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the ancient pagan prophet’s esoteric teachings. Our library was full of books of ancient lore and magick mysticism and the forbidden. For my father it was also personal; he once told me that he believed his mother was something of a psychic, although she protested vociferously.
    At the end of the second week of my stay in Paris, Grand-mère changed the routine. When I came downstairs at ten, she was already dressed in her street clothes and preparing to leave. When I asked where she was going, she told me she was meeting an old friend who needed some advice and added she would be back in time for our lunch.
    Indeed she was, and since it was raining, we went to the Louvre.
    I had grown up in museums, but even compared to New York’s august Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Louvre was so large as to be almost overwhelming.
    “As with all wonderful things in life except jewels, it’s best to avoid gluttony when visiting here,” my grandmother said as we entered the ancient palace.
    “When we went to the Metropolitan, Papa and I would always pick one small section, take it in, absorb it, and then leave. He always said moderation makes for finer appreciation.”
    She smiled. “He learned that from me, mon ange .” But it was a sad smile, and I turned away so she wouldn’t see the tears that had sprung to my eyes. Her grief always triggered my own.
    We wandered through the Denon wing, on the first floor, heading to room thirteen. “One of my favorite paintings is here,” my grandmother said as we entered, and she headed to a relatively small-sized, brightly colored painting of a voluptuous nude female and muscular male.
    “This is Tiepolo’s marvelous Apollo and Daphne . It’s so lush and imaginative, don’t you think?” she asked.
    Before I could inspect it, I was distracted by two men in blue smocks, each standing at easels in front of a dark, muted painting.
    I inched closer. They were copying a complicated and disturbing tableau. I strained to see its name.
    THE WITCH OF ENDOR
    SALVATOR ROSA, 1668(?)
    Stepping back, I studied the original, eight-foot tall vision of horror. The central figure, according to the legend beside the painting, was the spirit of Samuel, called forth by the witch to speak to Saul, who had come to her for advice.
    Shrouded in a white hooded robe, the spirit was illuminated by a frenzied fire. Behind him his guards look stricken. And no wonder—the scene was filled with terrifying creatures, owls with supernaturally bright eyes, bloody horse heads, and bat-winged skeletons. The witch herself was a wrinkled old crone, repulsive and offensive. My reaction to her was one of anger, though I didn’t know why.
    As I turned to step back so I could examine the foreboding work from a greater distance, one of the painters caught my eye and smiled at me.
    “Impressive, isn’t it?” he asked.
    At that moment an older man came into the gallery.
    “Are you talking or painting, Gaston?” The man, who appeared to be in his sixties, had piercing brown eyes, and there was something very gentle about him. I watched as he stood behind Gaston’s canvas for a moment, inspecting the work. Then he pointed to the masterpiece on the wall.
    “Look at the life in that painting. The way Saul cowers. You can feel his fear of the specter and of the witch. That’s what you need to put into your effort. That fear. Have you ever seen a witch? A ghost? In the dark? At night? Been afraid?”
    My grandmother had come up beside me. Taking my arm, she walked me toward the exit of the salon. “I’m suddenly in great need of an espresso. There’s a lovely café here. Let’s go.”
    Before we crossed the threshold, I looked back at the painter and his teacher, still talking, the teacher gesturing to the painting on the wall. The student appeared to be listening with all of his soul. I could see how he was trying to soak up every bit of knowledge the teacher was offering. Something about the moment struck me and stayed