He edges away from the new fiction section, turns, faces into the library, then does another slow, shuffling turn, reminding Alvar of how once, at the Franklin Park Zoo, he peeked behind a fence and saw a large caribou, sick or maybe crazy, trembling, painfully stepping forward and back. Sarkisian, in a worn-out black coat, is small and stocky, still handsome, with the glossy, swept-back white hair of a fifties French movie peasant patriarch. Alvar and June, the librarian, look at each other, alarmed. Were it anyone else, Alvar would offer help. But Alvar has lived near Sarkisian for eight years without daring to say one word. Sarkisian is a painter’s painter, a man who has outlived his friends—Arshile Gorky, Matta, Duchamp—without achieving their fame. But other painters—Alvar is one—know his work. For thirty years Sarkisian has lived near this small Vermont town, essentially a hermit except for occasional visits from his New York dealer. Eventually Sarkisian comes to, looking more irritated than anything.
