When the Bow is in the Clouds…Genesis 8:16
Wow.
I’ve never been to an art-gallery opening before. This is really cool. Everyone looks so chic and sophisticated. I smooth down the skirt of my new dress and make sure my hair is staying up where I put it. Curly hair is in this season, that’s one small comfort. And I came with Peter Rasputin, which is really pretty exciting. I’ve had a crush on him since the day I arrived at the School, but this is the first time we’ve sort of been on a date. He’s kind of shy, and he’s still learning English, but god, he’s adorable. When he asked me if we could come to the show together he turned red when I said yes, he really did.
And he is such a gentleman. Peter brought me a glass of champagne earlier, and now he’s across the room, courteous as all get-out, letting my grandmother lean on his arm while she looks at the paintings.
All of them are amazing, but the ones Rogue did after she met Bubbe are the ones I love the most of all. My grandmother is something else. Everyone loves her; she’s like what a Central-Casting Jewish grandma is supposed to be like. Being near her is one of my favorite things about going to school in New York; my whole family may have moved to Illinois, but you couldn’t get Bubbe out of this city with a crowbar. (Or so she says.) Rogue used to spend hours talking to her when she came to visit me at school, and Bubbe just adores her, calls her a shayna maideleh and has tea with her every afternoon she visits. Rogue actually went out and bought special glasses to serve it to her in.
I wander over and listen as Bubbe explains the paintings to Peter.
“This one, this is like a monster movie. Like you kids watch. This is the dybbuk, very old Jewish story. He is a soul condemned to wander the earth for its sins.”
“Da? I did not know you had sins.” Peter is trying manfully to keep up, and I hide a grin. He’s the sweetest thing ever.
“Don’t be silly, boychik, everyone has sins. What we don’t have is confessions.” Peter looks a little shocked and I just bet he’s never been teased like that by an eighty-three-year-old woman. Well, he’ll live. “He sometimes tries to take over pious men and women to escape his torment.” She leans closer. “No heaven, but no hell, either. So it’s not so bad.”
“Um…what about this one? I like this one better.” Peter’s an artist himself, very talented, but his style is very different from Rogue’s. This one, though, is a little closer to something he might have done. A lot of her work is on the abstract side, but this at least has some recognizable elements, a building like a temple and some bright figures in the sky, almost like a Chagall. Bubbe leans close to read what the card pinned to the wall next to it says. Then she turns to me with a delighted smile.
“You see this one, mauseleh?” I nod. “Leshem shomaim. This big goyische, he speaks every language there is except Hebrew. How is that?” Peter gives me a desperate glance and I just shrug. “Tell him what that means.”
“It means…for the right. For the sake of heaven.” Bubbe pats my arm approvingly.
“Such a smart girl, my granddaughter. And she can cook, did you know? I taught her my recipe for brisket when she’s eight years old.” Now I’m the one sending desperate looks; there’s no stopping my grandmother when she’s playing Yente the Matchmaker. Just then, thank god, the star of the evening comes by.
Rogue leans down to embrace Bubbe. She looks absolutely stunning. The gloves and scarf she always wears look perfectly in place, for once, with the chocolate-brown satin gown she’s got on. I’ve been pestering her for weeks about skipping meals because she’s been so busy preparing for tonight—honestly, Bubbe would have been proud of me—but I have to admit, she looks incredible. The dress is demure and daring at the same time; of course it covers her all up, but it’s like a second skin with the way the silk moves. She’s even wearing makeup, which she never does.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Mrs. Rosenstein? I’m so glad you were able to come.” Rogue is smiling and it occurs to me that I haven’t seen her looking so calm and centered for a very long time. Maybe ever.
I always thought ‘Rogue’ was an inspired choice for a name. She’s never quite seemed like she belongs, like no matter how long she stays at the School somehow she’s just a visitor, someone passing through. I don’t know if it’s just her history or what—there are a lot of kids whose families haven’t really accepted their mutation, but she’s one of the very few whose parents won’t even speak to her. She never really talks about that.
