Pontoise, France, 1898. Summer.
The rain north of Paris has a feeble air in this sultry suburb. She might as well be making macaroons for money rather than spying for the Northwest Arts Alliance. No one is here. No one is here! They've all gone to open fields & laser light shows at the Stadium. She remembers she's a volunteer, lights another lollipop, & waits. She has two baquettes & a six-pack of brew. She can make it through the day.
Wait! Who enters the old painter's home? Why are they dressed all in black in this hot French été? This is only the third visitor he's had in a week. The first was the heiress, who left in tears. The second was a Chinese food delivery boy, who left in a wagon. The two "men in black" are entering in a haste. She wishes she had one of those things that they have in submarines - you know, those things kind of like a telescope, except it enables you to look over things, or under things, because they're got mirrors - merde, what do they call those? - you know, you can peek around corners, they advertise them in the back of comics & stuff like that - why can't I fucking remember?
Then there's a shout! She moves furtively down the empty street for a better vantage point. A sleeping dog on the sidewalk looks up at her with soggy interest. She returns the stare. The dog looks away, vaguely ashamed. She curses the animal for its disinterest. Then there's another shout! She wonders what it's all about! She scootches as closely to the front of Pissarro's building as she can, & peer through the crack.
The old painter, with globs of paint embarrassingly stuck in his beard in such a way that it looks like he's wearing some kind of beads or something, sits in a creaky lawnchair & waves a paintbrush in the two mens' faces. They are as stone, unmoved, patiently letting him scream at them & then, when he slumps exhaustedly, talking to him in low tones, scolding almost, like the great artist is a lowly employee who's getting a dressing down.
She hears one fragment: "You wouldn't want to let what happened to Van Gogh happen to you, would you?"
"Periscope!" she screams excitedly. The two men turn almost robotically, one moving into the courtyard as if to a different entrance, the other toward the front.
The street outside is as empty as they remember it, although the transvestite with the bread on the corner is gone. There's a scrawny dog sprawled on the street between them, as the one comes around the corner. They return to Pissarro's house, but one of the men in black, as if to make sure everything is all right, kicks the dog & makes it run away before again closing the gates to the old painter's home.
