Everything on the Line by Bob Mitchell Page B

speaking animatedly to a soignée, drop-dead gorgeous woman in her early thirties, who hangs on his every word as she records them on her Philips XX150RZ Precision Mûre VoxRecorder.
    “Winner!” Odi shouts. “This guy is killer. He is an absolute shark. You can see the power, the control, the swagger in his looks, in his stride, in his aura.”
    Now it’s Jack’s turn.
    He takes a first bite out of his croissant, washes it down with the Coke, looks out the window.
    Nothing.
    Oh, wait, here comes someone. It is a mime, one of those commonly seen street performers who are most abundant at the Pompidou Center, in Montmartre, and in the sixth, near St.-Germain des Prés.
    The mime’s face is painted white, and it is by no means clear whether it is a male or a female. It is wearing a white toga and sandals, positions itself on top of a wooden box on the sidewalk, and begins to move various body parts almost imperceptibly, but just enough to let passersby know that they are looking not at a statue but at a human being pretending to be one.
    “Winner!” Jack yelps. “That guy is amazing! He is hardly moving, but he is . That must be so hard to do!”
    “Wrong again, Einstein!” Ira corrects. “This guy, well, if he’s a guy, is a real loser. First of all, d’ya see that pan by his feet? That’s the way he makes his living. He’s basically a beggar. He’ll make maybe ten, twenty bucks today, even if he stays here until the sun goes down. Second, he’s basically a poor slob actor who can’t earn a decent, honest living, so he’s asking people to support him and his wonderful talent of being able to move an inch an hour. Third, he’s pathetic. He can’t even support himself or get ahead or have a title or a staff working under him or run a division or be anyone’s boss. Got no ambition, no drive, no thirst for success!”
    Jack Spade listens patiently to his father’s rant and smiles weakly and nods his head in agreement and his father smiles back but has no clue about what is going on under the table, where Jack is clenching his left fist so tight around his hot chocolate spoon that its bowl snaps off cleanly, leaving the stem alone in his quavering hand.
    * * *
    It is Sunday, May 28, 2045, the day before the opening round of the French Open Juniors. After an invigorating two-hour hit on a rich red clay side court at Roland Garros between young superstar and coach, Giglio, Gioconda, and Ugo enjoy an inspiring walk through the Left Bank, starting from the hotel, continuing past the Odéon theater and the sixth-century church of St.-Germain des Prés—the oldest in Paris—then the Rue Bonaparte and the Rue Jacob past the charming Place du Furstembourg and through the open-air market at the Carrefour de Buci, down the Rue Dauphine to the Pont Neuf and the green Henri IV equestrian statue, along the Seine to the Musée d’Orsay, up the Rue de Bellechasse, then a right on Rue de Varenne, where they arrive, senses filled with the smells and sights of the sixth and seventh arrondissements, at their final destination, the diminutive yet awe-inspiring Musée Rodin.
    After a stroll through the immense rectangular formal gardens behind the museum, the three climb the wide, sweeping marble staircase inside, enter one of the rooms filled with sculptures, separate, mill around.
    The eyes of the fifteen-year-old light upon a white marble piece that, like the Gaudí church in Barcelona, stops him dead in his tracks.
    La Main de Dieu!
    As with the Gaudí cathedral, Ugo Bellezza says a silent prayer of thanks that he is deaf and not blind. He walks around the spectacular sculpture of God’s hand once, twice, eight times, and still he cannot believe his wide, bewildered eyes.
    As with the Gaudí cathedral, there is so much to take in, but this time it is on a much less grand, and more intimate, scale.
    Ugo gets it that this is something special. He knows nothing about Rodin’s life, his training, his art, but he is feeling