“The paintings are gorgeous, Marie. Gorgeous. Such a wonderful talent. And such a wonderful store. So clean.” Just as Bubbe says that, I see Julia, the gallery manager, appearing behind us. The look on her face at hearing her ultra-fashionable New York gallery described that way is priceless.
Bubbe is latched onto Rogue’s arm now, chattering away cheerfully, so Peter and I circle the room, looking over the different paintings. They’re grouped loosely by times in Rogue’s life, I think—there’s a group that seem to be of her childhood memories, a set that are from the Mansion, and there are a few over on one side called the Church series that I don’t particularly like. The ones in the center are from New Orleans. The big central picture is on a wall of honor by itself, and we pause in front of it.
Peter leans down. “You like this one, Katya?”
It’s so cute when he calls me that. “I love it.” I’d absolutely love to go to New Orleans. I’m amazed at how vivid an impression the place must have made, because I know Rogue was only ever there once, for a few days before she came to the School.
“It is herself, da?” Peter gestured at the painting. “And the Wolverine.”
“What?” Startled, I look at the picture again. It’s not really clear, but now that he suggests it…
“Hey, you two. Cool party.” Jubilee appears beside us, ducks under Peter’s elbow and holds out an overladen plate. She’s balancing two glasses of champagne in her other hand. “You want one of these fish things?” That’s an interesting way to describe blinis with Beluga caviar, but I won’t argue. We help Jubes demolish the hors d’oeuvres she’s collected, and wander some more looking over the gallery.
Eventually Peter and I rescue Rogue from Bubbe and he goes off to collect our coats. Jubes is hitching a ride back to the Mansion with us, so she’s with us too, and while Bubbe is making a lengthy goodbye speech to Julia I lean close to Jubes. “Hey. Did you ever think those two figures in the New Orleans painting were Rogue and Wolverine?”
“’Course.” Jubilee is chewing gum and I don’t even want to think about the possibility that she’s been combining Bubble Yum with caviar all night. “I’m sure of it. Didn’t you ever see those pictures?”
“What pictures?” I’m confused. “Other paintings?”
“No, pictures. You know.” She mimes taking a photograph. “She had a whole pack from her little road trip.”
Now that she says it, I do remember that, vaguely. Rogue roomed with us for a while when she first got to the Mansion, and she did have some photos from her, well, ‘road trip’ is as good a term as any, I guess. But I haven’t seen any of them for years. “I totally never thought of that.”
“She did other paintings of him too.” As usual, Jubes is a font of information. “They’re not here, though. Guess she didn’t want to show ‘em.”
“How do you know that?”
“Saw ‘em. I was waiting for her one time in her studio and I was looking around.”
“You snooped?” I don’t know why I’m even bothering to be shocked. What, Jubilation Lee snooping? And the sun came up in the east, too?
“They were in this whole stack of paintings, up against the wall. How would I know she didn’t want me to see them?”
“But she didn’t.”
Jubilee actually looks uncomfortable. “No. She was pretty pissed off at me. I don’t know why she painted them in the first place. He was a total asshole to her.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s true, Jubes.” After Wolverine disappeared, Rogue was pretty cut up for a while. I wasn’t there the night the accident happened, but when I got back—well, it was a lousy time to be around the Mansion. I came home from a visit and all this stuff had happened while I’d been gone—Mr. Summers and Dr. Grey were fighting, Rogue wouldn’t talk to anyone, and that was around the same time that the Congressional hearings on the Mutant Act were happening. None of it was a lot of fun, and Rogue moved into her own room not too long afterwards. She said she didn’t want to take any more chances with her skin, but I was never sure if that was all it really was.
Jubilee shrugs, her momentary discomfiture easily shaken off. “Well, whatever you want to call it. She painted the things, I dunno why she doesn’t want to show ‘em. They were good, too.” Peter comes up then and hands over her yellow leather jacket. “Thanks, Petey. I’m gonna grab one for the road. See you out front?” She disappears in the direction of the bar.
