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Skin

That year - 1946 - winter was a long tih the streets of the city, and overhead the snow clouds moved across the sky

The oldthe sidewalk of the rue de Rivoli He was cold andin a filthy black coat, only his eyes and the top of his head visible above the turned-up collar

The door of a cafe opened and the faint whiff of roasting chicken brought a pain of yearning to the top of his stos in the shop s - perfume, silk ties and shirts, diamonds, porcelain, antique furniture, finely bound books Then a picture gallery He had always liked picture galleries This one had a single canvas on display in theHe stopped to look at it He turned to go on He checked, looked back; and now, suddenly, there caht uneasiness, a , soain It was a landscape, a clu madly over to one side as if blown by a tre all around Attached to the frame there was a little plaque, and on this it said: CHAIM SOUTINE (1894-1943)

Drioli stared at the picture, wondering vaguely what there was about it that seee and crazy - but I like itChaim SoutineSoutine'By God!' he cried suddenly 'My little Kalmuck, that's who it is! My little Kaline that!'

The old man pressed his face closer to theHe could remember the boy - yes, quite clearly he could remember him But when? The rest of it was not so easy to recollect It was so long ago How long? Twenty - no, more like thirty years, wasn't it? Wait a minute Yes - it was the year before the war, the first war, 1913 That was it And this Soutine, this ugly little Kal boy whom he had liked - almost loved - for no reason at all that he could think of except that he could paint

And how he could paint! It was co back more clearly now - the street, the line of

refuse cans along the length of it, the rotten s delicately over the refuse, and then the wo on the doorsteps with their feet upon the cobblestones of the street Which street? Where was it the boy had lived?

The Cite Falguiere, that was it! The old man nodded his head several times, pleased to have rele chair in it, and the filthy red couch that the boy had used for sleeping; the drunken parties, the cheap white wine, the furious quarrels, and always, always the bitter sullen face of the boy brooding over his work

It was odd, Drioli thought, how easily it all cale small remembered fact seemed instantly to remind him of another

There was that nonsense with the tattoo, for instance Now, that was aif ever there was one How had it started? Ah, yes - he had got rich one day, that was it, and he had bought lots of wine He could see himself now as he entered the studio with the parcel of bottles under his ar before the easel, and his (Drioli's) oife standing in the centre of the roo for her picture

'Tonight we shall celebrate,' he said 'We shall have a little celebration, us three'

'What is it that we celebrate?' the boy asked, without looking up 'Is it that you have decided to divorce your wife so she can marry me?'