Through it, he could see the good things in his life but feel little. Only the anger touched him. In spite of the cold weather, he had been standing outside on the wide steps of the Abbey de Sion for nearly an hour, gazing up at the ornately carved church doors and arguing with himself about whether or not to go inside. A spray of dead winter leaves blew across his black shoes as he murmured epithets in Catalan. He did not want to set things right with a God capable of such cruelty. Had Conchita not been enough? Picasso was not certain whether he hoped to appease God, or reason with Him. As he stood contemplating that, one of the great doors suddenly swung open. A dark-haired altar boy stepped out wearing a black cassock and white surplice and he was holding an ivory rosary. For a moment, their eyes met, and Picasso had the bizarre feeling that he was looking at someone familiar. He shook his head and blew into his icy hands as the boy held the door.
