But, would it? Who was to say that he and his family would receive a warm reception anywhere else? The styles and techniques that he was experimenting with would be just as strange and, perhaps, unwelcome in France right now as they were here in Germany. Leaving would, in effect, mean accepting defeat. And that would make the historians right to have discarded him on that ash heap of history, as the up-timers sometimes liked to say. What kind of message would it send to his son, who was happy and comfortable in his new life in Grantville, and who was beginning to show some artistic talent of his own?
I will not apologize for my art. And yet. .
"Okay, Frau Rice," he said finally, "I will go to the station. And I will try to make them understand."
"And you will apologize?"
"Ja," he said, sighing heavily. "Ja."
Nina had helped Daniel wrap the painting in his drape and pin it securely to the stretchers. He'd considered taking his wife, Sofia, with him, but thought it might make him appear to need her protection-and he couldn't stand the thought of her hearing some of the things Barnes was saying about him. So, at Ella Lou's insistence, Clyde walked over with him. "For your protection," Ella Lou said, and Daniel knew it was true. If she was sending Clyde along to make sure he really went, she'd have said so. Though Daniel wondered if she might still have her doubts.
They walked in silence for a few minutes before Clyde said, "You sure you don't want me to call up a lawyer to go with you?"
"No," Daniel said. "I can speak for myself. I will explain, and they will understand."
Clyde replied with a doubtful, "Hmph."
"You don't think. . is it possible I could be charged with a crime?"
"Aw, I don't know." Clyde kicked a small rock off the sidewalk, scowling at it.
"Your mother, she is very angry with me?"
Clyde nodded.
"Even my wife. . she has always supported me, but the painting is not to her liking either."
"Well, it's not what folks are used to."
"What's the use of a painting that looks like every other painting?"
Clyde shrugged and shook his head, and both men were silent for a long time. It was an uncomfortable silence that had Daniel looking around anxiously, wishing he were anywhere else. But there was really nothing more to talk about, and this was not the time or the place for casual conversation. So he kept silent until they reached the station.
Once they arrived, Clyde settled onto one of the chairs in the waiting room while Daniel announced himself to the watch sergeant.
Before Clyde was finished telling Daniel again to come get him if he thought he needed a lawyer, Sergeant Tipton entered the waiting room.
Tipton's gaze turned immediately to the painting Daniel carried. "That it?"
"Yes. I will show it to you, and then I would like to explain."
A few minutes later, Daniel stood in the back of a room with a handful of people clustered around the painting: Tipton, one of the down-time sergeants, another officer that Daniel didn't recognize, and Vera Mae Markins, the department's clerk. Their comments ranged from "What the hell?" to "That's just disgusting," to Vera Mae's timid, "I kinda like it."
The others turned and stared at her. "Well," she said, "the colors are pretty. And the way the girl looks vulnerable but also. . sort of powerful. You know?"
Daniel beamed at her. She was the first person to see even a hint of what he'd tried to portray.
The officer, whose nametag read "Schultz," hissed and said, "It's the ugliest thing I've ever seen. It doesn't even look like a real woman." Schultz sneered at Daniel. "You have seen a woman before, haven't you? A real one?"
"Thank you for the art critique, Schultz," Tipton said, and herded them all out of the room. He sighed and turned back to the painting.
"What was the purpose of that?" Daniel said.
"I'm trying to understand what I'm looking at."
Daniel started to explain his vision and his technique, but Tipton held his hand up. "Look, no offense, Block, but I want an assessment from. . well, I guess from someone who isn't you, but who knows something about art."
"Oh, yes," Daniel said. "Of course. You should speak with Elaine O'Meara. She has taught me much about the history of art from your time."
"She's seen this painting?"
"No. You see, it wasn't finished."
"Perfect," Tipton said. "Have a seat, this won't take long."
Daniel waited while Tipton spoke to Elaine on the phone, and then with the watch sergeant, who'd stopped to inform him that Barnes was there. He told the sergeant to have Barnes bring his daughter in. "I think we ought to hear from everyone on this, don't you?" he said to Daniel, clearly not expecting an answer. He offered Daniel some coffee and then said he'd be back shortly, leaving Daniel to wait in silence, staring at his torn, ruined painting.
He found himself questioning many of his choices-tints, brush strokes, the placement of the girl's arm, the precise lines of the monster reaching up toward her. But still, he found that he believed in the painting. Believed that it was good-perhaps even great. It pained him more than he would have imagined that no one else could see what he saw in it.
Soon, Tipton was ushering Elaine into the room, who came in bearing two heavy books that he recognized immediately. They were "coffee table books," she called them, containing a huge number of colorful images of up-time art. He found himself staring at them as she set them on the table. Even after handling them for months, the books still enchanted him with the secrets and the beauty they held.
"Now, Block," Tipton said, breaking Daniel free of his trance, "not a word."
Daniel nodded and turned to watch Elaine as she examined the painting. She was silent for several minutes, and Daniel became ever more nervous. At least she wasn't expressing horror or disgust, but if she didn't like it. .
Finally, she turned to Tipton. "Sergeant, what is it that you want from me?"
"Some kind of, ah, assessment of its artistic merits?"
She frowned. "I thought Warner was claiming some kind of inappropriate behavior. Which is absurd, I might add."
"Well, yes," Tipton said. "But. . to be frank, I think he's just mad about the painting being so. . unusual. And, well, there's the nudity."
Elaine rolled her eyes. "The nudity? I admit she's on the young side by our standards, but nudes are extremely common in art-of our time as well as theirs. And this isn't exactly Playboy."
"Playboy?" Daniel said.
Tipton and Elaine exchanged smiles.
"Never mind," Elaine said. "Here, let me. ." She began flipping through the books, stopping now and then to show Tipton a picture of a painting. Picasso for the girl, Monet and Van Gogh for the brush strokes, Cezanne and Gaugin for some of the colors, and a few others she thought seemed similar. "You see what he's done? All these different styles that won't be developed for maybe two or three hundred years, some of them-he's blended them together in this seamless way. And the result? Well," she paused and looked apologetically at Daniel, "to be honest, I can't stand Picasso, but setting that aside, it's impossible to deny that the painting is quite magnificent. It represents an enormous and important development in art for this new timeline." She reached out and very gently touched the frayed edges of the torn canvas. "Such a tragedy!"
Daniel felt an enormous wave of relief wash over him. His painting was truly good. Elaine would not lie about something like this; she genuinely believed it was good-no, better!Important. Worthy, perhaps, of note by history. If only it hadn't been destroyed. But, perhaps now, there might be more. Much more.
Tipton started to speak again, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. Mikayla Barnes was there, and her father was demanding to be heard. Tipton winced, but told the officer to send them in.