“Yes, just a little tired. My landlords got into a rousing fight early this morning. I didn’t get much sleep.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” He blinked a couple of times, as if he wanted to say something more, before going back to the clay study. The silence of the studio, which usually lulled her into a kind of trance, instead haunted her today.
She put a hand to her head. The exhaustion of the past several months weighed down on her. “You know, I might take a break, if you don’t mind.”
Mr. Rossi dropped the tool on the table beside him with a loud clatter. “Very well.” He lit a cigarette but didn’t move from the spot, as if ready to begin again right away.
“Perhaps I could have a quick coffee?” she asked.
He didn’t answer but retreated to the small kitchenette in the back. All of the studios in the Lincoln Arcade featured the latest modern conveniences, drawing Greenwich Village artists and sculptors uptown in recent years, and creating a new Bohemia hailed as the “Sixty-Seventh Street Studio District.” Kitty had predicted the northward trend early and rented an apartment west of Broadway, which meant they were constantly running into potential employers, at the post office or the grocer’s. Lillian would have preferred a duplex at the recently constructed Hotel des Artistes building, with its high ceilings and gothic splendor, but Kitty had dismissed it as too expensive. With the way Lillian’s bank account had dropped precipitously over the past several months, she was grateful for the decision.
Then again, if they hadn’t been living in Mr. Watkins’s dumpy building, crowded in with all the other tenants, maybe her mother wouldn’t have gotten sick.
Mr. Rossi came back carrying two cups of coffee and handed her one. She stepped down from the model stand and reclined in a practiced move on one of several sofas that were scattered at odd angles around the space. She recognized the shabby pink one.
“You got that from Lukeman, right?”
Mr. Rossi studied it, confused. “I suppose. When I first set up here, I found a number of castoffs in the basement. Lukeman’s studio is two floors up, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“I posed on that sofa for Memory.” She waited for his reaction.
“Which is that one?”
For goodness’ sake. “The Titanic memorial? In memory of Ida and Isidor Straus?”
Mr. Rossi gave a vigorous nod. “Of course. I’ve heard of it but never seen it. I haven’t been here long, you see. There’s a lot of the city that I haven’t visited yet.”
She’d enjoyed modeling for Lukeman, even though the position had been a challenge, lying across the couch sideways, one leg dangling over the edge. Before they’d started, the sculptor and Kitty had talked about how important the memorial was, commemorating the wealthy couple who had died together on the Titanic after the wife gave up her seat in the lifeboat to her maid, choosing instead to die with her husband. They’d been last seen sitting on deck chairs together as the ship sank into the icy waters. The completed statue, Lukeman explained, would stare down at a reflecting pool, and as she posed, Lillian lost herself in imagining the joy of the couple’s love, the sadness of their terrible demise. The result was one of her finest portrayals, of which she was most proud.
And Mr. Rossi hadn’t even seen it.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “A true work of art.”
“Whenever you’re ready, I’d like to begin again.”
She’d only taken a couple of sips. “Do you mind if I finish my coffee first?”
“Look, Angelica. We’ve already taken two breaks.”
“What are you saying? That I’m stalling?” She had been, of course. Every fifteen minutes was another eighteen cents.
His mustache twitched as he crossed his arms.
He’d been warned. The other sculptors must have told him, after he’d already booked her for the job, that she was yesterday’s news, no longer the darling of Bohemia.
Maybe if he saw Memory, he’d soften and truly appreciate all that she’d accomplished. “I suggest, Mr. Rossi, if you have the time, that you take one morning off and view it. It’s not far uptown, on West End and 106th Street.”
“I don’t have time to take a morning off. I have to work, I have commissions to fulfill.”
“Oh, now, I’ve been working steadily for years, and trust me, you can always ask for more time. Artists are often accommodated by their patrons that way.”
“Right. I hear you’re an old hand. How many years have you been at this?”