“Two hours?” suggested Fred.
“All right, two hours. But if I don’t come home tonight, you are not to come back and buzz Joe’s door. You can come back tomorrow at noon and wait an hour, or even two, if that will make you feel better. And again the next day. But I’ll stay in Joe Branca’s studio a full week if it takes that to make his mind easy. Or a month, damn it! Or anything. Boys, I’ve got to do this; don’t make it harder.”
Anton said glumly, “All right. We’ll do it your way.”
“Am I ‘Eunice’ now? Or ‘Joan Eunice’?”
He grudged a smile. “You’re Eunice. She would do it.”
“That’s why I must. Look, darlings”—she put an arm around each of them—last night was wonderful, and I’ll find a way to manage it again. Perhaps next time Mr. Salomon is away—you know he fusses over me like a mother hen. But you two do also—and you must not except when you’re guarding me. Right now I must try to find a way to soothe Joe’s soul. But I’ll be your playmate another day. Be darlings and kiss me; the lift is about to stop.”
They did so; she hooked up her veil. They left the lift and headed toward the Branca studio—Joan found she knew the way, as long as she didn’t stop to think.
She stopped at the door. “She always kissed you goodbye? Here, with Joe watching?”
“Yes.”
“If he lets me in, kiss me good-bye the same way. Just don’t stretch it out; he might close the door. Oh, I’m shaky!” (Steady down, Boss. Om Mani Padme Hum. Don’t use the button; try our voice on the lock. ‘Open up!’ Like that.)
“Open up!” Joan said. She unhooked her veil, faced the door.
The lock started clicking but the door remained closed. A transparency flashed on the wall: PLEASE WAIT. Joan stood in front of the door peep, wondered if Joe was scanning her. (Eunice, will he let us in?) (I don’t know, Boss. You shouldn’t have come. But you wouldn’t listen to Jake . . . nor to me.) (But I am here. Don’t scold me—help me.) (I’ll try, Boss. But I don’t know.)
Through the door, not as soundproof as her own doors, Joan heard a high voice: “Joe! Joe!” (Who’s that!) (Could be anybody, Joe has lots of friends.)
The door opened, she saw Joe Branca standing in it. He was dressed in much-worn shorts which had been used repeatedly for wiping paint brushes. His face showed nothing. A girl, a wrapper pulled sketchily around her, looked out from behind him. “See? It’s her!”
“Gigi—get back. Hello, Ski. Hi, Fred.”
“Hi, Joe.”
Joan tried to keep her voice steady. “Joe, may I come in?”
He finally looked at her. “You want to, sure. Come in, Ski. Fred.” Joe stood aside.
Dabrowski answered for them. “Uh, not this time, Joe. Thanks.”
“Roz. Other time, any. Welcome. Too, Fred.”
“Thanks, Joe. See you.” The guards turned to leave as Joan started to enter—she checked herself, remembering that she must do something. “Boys!”
Fred kissed her quickly, nervously. Dabrowski did not kiss her; instead he held his mouth to hers and said almost soundlessly, “Eunice, you be good to him. Or, damn, I’ll spank you.”
“Yes, Anton. Let me go.” Quickly she turned, went inside past Joe, waited. Slowly he refastened the hand bolts, taking an unnecessarily long time. He turned and glanced at her, glanced away. “Sit?”
“Thank you, Joe.” She looked around at the studio clutter, saw two straight chairs at a small table. They seemed to be the only chairs; she went to one of them, waited for him to remove her cloak—realized that he was not going to do so, then took it off and dropped it, sat down.
He frowned at her, seemed uncertain, then said, “Coffee? Gigi! Java f’ Miss Smith.”
The girl had been watching from the far end of the room. She tightened her wrapper and went silently to a kitchen unit beyond the table, poured a cup of coffee, and prepared to flash it. Joe Branca went back to an easel near the middle of the room, started making tiny strokes on it; Joan saw that it was an almost finished painting of the young woman addressed as “Gigi.” (That’s a cheat pie, Boss.) (A what?) (Project a photo onto sensitized canvas, then paint over it. Joe does them if someone wants cheesecake, or a cheap portrait, or a pet’s picture——but claims they aren’t art.)