Chapter 8 - Paris
Paris did not care about Margaret Vale.
That was one of the best things about it.
The traveling youth exhibition opened in a modern educational gallery near the Seine, not inside the Louvre as several American headlines mistakenly claimed.
Noah corrected everyone.
“It’s a partner program, not the Louvre.”
Elias was secretly proud of how irritated he became by inaccurate publicity.
His grandmother traveled with them.
She cried at the airport.
She cried at the hotel.
She cried when she saw “Still Standing.”
Noah handed her tissues before she asked.
“I prepared.”
She swatted his arm.
The exhibition included young artists from seven countries.
Noah met a thirteen-year-old from Spain who created miniature buildings from broken tiles, a ten-year-old from Japan who carved birds from reclaimed wood, and a French girl named Amélie who made ceramic hands.
For the first time, Noah’s work existed in a room where almost no one knew the viral video.
They asked different questions.
Why gold in the earlier repair?
Why are the figures not touching in the second piece?
Why does the child stand slightly forward?
Noah answered:
“Because standing beside someone is different from holding them up.”
Elias heard him say it and looked away before the emotion showed.
At the opening, an older museum educator named Benoît studied the sculpture.
“You made this after another piece?”
“Yes.”
“Was the first one unsuccessful?”
Noah thought.
“No.”
“Then why make another?”
“Because I changed.”
Benoît smiled.
“That is the best reason.”
Later that evening, Noah and Elias walked along the river.
“Do you miss Mom here?” Noah asked.
Elias was surprised.
“All the time.”
“I do too.”
They stopped near a bridge.
Noah leaned against the railing.
“I barely remember her voice.”
Elias felt the old pain.
“That happens.”
“Is that bad?”
“No.”
“I remember how she laughed, but not the exact sound.”
Elias nodded.
“Memory keeps weird things.”
Noah looked at him.
“Did you stay because you promised her?”
“No.”
The answer surprised Noah.
“I promised her I’d take care of you. But that’s not why I stayed.”
“Why then?”
“Because I’m your father.”
Noah looked toward the river.
After a while he said:
“That’s better.”
When they returned to the hotel, there was a package waiting.
Inside was a small lump of clay.
No note.
Only a photograph.
Margaret Vale’s hands at a pottery wheel.
Her first piece in decades.
Crooked.
Uneven.
Very ordinary.
Noah laughed.
“She’s bad.”
Elias tried not to.
“She’s rusty.”
“She’s bad.”
“Be kind.”
“I’m being accurate.”
But Noah placed the photograph inside his sketchbook.
He never responded.
He did not need to.
Change did not require his supervision.
The next morning, Noah’s grandmother stood before “Still Standing” for nearly ten minutes.
Then she whispered:
“Your mother would have loved this.”
Noah looked at her.
“Which one?”
“The sculpture?”
“No.”
She understood.
“Both.”
Noah swallowed.
Then nodded.
That night, the exhibition organizers announced a youth choice award.
The participating artists voted for one another.
Noah did not win.
Amélie did.
Her ceramic hands received almost twice as many votes.
Noah clapped the loudest.
Elias watched carefully.
On the walk back, he asked:
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
Noah rolled his eyes.
“Dad.”
“I’m allowed to check.”
“I wanted to win.”
“That’s normal.”
“I’m still happy she won.”
“That’s also normal.”
Noah smiled.
“Aunt Margaret would hate this conversation.”
Elias burst out laughing.
“Probably.”
They bought ice cream.
Noah chose chocolate.
Then dropped half of it on his artist shoes.
He stared down.
Elias waited.
May you like
Noah sighed.
“Maybe real artists wear sneakers.”
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