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to find Lise and her husband laughing with a dark-haired woman in a print wrap-around dress.
    He handed the couple their drinks. “What would you like?” he asked the woman. Her features were sharp but attractive; she wore the kind of makeup that looked as though she wasn’t wearing any makeup at all, an unseasonal glow.
    “Are you the waiter?” she asked.
    Gabriel blushed, and Lise introduced them. “This is Colette; she’s at Tinsley’s, you know, the famous auction house. Gabi was one of the best in our class.”
    It was interesting how living for so long in a foreign country had changed Gabriel. If they were conversing in his own language, he might have made a joke or asked a question about her job. But in French, while he could come up with the words, he would probably mangle the grammar. Anything he said would invite a question about his origins, or at least a confused smile while the person parsed his accent. So he said only, “Hello,” kissing her on both cheeks.
    Colette smiled, which made her nose crinkle upward fetchingly. She was darker than a typical Frenchwoman, with curly brown hair she’d pinned back into an unruly chignon.
    Marie-Laure, another classmate with whom Gabriel shared studio space, approached Lise and gave her a hug. The women squealed in excitement to see each other, which left Gabriel and Colette standing awkwardly together. Gio was typing rapidly on his phone.
    “So,” Colette said. “You know Lise from the École?”
    Gabriel nodded.
    The woman stood as if she were smoking, her left hand across her body, her right hand held up in a peace sign, an imaginary cigarette between her fingers.
    Gabriel struggled to think of something to say. “You work at Tinsley’s,” he finally sputtered. “What is your job?”
    “Oh, it’s mostly clerical, though, you know, I went to school in conservation and connoisseurship. We are merely an outpost of the New York house, arranging for European transportation and acquisition.”
    “Old art?” Gabriel said. It was a question, though he didn’t phrase it with the long French interrogative.
    “Mostly. Some contemporary, if it’s well-known, though, you know most of the interesting stuff is coming out of developing countries, or America, not Europe so much. And so much is undisplayable junk, video, or ephemera.”
    Gabriel nodded. He had been a video artist, once upon a time. Colette looked bored. He could see her eyes darting around the crowd.
    Lise and Marie-Laure rescued him. “It’s like an École reunion!” Lise exclaimed.
    “Because we’re all hoping to meet de Treu,” Marie-Laure said. She was dressed like a little girl, in knee socks and a pleated skirt.
    “Or Cosimo de’ Medici,” Gabriel interjected. It came out more glumly than he’d planned, and as he said it he realized he was looking at Giancarlo.
    Lise narrowed her eyes and took her husband’s arm. “Well, I say, good for Didi.” She raised her glass.
    “To Didi,” Marie-Laure echoed. Gabriel drained his glass. He was on his way to being very drunk.
    “Colette, did Gabi tell you that he is a descendant of Connois?”
    “No.” Colette turned to him with renewed interest.
    “Yes,” Lise said. “He does fantastic imitations. Colette is a specialist in Impressionist painting. You’ve handled some Connoises, right?”
    Colette nodded. “How fascinating.”
    Didier came upon the group and kissed everyone on both cheeks. “Thank you so much for coming,” he said earnestly. He was sweating in his tuxedo jacket. “I really—it means so much to me.” Gabriel wasn’t sure if it was the lights or if Didier’s eyes were moist. For some reason, perhaps because of nervousness, this tearing struck Gabriel as irresistibly funny. Involuntarily, he giggled, and an embarrassed silence descended on the group, graver for the noise around them.
    “Well,” Lise said. “We have to pay the babysitter, so …”
    Everyone repeated the kisses to say good-bye, and