Roger takes hold of my arm and leads me to a landscape by Cézanne. I see from a glance that its colors are quieter than those of the other canvases, but even so I cannot look at it in its entirety. Instead, I study a small patch of sienna toward the bottom right-hand corner, picked out in white, black, gray. It might be a huddle of cottages. I note the deliberateness of the brush strokes, the way color is laid over color so that while cottages are hinted at it is the overall effect that is important. I can tell from the pressure of Roger’s hand on my arm that he is as spellbound as I am. Slowly, he raises his free hand and points to a bank of green. The swirls and daubs suggest foliage, but what is even more extraordinary is the way the cluster creates an impression of distance while remaining part of the larger pattern. I move a step backward. I look at the whole painting now. I let myself take in the blues and whites of the mountaintop, my eye dropping back down the canvas to trace their echo through browns and greens. A streak of purple at the base of the picture makes me want to laugh for pure joy. It has no justification for being there apart from its echoing of the mountain motif. Roger catches my mood. He points to a woman in a lilac dress backing away from a Matisse nude, shocked by its crude depiction of fuchsia flesh. As the woman turns, her skirt flares out behind her, and without realizing it she becomes part of the exhibition, mirroring the line of purple in the Cézanne. I return to his landscape. This time my eye is caught by a horizontal bar that runs from the right-hand side toward the center. Is it a road, or a bridge? I see that it does not matter. Without it, the painting would be a chaos of forms. It is the pivotal line on which the rest hangs.

I cannot look anymore. I turn to Roger. He understands at once and guides me through the crowd of people to a quiet room off the main gallery. He holds me in his arms and I press my face into his jacket. He knows without my saying anything how much the exhibition has meant to me.

“Perhaps Clive will buy the Cézanne,” I say at last, reluctant to relinquish its hold.

Roger lifts my face and kisses it.

“Perhaps you will paint your own masterpieces.”