45. The Library
Samantha
After dinner, I decide to write to Andrew.
Sam: I sold my first painting today.
He calls me back immediately.
“That’s fantastic, Sam! I knew you’d make it. You have to celebrate.”
“I will—with the girls,” I say, smiling into my voice.
“And Alexander too, I hope. He never stopped believing in you. He must be so proud.”
“I’m sure,” I reply evasively.
I never told him about our “breakup.” To him, we weren’t really together anyway. Our conversation is short, and when I hang up, I take a moment to think about his words.
Yes, Alexander deserves to know. Because before anything else, he was my friend, and he was always there for me.
I send him a message immediately, before I can change my mind.
Sam: I sold my first painting today.
The reply comes barely thirty seconds later.
Alexander: I’m so proud of you, Sam. Thank you for telling me. Good night.
At another time, I would have found his message too short, almost distant. Today, I understand better. He accepts what I give him. He respects my boundaries.
And, strangely enough, that restraint touches me more than a long speech ever could.
I then send a message to my mother to tell her I’ll stop by the next day to pick up a few things.
Of course, she doesn’t reply.
*
At school, my work is progressing well. Now that I’ve moved past my doubts and hesitations, stress sharpens my eye and energizes me. My brushstrokes are more confident, more precise.
I anticipate better what I want to achieve.
Still, the idea of going back to my parents’ place knots my stomach. The last time we exchanged anything was by text, just before Christmas lunch. After that, I simply wished them a happy new year. A message that went unanswered.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Emelyne asks during lunch break.
“No, it’ll be fine. I’ll go straight to the gallery afterward.”
“Okay, but you call me at the first sign of trouble.”
“Promise.”
When I ring the doorbell at my parents’ house, Ms. Aldeler, their employee, opens the door.
“Good afternoon, miss. Your mother is waiting for you in the small sitting room.”
When she sees me enter, my mother sizes me up from head to toe.
“Your sense of style is getting worse and worse.”
I don’t even respond. What’s the point?
“How are you, Mom?” I ask anyway.
“How do you think I’m doing when my daughter is shaming me by stealing her sister’s boyfriend?”
The same old refrain. It’s time she changed the record. In the past, I would have taken it in silence. Not anymore.
“If my so-called sister hadn’t slept with a man who wasn’t her boyfriend, none of this would have happened,” I reply coldly.
My mother lets out an indignant gasp.
“You’re downright vulgar!”
“That’s what shocks you? Really?”
A heavy silence settles between us. She looks away.
“I didn’t raise you all these years for you to speak to me like that.”
“You didn’t raise me,” I shoot back. “Annie, my nanny, did. All you care about is Dad’s approval. But open your eyes, Mom. Haven’t you ever wanted to exist for yourself?”
Her jaw tightens. Her fingers clench around the armrest of her chair. I wait, hoping for a spark of pride, a crack. Nothing.
“I just came to get a few things from my room,” I say at last. “I’m leaving. Goodbye, Mom.”
“Take whatever you want,” she replies in a flat voice. “And come get the rest soon. We’re turning the room into a guest bedroom for your sister’s visitors.”
The message is crystal clear. There’s no longer a place for me here.
I go upstairs, my heart heavy. My room is exactly as I left it: overrun with sketch pads and canvases. On the walls, posters from exhibitions visited with Andrew and Alexander, then others, more recent ones, with Alexander alone.
My gaze lingers on the poster from the Turner exhibition in Paris.
I remember that day with painful clarity.
We spent hours standing in front of the paintings, fascinated by the light, by the way Turner captured the ephemeral.
Then we had dinner at a small bistro, talked late into the night. About everything. About nothing.
It’s one of the most beautiful memories of my life.
I shake my head to chase away the nostalgia and examine my canvases. There are about twenty of them, some dating back to my early days. I look at them with a more critical eye, measuring how far I’ve come.
Among them is the first blank canvas Alexander gave me. I had painted his parents’ chateau at sunset on it. The composition is na?ve, imperfect, but it radiates something warm. Something sincere. I set it aside.
Then I choose my two best paintings—the ones where I feel I truly found my voice.
I wrap all three in kraft paper, make handles with hemp rope, and leave the house without seeing my mother again.
In the subway, I bump into a few passengers with my bulky load. Annoyed looks, a sigh. I murmur an apology and press myself against the wall.
At the gallery, Cédric Levasseur studies the two paintings at length, stepping closer, stepping back, squinting.
“They’re perfect,” he finally says. “I’ll keep both of them.”
He then hands me the receipt for the sale of my first piece.
I freeze when I see the amount: €1,800!
I know I’ll have to set some aside for social contributions, but I’ll still be left with an unexpected sum, far more than I ever dared imagine.
“That’s it, I’m rich!” I laugh that evening to Mara and Emelyne.
To celebrate, we open a bottle of Norman cider that cost €7.90. Absolute luxury.
We dig out the ceramic bowls from the back of the cupboard and toast together.
I’m so happy to share this moment with them.
And yet, someone is missing.
Alexander.
I would have loved so much to celebrate this moment with him too.
But it’s better this way.
*
That night, I slide my very first painting behind the others without unwrapping it. Then I take a blank canvas from the ones Alexander gave me after the burglary and settle into the living room to paint.
The months fly by at an incredible pace.
Early April: I’ve made good progress on my graduation project, but I’m still far from the thirty pieces required. In other words, I barely see daylight anymore.
My days boil down to painting, eating, sleeping. Repeat.
“The exam is approaching,” Ms. Mainville announces. “Each of you will be assigned an exhibition space. You’ll be able to visit the rooms beforehand, but you’ll only have one day to hang your work.”
She then hands out, in alphabetical order, the address of each student’s exhibition venue.
I unfold my sheet.
Samantha Chevalier: Outdoor gallery of the Richelieu Library.
My heart stops.
I read the name again, as if the words might change.
The Richelieu Library.
My God—how is that even possible?
Usually, graduating students exhibit in cultural centers, youth centers, community halls, or neighborhood libraries. Never in a place this prestigious. This library is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful in the world. Even if I’m not exhibiting in the Oval Room, it’s an incredible honor.
Around me, my classmates stare at me in disbelief. We all know this place. We’ve spent hours wandering its shelves, consulting the printed works of the greatest artists.
“It so happens that the library is working on a theme very close to yours,” Ms. Mainville continues, fixing me with a steady gaze. “Given your project, they wanted to associate our school with their exhibition. Don’t disappoint us.”
The weight of her words settles on my shoulders like a lead blanket.
Don’t disappoint. Represent the school. Be worthy.
A dull anxiety rises inside me. I’ll need to frame my work. And in a place like that, I can’t settle for makeshift solutions. How am I going to do this? Where am I going to find the money for proper frames, frames worthy of the name?
I feel my breathing quicken. My palms grow damp.
Absentmindedly, I pull out my phone to save the date and address.
A message from Alexander appears on the screen.
Alexander: Lemurs throw rave parties—some species dance to the techno-like sounds they produce themselves, like they’re in a nightclub.
I read the message twice before it sinks in. An image of little lemurs bouncing around wildly flashes through my mind. A laugh escapes me.
“Miss Chevalier, would you like to share with the class what’s making you laugh like that?” Ms. Mainville asks in an icy voice.
All eyes turn toward me. I feel myself shrinking in my chair.
“My apologies,” I say flatly, slipping my phone away.
Silence falls over the classroom.
But oddly enough, I feel far less stressed. As if that absurd message had been enough to loosen the grip tightening around my chest.
Alexander has a gift for bringing me back to what matters, without ever overwhelming me.