A Nearly Perfect Copy Read Online Free Page A

was supposed to see. Then Relay turned and pointed at an equally large charcoal drawing by Renoir, a study for
Luncheon of the Boating Party
. The table was more prominent in this sketch; it covered about 60 percent of the paper’s surface, and the “lens” was bigger, showing the table legs and feet wound around them, complete with two more Yorkshire terriers tearing at a piece of bread. A young woman who didn’t appear in the finished painting sat next to Aline Charigot, looking overwhelmed by the spectacle. In the back stood a boy whose features, blurred though they were by the wide swath of the charcoal, coalesced unmistakably into Ronan’s face. The same nose Elm had, Colin’s curly hair, the slight build, the insouciant posing. Elm gasped.
    “I know,” Relay said. “It’s beautiful, right?”
    Elm nodded her head and forced back the lump in her throat that threatened to explode into tears.
    “This is really their best piece. Very few of his sketches are still in existence. I heard he liked to burn them once the painting was complete. He felt they took the mystery out of the final product.”
    Relay took her into the bedroom and showed her the Joan Mitchell triptych and Chihuli vase that stood proudly in the corner, hovering near a pair of embroidered Louis XIV chairs. Elm made all the admiring sounds she knew were appropriate to the situation, but she was still thinking about the Renoir. She was always picking Ronan out of crowds, and Colin or Ian would tell her she was imagining things. Yes, it was a boy with curly brown hair, but, really, he looked nothing like Ronan. He was obviously part Asian, or his lips were too full. She persisted, though. It gave her comfort to imagine him walking down New York streets, or little parts of him finding their way into other children.
    Relay opened another door, which revealed a marble bathroom. Between the his-and-hers mirrors was an oil portrait of a Rhodesian Ridgeback. The dog was sitting stiffly in front of the Chihuli in the bedroom, head tilted quizzically at the viewer. It was a very realistic portrait, and completely devoid of any artistry whatsoever. Representational, not imaginative.
    Relay said, “So many of my clients are into pet portraits these days. I have this woman on the Upper East Side who can paint from photographs if she has to. She met Dishoo before he died, though. Isn’t he adorable?”
    Elm opened her mouth to say something noncommittally positive. She wondered if Colin was looking for her. They’d been gone awhile. Her empty wineglass was warm in her hand.
    “They loved this dog. In fact, I was talking to Ellen and they are thinking of having him cloned.”
    “What?” asked Elm. She was tired. “Cloned, like in bronze?”
    “No, actually cloned.”
    “We’re looking into the possibility, Relay. Don’t tell tales out of school.” Ellen stood in the doorway, silhouetted in black against the frame like a cameo.
    Relay didn’t look remotely embarrassed. “Devotion like yours to a pet is rare.”
    “Dishoo was a special dog.” Ellen walked between the women to air-kiss the portrait. “So smart. Once, when the neighbor’s apartment was on fire, and for some reason the smoke alarm didn’t go off, he barkeduntil we woke up and were able to call the fire department. On 9/11 I had to sneak past the barricades to get him out. We loved him so much.”
    “Was he old?” Elm managed to ask.
    “Heart gave out. We had him put to sleep. A kindness we can’t give humans, but at least Dish died painlessly in my arms. This portrait was painted a few years ago, when he was in his prime. And now, thanks to the miracles of modern science, we may have him back.”
    “You can’t be serious,” Elm said. “Isn’t that illegal?”
    “Not in Europe!” Ellen said brightly. Then her face hardened, and Elm could tell she was just remembering that someone had told her that Elm’s son had died. Elm knew this look on people’s faces, when they