“I promise you that I’ll guess by the end of the day.”
He stuffed his phone into his leather bag. “We never talked about your reward, did we?”
“I thought having your services as my tour guide was my prize.”
“No,” Marc laughed. “You get to win something.” He held out his hand. “Come on, let’s get our day started.”
I placed my hand in his. He squeezed. Feeling our hands together, fingers intertwined like woven reeds in a rattan basket, I longed for what I couldn’t have. Tomorrow was for worrying, but today was for living. I was a carefree tourist out on a date with a charming chaperone.
* * *
* * *
Marc and I headed up the stairway from the Champ de Mars station. Rain descended in steady curtains, obscuring the Eiffel Tower in the distance. The panorama was Gustave Caillebotte’s oil painting Paris Street; Rainy Day come to life.
The sound of the drops hitting metal surfaces reminded me of constant applause by unseen hands. We ducked into a nearby café to escape the downpour. It had been sunny when we left Rue du Bac Station.
“No worries. We can go another time. The rest of the day is going to be spent indoors anyway at galleries and museums.” He reached into his pocket for his tiny notebook and scratched something off. “We’ll head to Voltaire Station next.”
“You’re not bothered by the change in plans?” I asked.
“Why would I be? It gives me a great excuse to see you again later. Besides, I have a backup plan.” He waved two tickets before me. “I always come prepared.”
“Meticulous. Must be a helpful trait in your profession.”
“It is,” he replied. “Details are very important. Everything has to look right.”
A visual artist or designer, or even an architect to place such an emphasis on aesthetics.
“Your job is hands on, right? I have a hard time seeing you parked in a cubicle in front of screens all day.”
“A desk job would be a nightmare. I never could sit still, even as a kid. I needed to focus and channel all that nervous energy into something productive. My family helped me do that.”
I pictured Marc as an adorable seven-year-old running through the schoolyard: thick dark hair spiking in the breeze, little legs pumping, powered with boundless energy, arms outstretched with hopes he could launch himself up to the sky.
“Are you in the family business? You told me your mother’s a clinical psychologist. What does your father do?”
“He’s a . . .” Marc laughed. “Can’t say. It’s related to what I do.”
I arched my brow.
“You’re getting much closer to the answer. I have no doubt that you’ll figure it out soon.”
* * *
* * *
Half an hour later, we arrived at the Atelier des Lumières for the Gustav Klimt exhibit. The Kiss was an iconic piece, two lovers entwined in an intimate embrace. The bursts of golds and gilt contrasted with the dots of pinks and purples of the flowers at their feet. This was one of the most romantic pieces of art I’d ever seen in my art history textbooks. The painting itself was a part of the permanent collection in the Schloss Belvedere in Vienna.
“This isn’t a traditional exhibit, is it?” I asked Marc.
He took my hand and led me in. “You’ll see.”
The space was dark, but only for a moment. Klimt’s paintings splashed against the cavernous walls: beautiful figures and faces were highlighted by gold and luminous colors. The atmosphere reminded me of the cave paintings in Lascaux and the sense of wonder they must have invoked in the firelight for those primitive painters thousands of years ago.
Marc led me to an empty bench before a projection of Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I. The dark-haired woman in the piece had sorrowful eyes and lips quirked as if ready to spill a secret or a prophecy. This detail brought us together in kinship.
“This reminds me of being in a church on a rainy day,” he said. “The paintings are the stained glass windows. Sunday masses gave me time to think and reflect.”
“Do you still go?” I asked.
“Not as often as I should.” He rubbed his neck. “You’re not religious, are you?”
“Unless you consider superstition a religion. My family has its own beliefs. It’s cultural. There’s a mishmash of Buddhism, Daoism, and Confucianism in there that’s been diluted by generations of being in America. Think of it as the light Gatsby sees across the water. It’s there, not as bright or potent as it could be, but it’s still there.”