“Katya, before we go…” Peter steers me back towards the Bubbe paintings, as I think of them. “I never had a chance to ask. Can you read what it says in the last canvas?”
I’m still turning over things in my mind, and I stare blankly at the painting he’s indicating for just a second before I can shake myself out of my reverie and answer him. “Oh—sure. It’s a Hebrew phrase.” In this one, Rogue worked the Hebrew characters right into the artwork itself. “Shaineh raineh keporah. It basically means ‘nothing to regret’.” Peter nods and moves a little closer to examine the brushwork.
I stand still, looking at the painting. It’s true, what I told Peter. Languages are funny, though. So often, the way you translate something isn’t exactly what it really means. That phrase translates to what I said it did. But literally, it’s a little different—‘beautiful clean sacrifice’.
I can’t help wondering who the central figure is in this one.
Bubbe is next to me now, taking my arm, tucking my hand into hers. “Ready to go, mauseleh?” I nod. “I’m glad you invited me. Such a nice girl, your friend. So strong, so pretty. Such a shame her family couldn’t be here.” She pats my hand, and her familiar and oh-so-beloved face suddenly looks different to me. “You should always be grateful, sweetheart. The loss of a family—you should never know such a thing.” I feel a lump rise in my throat. “That’s why this government Act—we won’t let it pass. Never again, Katherine.” My heart is pounding now. She turns to me and her eyes are serious, more serious than I’ve ever seen. “We will never forget.” She reaches up and touches my cheek.
I know Bubbe’s really smart, and her cheerful old-Jewish-lady demeanor is largely an act. But I never had a clue that she knew about me, about all of us, about the Act. I hug her tightly. “I know, Bubbe. I won’t forget either.”
“Yashir koyech.” May your strength be increased. It’s what you say to someone who’s just done a good deed, a mitzvah. She smiles through her own tears and we move toward the door as Peter comes to collect us.
I turn to look over the room one last time before we leave. I see the Professor and Dr. Grey in one corner, talking with Julia—thank goodness, she’ll get to talk to someone tonight who’ll praise her gallery properly. A knot of young people I sort of know are Rogue’s art-school classmates are talking very seriously in one corner; they’re wearing so much black they look like a flock of ravens. Bobby and St. John are here, and Ororo is surrounded by a pack of men who are probably all hoping she’ll pose for them. It’s such a happy scene.
I’d like to say goodbye to Rogue before we leave, though, and my eyes slide over the room in search of her slim figure. Finally I see her; she seems to be coming from the back of the gallery, and I can’t catch her attention through the crowd. She doesn’t stop or speak to anyone; she just goes to stand in front of her featured painting and looks up at it.
She doesn’t turn, and reluctantly I decide I’ll just have to see her later at the Mansion to tell her how much I loved her show, because I’ve got to get Bubbe back home. She’s still looking up at the painting when I let the door close behind me, almost like she’s seeing it for the first time, just standing there staring while people move around and past her, talking and laughing, as though she’s completely alone. Rapt.
I wonder what she sees.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
Wherein lies an exploration of the ethnic heritage of Katherine Pryde. (I mean, aren't we tired of hearing from the older generation?)
Chapter End Notes:
Yiddish translations: Most should be obvious in context, but just in case…
shayna maideleh: a beautiful, sweet young girl
dybbuk: the Jewish version of a zombie, sort of.
boychik: young man
mauseleh: little mouse. An endearment.
Note on Kosher laws: because glass is not subject to the same rules as china and earthenware, many prefer to drink from glasses rather than cups, especially in nonkosher households. The habit is typical of older European Jews.
shayna maideleh: a beautiful, sweet young girl
dybbuk: the Jewish version of a zombie, sort of.
boychik: young man
mauseleh: little mouse. An endearment.
Note on Kosher laws: because glass is not subject to the same rules as china and earthenware, many prefer to drink from glasses rather than cups, especially in nonkosher households. The habit is typical of older European Jews.