Page 14 of One Year Ago in Spain
Looking at Claire huddled in the backseat, Aracely felt a pang of kinship. They were both women who were quite sufficient on their own and yet had enjoyed the security of being under Matías’s protective wing. They had also shared the role of letting Matías be the genius that he was, while helping to focus his energy.
And now they were rendered helpless. Nothing to do but wring their hands and pray.
Aracely looked away from the rearview mirror and reached over the gearshift for her other brother’s hand.
“It will be okay,” Luis said in English.
“How can you be sure?”
“You can’t,” Claire said from the backseat before she fell quiet again.
Matías
Eleven Months Ago
Matías paced thelength of the Rose Gallery over and over.
“Don’t worry,” Jason, the owner, said. “Your opening tonight will be a success. The RSVPs were excellent, and your work is incredible.”
Jason seemed confident. Not just his words, but also the way he stood, with shoulders back and relaxed, and his smile effortless. Part of Matías’s success as a painter stemmed from his ability to understand the minute details of the human form and what they meant—a small crease at the corner of the mouth, a slight flare of a nostril, a faint crescent bite mark on a knuckle. And what he read on Jason right now was tranquil confidence.
At least that’s one of us,Matías thought as he surveyed the wide-open space of the gallery. In just half an hour, the doors would open, and strangers would pour in to pass judgment on his work to the soundtrack of champagne bubbles and a Spanish band. He had held gallery showings before, of course, but the unfamiliar crowd had always been punctuated here and there by smiles from family members. The de León clan in Madrid was big and gregarious and unfailingly supportive, so not only would his mom, dad, sister, and brother be at every opening night, butalso hisabuelaand a dozen or more aunts, uncles, or cousins. Not to mention friends from art school.
But here in New York, Matías was…new. He was barely moved into his apartment—his only chair right now was an upturned paint bucket—and he had just this morning received the key to his faculty office at the New York Academy of Art. He knew no one, other than the professional contacts he’d been emailing before he arrived, the people in the university administration, and Jason here at the Rose Gallery. And no one knew Matías.
“Do you mind if I make a quick phone call?” he asked Jason.
“Of course not,” Jason said with a congenial wave of his hand. “I’ve got a few last-minute things to check on anyway before we open the doors.”
As Jason walked toward the front of the gallery where the band and caterers were setting up, Matías dialed his sister. It was the middle of the night, but Aracely would pick up. She knew how jittery he’d been leading up to this exhibition.
Aracely answered on the first ring. “Lo harás bien,” she said without preamble. You will do great.
“I’m sorry to call so late,” Matías said. It was comforting, slipping into Spanish.
“I am hardly asleep yet,” Aracely said. “I just finished dinner not too long ago.”
Matías smiled at the reminder of home. American dinnertimes had been a bit of a shock to him. In Spain, he didn’t sit down to eat until 10p.m., and it was almost always with either his friends or family, so the meal wouldn’t wrap up until half past eleven. In New York, a lot of restaurantsclosedat 10p.m., and the ones that closed at eleven made it clear they didn’t likecustomers walking in the door at what would have been a normal Spanish dinner hour.
“What does the gallery look like?” Aracely asked.
“I’ll send you a photo.” Matías snapped a pic of the closest wall, hung with two of his larger pieces. He sent that photo and another of the gallery’s front window to Aracely.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” she cooed. “Your New York skyline painting is so stunning. It will draw in passersby for sure.”
“Do you think anyone will buy anything tonight?” Matías asked, pacing again.
“I do,” Aracely said. “But it also doesn’t matter. Tonight is only the opening; it’s your entrance into the New York art world. People will get to know you, and even if they don’t buy tonight, your work is so impactful it will linger in their minds long after the party is over, and they will tell their friends, and more people will come to the gallery during regular hours, and you are going to be a star, Matías. So don’t worry. Tonight is not the end. Tonight is a beginning.”
“Tonight is a beginning,” he echoed.
“Yes,” Aracely said as she yawned. “I love you, and you are amazing, okay? Now go wow those Americans,hermanito.”
—
Two hours later,Matías’s dimples hurt from smiling so much, but it was a good problem to have. The attendance was, as Jason had promised, excellent, even if most of the guests didn’t quite understand Matías’s work.
“It’s so fun!” a woman in her fifties gushed to him while her ring of friends murmured in agreement.
