Kasidy reached the avenue, which intersected the lane at a right angle. She stopped and peered both ways down the wide pedestrian thoroughfare. The old-fashioned oil lamps lined both sides of the way here too, and large trees marched down the center. The yellow lamplight wavered across the leaves, making them appear to move, as though blown by a breeze. At random, Kasidy opted to turn to her left.
The first couple of shops she passed had already closed for the night, though their storefronts remained lighted. Kasidy only glanced at the wares displayed as she walked by, thinking that she would window-shop on her way back. The next shop was open, though, and she stopped to look inside. A pair of paintings stood on easels at either end of the front window, with several interesting bronzes and other sculptures on pedestals between them.
As she gazed at the artwork, the door of the shop opened. A tall Bajoran man emerged carrying a bag in his arms, probably containing something he had just purchased. While the man held the door open for a woman following him out, he looked over and saw Kasidy. “Pleasant evening,” he said with a smile. To her surprise, she saw no hint that he knew her identity.
Not quite as renowned as you thought,she joked to herself. “A pleasant evening to you,” she said to the man. His companion, also a Bajoran, stepped past him and out of the shop. The woman nodded and smiled at Kasidy, then did a rapid double take, obviously recognizing her.
“Excuse me,” the woman murmured, quickly looking away, apparently abashed by her own reaction. The woman linked her arm with the man’s and guided him down the avenue.
Now, that’s more like it,Kasidy thought, chuckling. She entered the shop, still amazed that she could cause such a response in people, but not feeling quite as tense now as she had just a few minutes ago. After all, the woman had been embarrassed at her blatantly visible recognition of the wife of the Emissary. After Kasidy’s experiences with so many well-meaning Bajorans appearing on her doorstep when she had first moved to Kendra Province, perhaps the locals had decided not only to protect her from such attention, but to make sure that they did nothing themselves to discomfit her.
Inside the well-lighted shop, paintings lined the walls, and sculptures sat displayed atop narrow tables in the middle of the room. “Now, you’re out late, dearie, aren’tcha?” came a loud, friendly voice. Kasidy looked around and saw a Bajoran woman, older and a bit stocky, waving to her from the rear of the shop.
“It’s a nice night for it, isn’t it?” Kasidy said. She walked over to the first table, on which stood two bronzes. Both were tall, each about half a meter high.
“That it is, dearie, that it is,” the woman agreed. “It’s gonna be a cold winter, so I’ll enjoy as many of these days as we can get.”
“Me too,” Kasidy said, tickled by the woman’s gregarious nature. “Is this your gallery?”
“That it is,” the woman said again.
Kasidy moved around the table, studying the sculptures. One depicted a robed Bajoran woman in mid-stride, her hands oddly crossed in front of her waist; the other showed a bare-chested Bajoran man leaning forward, struggling to haul something unseen, by ropes he held over his shoulders. Kasidy appreciated the technique of the two pieces, which seemed rough and kinetic, and yet also somehow graceful.
The robed woman, Kasidy decided, did not really appeal to her, although it took her a moment to determine why: despite being completely different in composition and material, the work reminded her too much of the jevonite figurine that Eivos had given her. While she remained grateful for the prylar’s thoughtfulness, the statuette’s tie to B’hala had come to bother her. She had not yet taken it down from the mantel in the front room, but she had begun to consider doing so. If City of B’halahad not been Ben’s favorite print, she would have thought about taking it down as well.
“Those are by Flanner Posh,” the shopkeeper called. “Only twenty-six years old. Lost his father in one of the camps.”
Kasidy glanced over at the woman and nodded, not really sure of the significance of the comments. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she offered.
“We’re all sorry,” the woman said, though without any animosity. “I just mention it ’cause what happens to a person informs their art.” Kasidy nodded again, not really paying much attention, but when she looked back at the sculptures, a story unfolded in her mind. The man—the artist’s father—worked to death by the Cardassians during the Occupation, made to plow fields in the high heat of summer; the woman, a cleric of some sort, also imprisoned in the camp, and somehow a source of strength for the boy—the future artist—allowing him to make it through. She had no idea whether any of that was even close to the truth, but the artwork had that quickly taken on new weight, new meaning, for her.
Kasidy roamed deeper into the gallery, peering at the paintings and the other sculptures, and occasionally exchanging remarks with the shopkeeper. Quite a few different artists were represented here, and Kasidy found that she really liked the work of several of them. As she reached the rear of the gallery, she asked the woman, “Did you do any of these?”
“Oh, my good word, no,” the woman said. “My contribution to the world of art isn’t as a sculptor or a painter; it’s as a critic.”
Kasidy laughed. “Me too,” she said. “I can’t draw a blade of grass.”
“But you know a good picture of one when you see it, don’tcha?”
“That I do, dearie,” Kasidy said, good-naturedly mimicking the woman’s way of speaking.
To Kasidy’s delight, the woman threw her head back and laughed heartily. “Ah, you’re a kidder, darlin’,” she said. “I like that.”
“Good,” Kasidy said, unable to keep from smiling. “Maybe you’ll give me a good deal on this painting then.” She gestured to her left, at a pointillist landscape.
“Everybody gets the same deal, dearie,” the woman told her, “but they’re all good ones.”
“I’m sure they are,” Kasidy said. “Actually, this piece…it’s not quite right for me, but I love the style.”
“That’s Galoren Sen’s work,” the woman said. “Really maturin’ these days. I like that one myself. Course, I like ’em all, otherwise they wouldn’t be hangin’ in my gallery.”
“Will you be getting in any more of his work?” Kasidy wanted to know.
“Well, lemme see…Sen’ll probably bring me more of his work…oh, in about two months, maybe three.”
“All right,” Kasidy said. “I’ll be sure to come back then.”
“I hope I’ll see you sooner than that,” the woman said. “I do have a pretty good turnover.”
“All right,” Kasidy said. “I’ll be back sooner.” And she meant it. This woman had put her at such ease. Even though people had recognized Kasidy tonight, the man leaving the gallery had not, and now neither had this shopkeeper. Plus, now that she thought about it, the two who had recognized her had treated her with common courtesy, but not with reverence; they had even seemed to try to avoid being reverential. Maybe the people of Adarak would allow Kasidy—maybe she would allow herself—to look beyond the place the Bajorans claimed for her in their culture. Somehow, in just a few minutes, this loud, genuine woman had brought Kasidy a lovely sense of calmness and acceptance. “You have a very pleasant evening,” she told the woman. Then she thought to ask, “By the way, what’s your name?”
“I’m Rozahn Kather,” she said. “But everybody calls me Kit.”
“Well it’s very nice to meet you, Kit. I’m Kasidy.”
“Of course you are, dearie,” Kit said, and she winked. Kasidy felt her own eyes widen as she realized that this woman had known who she was all along. She also felt sure that Kit had treated her no differently than she treated anybody else.
Kasidy left the gallery feeling more comfortable here on Bajor than she had since moving here. When two women passed her on the avenue, she offered them a big smile. “Pleasant evening,” she said. The women returned both the smile and the greeting.