Away for the Weekend

the history of the cosmetics industry. “I really don’t think—”

“A very large part of the culture of this country has to do with what American business created in the twentieth century,” continues Gabriela. “Mass production. The industrialization of everything. Fast food. Where would we be without McDonald’s or Henry Ford, Professor Gryck? Ask yourself that.”

Professor Gryck is now annoyed as well as surprised. “Ms Beeby, if you don’t mind, I really don’t thin—”

“They changed the whole world, Professor Gryck. And Max Factor is part of that. I mean, we drove past that old church—”

“Nuestra Señora Reina de los Angeles.” Professor Gryck’s voice sounds like something being chopped. “The historic site of the original pueblo.”

Remedios grunts to herself. That’s exactly what she means about inaccurate and blind. There were people here before the Europeans, you know, thinks Remedios with a certain amount of darkness. Luckless Lucifer but this woman is irritating as well as dull.

Gabriela is shaking her head. Sadly. “You’re not telling me that’s more culturally important than creating a billion-dollar indust—

“Oh, look!” cries the professor with unconcealed relief. “Here we are! This is one of the greatest museums in the country!” She pops to her feet like a Jack-in-the-box. “Don’t anyone leave his or her seat until the bus comes to a complete stop.”

“Somebody email Dante and tell him we’ve found a new circle of Hell,” mutters Delila.

Professor Gryck, who considers herself as knowledgeable about the art world as about Norse sagas, leads the way once again. The twenty contestants, one angel and Mr Solman follow. Most of the contestants surreptitiously play on their phones or send each other texts, but as they did at the first two museums they visited, Esmeralda, Jayne and Aricely cluster around Professor Gryck as if she’s the mother hen and they’re the baby chicks. They talk in clear, serious voices, giving their opinions as though when they’re not committing the whole of world literature to memory they’re boning up on world art.

The group stops in front of a painting of two men and a dog standing under a tree.

“Look at that brushwork,” says Aricely.

“It’s his palette that’s so special,” says Esmeralda.

“What an interesting use of shadows,” says Jayne.

“I have data-overload. I need a break,” Delila whispers to Gabriela. “I’m going to the ladies. Pay attention so you can tell me if I miss anything really interesting.”

Gabriela stands behind the others, feeling as though she may fall asleep on her feet, and thinking about how much she hates museums. She might as well have spent the morning looking at blank walls. She felt nothing for the combs and clips that once styled some long-ago woman’s hair. Nothing for the jewellery that was once worn by girls not all that dissimilar to her. She didn’t look at the statues or pictures and think, That person was once alive just like I am – and had hopes and dreams and disappointments and problems just like I do. (Though probably not the problem she has today.) Now, as she listens to the background gabble of Professor Gryck, the Bad, the Boring and the Real Pain in the Neck, and waits for Delila to come back, it’s all she can do not to sob out loud. Surely there is more even to Beth’s life than this.

“I couldn’t agree more,” says a voice Gabriela has never heard before. “I mean, museums are like zoos for objects, aren’t they? There’s no blood. There’s no life. There’s no context.” Remedios snaps her fingers. “They’re worse than zoos; they’re more like mausoleums where the bodies have been buried alive.”

Gabriela turns around, about to ask how a stranger can know what she’s thinking, but the sight of this stranger shoves the question from her mind. Behind her is a blue-haired girl – possibly her age, possibly a little older, even possibly a lot older, it’s kind of hard to tell – wearing rolled-hem tweed shorts, a linen shirt and multi- belted vintage motorcycle boots with a strip of red down the back. She carries a saddlebag instead of a pocketbook. Her only jewellery is a heart-shaped moonstone in a silver setting on a silver chain. Gabriela can tell that the girl mixes her own make-up – not even her eye shadow is a commercial shade. And those have to be contacts; nobody has violet eyes like that. But the clothes and the eyes aren’t what really catch Gabriela’s interest. There’s something about this girl – something indefinable, but so strong you can almost smell it – that surrounds her like an aura. Though that isn’t how Gabriela puts it to herself, of course. What Gabriela thinks is, Wow! This girl is really awesome. If you could bottle her, she’d make the most amazing perfume!

