Noor took her phone back, searched, and handed it to me again. I had to enlarge the image before I saw the scarf, so transparent it was almost invisible.
“I saw it when my class visited the Louvre the year I was thirteen,” Noor continued. “I was so excited because the woman in the most famous painting in France is wearing a headscarf, and it is not popular to wear one here. We are forbidden to wear them at school. To see one onLa Jocondefelt so important. As if the artist had seen me. Seen who I am.” Her face hardened. “When I showed it to the professeur, she said I was wrong. She said there was no scarf.”
“That’s awful.”
“It was as if the painting was only for people who lookedlike my prof. She made me feel like I did not exist. After I painted arms on the Venus, though, I decided that people need to seeLa Jocondeas I saw her. The scarf is there—it is real, and if people saw it, perhaps they would be less frightened of people who look like me.” She did the “pff” thing with her mouth that in French means,But of course, I was deluded. “But my version, she was painted over the next day. So I painted her again. I keep repainting her. Something that makes people so uncomfortable they have to destroy it is worth keeping alive.”
I loved her fierceness. “Do you only paint girls wearing headscarves?” I asked. I took another drink of Champagne. I felt warm and slightly fuzzy at the edges.
“Mostly. Like Le Bec mostly does pigeons and Uno only does his Venus stencils. You can work very quickly if you have a character you always paint, and working quickly means the police are less likely to catch you.” She gave me a conspiratorial smile.
“Are you showing off your little things, Noor?” Le Bec leaned down between us and took the phone out of my hands. I was going to say I wasn’t done looking yet, but he turned a dazzling smile on me. “You like art?”
I nodded. “Noor’s been showing me her work. It’s amazing.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “It is too bad she will never be chosen for Le Mur.” He took his own phone out. “Would you like to see some ofmywork?”
I shrugged. “Sure.” I wanted to see more of Noor’s art, but I was happy to look at his stuff, too. On the screen of hisphone, five giant pigeons slouched against a wall, smoking. “I love it,” I said, laughing almost in spite of myself. “It reminds me of my old school.”
Nick looked over my shoulder. “Is this the one that’s on Le Mur?” he asked.
“Yes.” Le Bec grabbed a Champagne bottle and topped off my glass. He made to fill Noor’s already-full glass, but she put a hand over it. “If you had listened to me, ma cocotte,” he told her, “you could have been on Le Mur, too.”
She shook her head. “If I had listened to you, I would be helping you to paint your pigeons instead of doing my own work.”
“You would have recognition.”
“I would be ‘team.’ Le Bec and his team.” Noor said “team,” but the subtitle read “servant.” She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “In any case, I already have recognition. People know Headscarf Girl.”
“They do not invite her to paint Le Mur Oberkampf.”
Noor moved her eyes away from Le Bec, silently considering the wall hung with gates. Le Bec stared at her like he was trying to will her to meet his gaze. Laughing people stumbled by our table; I gulped more Champagne, nervous at the tension that hung in the air, and felt Nick give my hand a quickIt’s okaysqueeze. It didn’t feel like it was okay, though.
“I am happy for you,” Noor said at last, her eyes still on the gates. There was no sarcasm in her voice, but Le Bec glowered at her anyway.
I butted in, hoping to defuse the tension. “So why pigeons, Le Bec? Why not penguins? Or parrots?”
He turned to me, pleased by my attention. “A pigeon islike an artist. Dirty, unappreciated, small, always with its eyes down searching for crumbs. It is not pleasant to feel like this, so one day I decided to make a pigeon that was big and strong and did not need crumbs from anyone. People liked it, so I made more. And now I do not have to eat the crumbs that others drop.” He smiled at me and Nick and threw a glance at Noor. “You should come to see my wall. I am inviting all of you.”
“Great,” Nick said. I nodded.
“I am sorry; it is not possible for me,” Noor said. “I will be working.”
Le Bec rolled his eyes. “Drawing portraits of idiot tourists on the Pont des Arts? Wasting your skills?”
She shrugged. “I am not wasting my skills; I am adding to them. And earning money.Ido not have to steal my supplies.”
He shrugged, like,stealing, schmealing, as my phone barked with my curfew alarm.
“Whoops,” I said. “I have to leave now, or I’ll turn into a pumpkin, and I won’t ever see Nick again. Which would be tragic.” I grinned at him, warm and loose and happy.
“It would indeed, mademoiselle.” He smiled, and we both stood up.
Le Bec grabbed my hand. “No, you must stay longer.”
“Alas, we can’t,” I said, pulling out of his grasp. But of course we couldn’t just leave; we had to do our farewells, kiss-kiss-kissing our way around the tables. Le Bec lingered so long as he kissed my cheek that I pulled away, giggling uncomfortably. “Okay, bye,” I said, stumbling against Nick, who slipped his arm around me as we left and kept me tuckedclose all the way to the Métro station. As we waited for the train, I said, “This is like a magic carpet ride.”
“This?” Nick’s gesture encompassed the sulfurous lighting, grimy tilework, and low-level hum of despair surrounding us.
