The students cheered. Or, more accurately, jeered.
She’d show them. “In return, you can come to my class and spend a day as an illustrator.”
Mr. Zakarian rubbed his mustache with his hand in what she suspected was an effort to hide his amused surprise. “Very well. We’ll see who is the better artist then.”
“We certainly will.”
“What will be the wager?”
The answer came to her in a flash: a way to make up for the dismal evening, even if it meant laying bare her vulnerability before everyone. “If I win, you must speak with Mr. Lorette and convince him to keep me on next term.”
“Do you think I have that kind of pull?”
“I do.”
“Very well, then.” He paused. “And if I win, I get the opportunity to paint you.”
Someone let out a low whistle. She ignored it, as well as the insinuation of his wanting her to be his model. Everyone knew what he meant, and she noticed the muscles in Nadine’s neck twitch.
She nodded. “Very well.”
Out on the sidewalk, Clara took a moment to get her bearings. Even this late at night, the narrow Greenwich Village street was punctuated with people who seemed to be in no rush to get home. A couple linked at the arms brushed by her as if she wasn’t even there, the woman laughing loudly at something the man said. She watched them walk away, their movements slightly off, as if they were walking on a ship’s deck, a sure sign that they’d visited one of the many speakeasies tucked under stoops and in back courtyards.
The door to the restaurant opened, and Mr. Zakarian flew out, followed closely by Nadine.
“You’re leaving?” Nadine’s voice was short and sharp, a recrimination.
Mr. Zakarian threw Clara an apologetic look and held up one finger before turning back to the girl.
If God created a woman who was the exact opposite of Clara, Nadine would be the result. Short, with a stocky build, full bosom, and thick black hair, she was of the ground, of the earth, in spite of her fashionable clothes and well-bred airs.
Nadine put her hands on her hips and glowered up at Mr. Zakarian. “You’re going with her?”
“I’m planning on discussing the school with another faculty member. You don’t need to be jealous.”
Clara had no desire to get involved in the drama of a lecherous teacher and his needy student. “I don’t need an escort home, thank you very much.”
She headed east at a good clip.
Only ten seconds passed before she heard Mr. Zakarian’s footsteps. He pulled up beside her as she reached the next intersection. “Sorry about that. But I did want to speak with you further. First, I want to apologize for putting you on the spot like that.”
“I rather enjoy watching spoiled young artists declare their manifestos. If only we could all meet again in three years when they realize what a pointless enterprise it was and that the time would have been better spent in the studio, Mr. Zakarian.”
“Please, call me Levon.” His dark eyes sparkled in the lamplight. “I agree. Although I admit that I do my share of declaring. Isn’t it a good idea to have a sense of what you want to accomplish?”
She stopped walking. “I have had a very long day, and the last thing I wish to do is continue on with that ridiculous conversation. We have drawn our lines in the sand, and I look forward to taking your class. But for now, I must get home and finish up my commissions so that I can afford to buy more paint.”
He joined her again, loping along like a Saint Bernard. “Just take it from the teachers’ supply closet. They’ll never know. I do it all the time.”
She could only imagine the glee in Mr. Lorette’s eyes, catching her with a satchel full of purloined paints. “Mr. Lorette may give you that liberty, but he wouldn’t do the same for me. You really ought to go back to your audience.”
“Nah, they’re probably still torturing Sebastian.” They fell into step together. Like her, he took long strides. “I have students who love me and those who hate me, but the past few years teaching, I’ve earned my audience. I suspect you’ll have your own group of fawning students before the semester is out. Part of the job.”
“Speaking of fawns, how old is Nadine?”
He had the decency to look abashed. “Just turned nineteen.”
“And how old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
She’d figured he was over thirty. “Oh. So am I.” Her assessment of his talents reordered themselves. At twenty-five, he was still new on the scene. The show earlier this evening was probably as important to him as it was to her. “Did you get any interest tonight?”
“Who knows? Who cares?” His voice rose, the questions quivering in the cold night air. He did care.
She refused to soften. “What are your ambitions, then, if you don’t care?”
“To change the way people look at the world.”
She tried not to laugh, but he caught her smirking.
“Don’t make fun of me. I bet you feel the same way.” He carried on. “But your idea of changing the world is to have someone buy a product. A dress or a hat or a can of soup, no?”
His naivety rankled her. “You’d like them to buy your painting. Is that any different?”
“Of course it is. Because they will buy their soup and take it home and eat it, while my work will hang on their walls and give them joy for years.”
“Or no one will buy it, and it’ll languish in your studio. Because there are a hundred other artists who are trying to do what you do.”
He stopped walking. “What is it that I do?”
“Draw like Picasso.” She couldn’t help herself. The works she’d seen on the walls of the Grand Central Art Galleries signed by Levon Zakarian were far too similar to those of the Spanish genius.
“Why not? He’s the greatest painter of our time. What is wrong with paying homage to him?”
“Nothing at all. But if someone wants a Picasso, they can buy one.” She waited for a retort, but none came.
“I want to show you something.”
“Now?”
“Yes. My studio isn’t far from here. Right off Union Square. Will you come with me?”
She studied him. Levon was almost giddy, like a child on Christmas Eve, but he wasn’t attracted to her; she was sure of that. Aside from her brief frisson with Oliver earlier that evening, most men weren’t, and it didn’t bother her much now that she was away from her mother’s heaving sighs of disappointment. In this case, it was a relief, as she was curious to see his studio, and the wager to paint her, while bold, was probably the best he could come up with under the circumstances.
Levon led her into a building on the north side of Sixteenth Street. They trudged up several sets of stairs and down a long, dark hallway to the door at the very end. Levon’s studio, to her shock, was as clean as a hospital. The parquet floor had been newly scrubbed. Two massive easels stood in the middle of the floor, the center of attention, while jars of brushes and paint cans lined a windowsill like a row of inert spectators. A bank of leaded windows slanted down on the north side, where a daybed and a large dining room table had been shoved aside, the furniture merely an afterthought.
Clara shrugged off her coat and wandered over to a bookshelf near the fireplace, trying not to appear too impressed. Levon had obviously done well to be able to afford such a massive studio. He was probably subsidizing his salary from the art school with private lessons. How easy it was for him, to have come to New York and found respect, a steady income, and an enormous place to work.