“I mean, just think about it.” The girl smiles; the air around her seems almost to glow. Those can’t be her teeth, either. And God knows what she uses on her skin. “An artist or a craftsman pours heart and soul and passion into creating something unique and beautiful—”

Thinking of the futility of life as represented by the pickled pig, Gabriela clears her throat.

“I’m not talking about the pig,” says Remedios, who has more than one complaint about this morning. “I’m talking about something unique and beautiful. Something that speaks through time like the voice of Life itself, saying – shouting – ‘I am here!’ and ‘We are here!’ and ‘Let the songs of our souls be heard in Heaven!’ And then what happens? It gets stuck on a wall or in a cabinet, and all these people trudge past like they’re looking at postage stamps, while they think about how their feet hurt or where they’re going next.”

“Are you a tour guide?” asks Gabriela. Though it does seem unlikely – she’s never heard a tour guide talk about singing souls or the voice of Life.

“Do I look like a tour guide?”

“No. You look like a model. Or a designer.”

“Oh. Really?” Remedios tilts her head to one side, as though a new and sudden thought has just occurred to her. “Are you interested in clothes?”

Gabriela looks around to make sure Professor Gryck isn’t looming behind her, and lowers her voice. “Well, yeah. As a matter of fact I am.”

Remedios grabs her arm. “Come on. You have to take a look at this.”

In a separate alcove off the room where Professor Gryck is reeling off dates and lifeless details is the portrait of a young woman. The light, though subtle, makes her look alive, as if her eyes might blink; as if her skin is warm. There’s a window behind her, looking out on a churning sea. The young woman’s blonde hair is intricately twisted and braided, held up by finely carved pins. She wears a shawl loosely draped over her shoulders and a finely patterned burgundy-coloured dress – whatever hangs from the silver chain round her neck is lost in its bodice. Her hands are folded in front of her and her eyes are looking straight at you, missing nothing; her smile suggests that she knows something you don’t. She is almost hypnotically serene. Gabriela steps closer. All morning she’s been looking at pictures and sculptures and busts, but it is only now that she actually sees what she’s looking at – and suddenly understands what her new friend means about the voice of Life and being heard in Heaven.

And for the first time she thinks: This girl was real – is real. Really walked down streets; laughed and cried; saw the same sky and moon and stars that Gabriela sees; watched leaves drift to the ground and spring petals fall like snow; had things she longed for and things she feared. Just like Gabriela. Who also now realizes how alone she often feels. She stares at the face staring back at her. She can imagine her getting up in the morning and deciding what to wear. Imagine her washing. Fixing her hair. Smoothing out her skirt. Choosing a pair of shoes. She wonders what she’s thinking. Where she’s going next. What she and the painter talk about as she sits there, looking at Gabriela across the centuries. And for an instant, Gabriela has the sensation that if she tried just a little harder she could hear what the young woman has to say.

“Those were awful times,” says Remedios. “He would’ve been burnt alive for heresy if it hadn’t been for her.”

Gabriela doesn’t move her eyes from the picture. “Who?”

“Ra— the artist.” Remedios sighs. “He fell in love with her, of course.” She sighs again. “It was a love that could never be, and he knew it. He was lucky to be alive – to be able to fall in love. You can see that in the intensity of the colours and in the details – the ring… the flower… the cat asleep at her feet. And the dress. He had the dress made especially for her. Designed it himself.”

“It’s beautiful.” Gabriela moves a little nearer. The style is as dated as the pyramids, but the material… What an evening gown that material would make. What a showstopper. What a masterpiece. “Is that brocade?”

“No, it’s embroidered.”

“That’s impossible.” Gabriela gives a little laugh. “It can’t be.”

“Oh, but it is. Look. That’s not a weave. Look at how delicate the work is. And the colour’s slightly off. The