We took our seat on the bench. He scooted closer, stopping when our thighs touched. Marc draped his arm around my shoulders and whispered, “What do you think she’s thinking about?”
I leaned my head against him. The closeness was as natural as his warm touch on my skin.
“To me,” he continued, “she looks like she’s staring at the man who she might have had an affair with.”
“So you’re in the scandal camp.”
“And you’re not?” he asked.
“They could have just been close friends, you know.”
“That is not how you draw a friend.”
I laughed. “Art is art. You draw what you see. An artist translates their environment or ideas onto paper. She’s a beautiful woman. Of course her allure would translate to the canvas.”
“You’re right on that point. I think I can change your mind though.” Marc took out his sketchbook and flipped to the middle. He placed the opened pages in my lap.
These were studies of me in a myriad of expressions. Every one was exquisite in its details right down to the tiny mole near my lips and the slight uptick of my left eyebrow. There was one difference: the woman sketched in ink was far more beautiful than my mirror’s reflection.
“It’s the lens,” he said. “The artists’ emotions for their subjects tend to influence the interpretation.”
I blushed, and caressed the smooth pages. “And what are the emotions of this artist?”
He cupped my face in his hands. “That I’ve wanted to kiss you from the moment you bumped into me in the park.”
“Then kiss me.”
Fifteen
Of all the ways I had imagined my first kiss with Marc, I never had this setting in mind: surrounded by Klimt’s glorious works in re-created candlelight. It was beyond perfect. His soft lips were warm, tasting like hot chocolate on a cool day: creamy, rich, and sugary. As we kissed, translucent flecks of gold leaf arose from our skin. The fragile wisps took flight, changing their shape into petals before vanishing into the ether.
When we pulled away, he whispered, “We can stay here all afternoon if you want.”
“I’d love to, but don’t you have other plans for us?”
“I suppose there are new places to make out.”
I giggled and covered my mouth with my hand. He took my other hand in his and squeezed.
Three days, and I had fallen for him. I’d been deprived of romance all my life, and this brief taste of what my life could be like was addictive. I was whisked back to my first cliff dive in Cozumel: the sensation of free falling and welcoming the thrilling unknown before plunging deep into the water’s grip. Marc was my dive, my free fall; with him I felt all the possibilities, all the freedom, all the joy. But the dark, indifferent sea waited.
The sea could wait. Today, I would stretch my wings and fly.
* * *
* * *
We spent three hours at the Atelier des Lumières as new couples do—separated by no more than an inch.
As we exited the metro at Musée d’Orsay Station, the spring rain cascaded in steady sheets. A former train station, the nearby Musée d’Orsay was a long, rectangular, stately building with an arched glass roof. Marc had given me a choice between this destination and the Louvre. I opted for the more intimate gallery as it was already two in the afternoon.
“We can take the time to linger with your favorite pieces. The crowds are usually smaller here.”
“Vincent van Gogh’s portrait is here, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Is that what you want to see first?”
“No, I want to see the other impressionists before we see Van Gogh’s works.”
I had spent years entranced by these beautiful pieces in my art history textbooks. When I was a child, Ma and Uncle Michael indulged my artistic endeavors with visits to art galleries and museums—my art history electives in college did the rest. But I never prioritized it. Never took the time and effort required to master a medium. Critiques of my work were always the same: beautiful, but without a clear point of view. Art was the ultimate expression, but I had nothing to say, so it remained a voyeuristic hobby.
We stopped at Renoir’s Bal du moulin de la Galette.
“I love this painting,” I said. “Renoir’s powerful brushstrokes and his ability to capture the vividness of the moment. It’s like I can hear the chatter and the music! Reminds me of a family function. The fashionable ladies are my aunties. Though I don’t think they could ever be contained by any canvas.”
“The more you talk about art, the less you sound like an accountant to me.”
“Well, you don’t sound like a . . .” I laughed. “My time is running out, and I still don’t know what you do. I’ve narrowed it down, but not enough for a decent guess.”