell, and Grace hated to disappoint her.
She hated that she couldn’t be the girl who talked about hand-jobs on the college quad and loaded up on soft-serve with sprinkles for dinner, the girl that danced until her legs were literally aching and stayed out until four o’clock in the morning just because her best friend wasn’t quite ready to go to bed.
They’d met the sunrise on several occasions, just because they couldn’t stop talking to each other about anything and everything.
That seemed like another life, a life that required more energy than Grace could muster. “I think I might just start planning for my next class,” she said guiltily.
Alma nodded.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, Gracie. I understand.”
Grace sighed. “Yes, but you probably weren’t prepared to have a mopey weirdo living with you and killing your vibes. Especially when you’ve been so happy with Obinna.”
“You’re my mopey weirdo, and I want you here, no matter what.”
Alma’s phone rang, and she went to pick it up. “Hola?”
Grace sat on the sofa, curling her knees to her chest. Maybe Alma was right that she needed to do something, to get out of her comfort zone and live a little.
She’d moved across the world, which seemed like a good step, but after a bit of exploring, she’d been doing the same thing she’d been doing in Chicago, tucking herself away in her room and trying to avoid the world.
As much as she could logically tell herself she needed to get out, however, her grief didn’t want to listen.
It wanted a bed and darkness and reality TV show repeats.
She wanted to feel numb, but the pain was always there, right under the surface.
Even in the moments when she managed to forget, just for a moment, the ache was there waiting to surge up again.
Alma walked back toward Grace and held out her cell phone. “For you,” she said casually, as if Grace would be expecting a random phone call in Spain.
Grace scrunched up her face, but Alma gestured again, waiting for Grace to take the phone.
“Hello?”
“Graciela.” The voice on the other end of the line was deep and stern, and Grace’s skin felt instantly warm.
“Rafael.” She glanced at Alma, confused. Alma just shrugged and picked up her magazine.
“I need your help with something.” His voice made it sound like this was more of a command, rather than a request, but she supposed Rafael was used to commanding.
“You need my help?” Grace’s voice was incredulous and a bit sharp.
Rafael’s tone softened a bit. “Yes, can you meet? I’d like to talk about it with you in person. Tomorrow?”
On what planet could Rafael possibly need her help with something? She wouldn’t have even been able to imagine him asking for her help, except that he’d just done it. “I have a class in the morning.”
“After your class then.”
She hesitated.
“I promise it’s not a strange request, Grace. Just meet me tomorrow after your class.”
“Where?” she asked, trying to ignore the disappointment that he hadn’t called her “Graciela” again.
“You said you’ve never been to the Alhambra, correct? Let’s meet there. Kill two birds with one stone, as they say.”
The Alhambra? Her brain wasn’t functioning properly, and she couldn’t seem to comprehend anything he was saying. Was this some kind of tourism outing? What in the world did he want?
“Fine,” she said at last. “I’ll get your number from Alma.”
“Good.” Rafael released a soft breath that seemed to take over the line. “Tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Grace replied, unsure why something seemed to be crawling down and settling in her stomach, dread or excitement or desire, she wasn’t sure. “Tomorrow.”