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Back Lesson In Red Save as PDF
Chapters (36)
  1. Cover
  2. Lesson in Red
  3. Dedication
  4. Cast of Characters
  5. Lesson in Red
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. Acknowledgments
  36. About the Author

I tried to picture the museum without me in my little office on the fourth floor, overlooking the concert hall that was finished now, and the Next Museum that would rise between, filled with art. The very streets around us would change, day by day, as more people poured in to see the new cultural destination, and the Rocque would become smaller, less visible. An annex instead of a fortress. Its old, defiant outlier spirit would fade, too, no matter how vital and exciting Yegina kept its programming.

“I’ll miss what it was,” I said honestly. “I think everyone will.”

Janis made an appreciative noise. She took another sip of lemonade and winced.

“My father never thought his museum would last,” she said. “He called it a stepping-stone, for someone else to reach the other shore. I always thought that person would be me.” She gazed down over the green expanse of lawn, the sculptures casting their shadows across it. “But maybe there is no other shore here. Our downtown’s potential is that vast.”

“Can you say that on record?” I said.

“I’m not finished,” she said. “Maybe the point is that we’re always seeking. And it, whatever it is—hope? greatness?—is always retreating.” She coughed. “There I go, sounding like I’m about to die. And like I haven’t spent a lick of time in the tent cities east of Main. Watch out,” she warned, her eyes crinkling. “I might only talk to you about the Dodgers.”

28

THE CAR RIDE TO SAN Pedro was strange and long. I knew Ray, but I didn’t. His body in the seat beside me seemed profoundly familiar yet foreign, like something I’d read about before but never seen. He was driving one-armed, his black eye faded to a jaundiced bruise. The afternoon I’d met with Janis, he’d called and asked me if we could postpone our meeting for one more week, and then a few days more. But finally we were riding together down the Harbor Freeway, flanked by massive trucks heading to the port. The picnic he’d brought filled the car with a salty, roasted scent, and I saw the top of a bottle of wine peeking from one bag. It was a real date.