Franco shrugged. “I find my work rather tiring, that’s all. It doesn’t leave me enough time for private pleasure, mia cara.”
Marie groaned. “Must you say that? I already feel guilty that I’m out and about so much. My sister would say that I am being flighty! I really ought to spend an evening with Ruth and Steven.” She sighed. “But whenever I’ve made up my mind to do just that, either Pandora or Sherlain drops by and suggests something that sounds tremendously exciting! And then I just can’t say no. It’s just so exhilarating meeting all these artists and talking to them! I would never in my wildest dreams have imagined that little Marie Steinmann from Lauscha would end up sitting in the artists’ cafés of New York City discussing Expressionism! And now here I am sitting with you . . .”
Her heart almost burst with the love she felt for this man.
“Do you have to mention me in the same breath with all those crazies?” he grumbled. “I don’t like the idea of you spending so much time in Greenwich Village. I worry that something might happen to you . . .”
“Whatever could happen to me there?” she asked, laughing. She knew that Franco simply found the artists’ quarter too strange. It wasn’t a neighborhood with just one smell or just one sort of people, like Little Italy or Chinatown. Voices speaking English, Yiddish, Russian, and German filled the air, and the whole neighborhood was crowded and shabby. But she found it easy to find her way around. She made an effort to sound reassuring.
“It’s not called the Village for nothing, you know. Everyone knows everyone else, so I feel much happier and more comfortable there than I do in Ruth’s apartment building. All those huge yawning lobbies and the long, lonely corridors!”
When he didn’t answer, she added, “Besides which, you know quite well why I spend so much of my time with artists.” She frowned. “Oh, Franco—whatever is wrong with me? I’ve never been so happy in my life as I am now—but why can’t I put the feeling down on my sketchpad?”
“Don’t be sad, mia cara. I can’t bear to see you unhappy.” He leaned across the table toward her. “Your friends drag you from one diversion to the next as though you were a convalescent. As though you had something wrong with your head, and your hands!”
His remark made her smile slightly.
“Pandora behaves as though she were in charge of your treatment, but you’re not sick! When I think of that ‘free speech evening’ she made us go to last week—I still have no idea what that was supposed to be about.” He rolled his eyes. “They switched topics so fast it was like watching a mountain goat leap from one cliff to the next. Women’s emancipation, the revolution in Russia, Tolstoy, free love . . .”
“What do you have against free love?” Marie replied, smiling again. She reached out and brushed aside a lock of hair that clung to his forehead. She didn’t want to argue with Franco.
“And then that excursion the week before with the photographer, Harrison—I still haven’t forgiven Pandora for that,” Franco said, clenching his fist.
“But why ever not? Don’t you think it’s interesting to see the dark side of the city once in a while? Not spend all our time living among the bright lights?”
“The dark side of the city? I don’t need some high-minded photographer to show me that. And those dreadful pictures he takes! Do you really think that people who already live crammed together like animals in cages enjoy having him come to take their photograph? All that talk about artistic value—he’s just using these poor people’s misery to make money!” Franco was angry. He flapped his hands to shoo away a wheedling seagull that was trying to perch on the edge of their table. “You had nightmares for days after our trip to the slums. Are you going to tell me that’s artistically valuable as well?”
“I won’t forget seeing those poor people, not as long as I live,” Marie said, looking away from his fierce, dark gaze. She didn’t want to talk about it anymore, but she felt as if she had to explain. “Harrison says that men and women created those slums, so men and women must be the ones to do away with them! I do so hope that it happens.”
“This Harrison takes himself mighty seriously—they all do. Everyone in that crowd thinks they’re so important!” Franco said savagely.
“But isn’t it good when people want to change things?”
“But what are they changing, mia cara? They sit there in their discussion groups, and the world keeps turning outside the door. Faster and faster. And none of them even notice!”