Page 14 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“He rejects modern society. He lives in the woods somewhere.”

“You don’t know where?”

“I haven’t talked to him in like twenty years.”

“And I thought my family was strange.” She laughed. “A great Russian writer once said that all unhappy families are different in their own way.”

“I even read that one. I remember something about railroad tracks.”

“Spoiler alert.”

“So is yours one of those unhappy families?”

She shook her head. “I was kidding. I’d say it’s complicated.” She fell silent, and he couldn’t decide whether to pursue the subject. Instead, he said, “So you’re a photographer?”

She nodded. Gave a little embarrassed smile.

“You don’t have a website.”

“Iknow.” She moaned. “I need to put one up, like,yesterday.”

“Love to see your work.”

“I’m having a show in a couple months, at the Argold Gallery.”

“Really?” So she was serious, not a dilettante. “What do you take pictures of?”

She looked kind of uncomfortable. “I—I guess you’d call me a street photographer.”

“Like Cartier-Bresson or Robert Frank? Or Weegee?”

“Oh,” she said with a relieved smile. “You know photography?”

“Some. What kind of stuff do you do?”

“You just have to see it. I’m not good at describing it.”

“Try.”

“I’m so not good at that.”

“My mother was an artist. A painter. I know how hard it is to articulate what you’re trying to do in your art. So try me.”

“She was? What kind of art?”

“Now, that’s hard to describe, too. She painted the woods, the trees around our house in Washington State. But not in a photorealist way. In between abstraction and representation. She incorporated real twigs and grasses and flowers into her work. Fairy roses that bled pink. Strokes of bright colors. They were bold and happy paintings. Colorful and joyous, very emotional. Which was weird.”

“Why?”

“Because she led an unhappy life. Oppressed and stressed by my father. A very unhappy woman. Anyway.” Paul realized he was getting too deep too fast, and he changed direction. “Back to your work.”

“Is she still painting, your mother?”

“No, she died when I was a teenager.”

“That’s terrible! What happened?”

Paul shrugged. “Long story. For another occasion. Let’s just say, it was not a happy time. Anyway—”

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