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“Nothing makes a man so adventurous as an empty pocket.”
― Victor Hugo, Notre-Dame de Paris
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IT WAS HIS RELATIONSHIP with Paloma that made it possible. Not that they were romantically involved—he shuddered at the thought.
Paloma had grown up in Paris, which is why he’d first spent time with her at a cocktail party the previous year. He’d needed some specific information, and she’d given it to him without realizing she’d done so.
She was angular, he mused, in every way. Her nose, cheeks, and extra long toes that he learned made her prefer sandals even in winter. Her apartment matched her body, with uncomfortable modernist white plastic chairs and gray slate tabletops. Her artistic vision was the most angular of all, with harsh strokes of her pen meant to fall within the modernist school of Picasso but instead mimicking a child’s etch-a-sketch.
He’d seen her earlier work, before she’d developed her own distinctive style. It was good. She was a more than competent artist. It wasn’t only an opinion. He’d studied art. It was a pity Paloma hadn’t chosen to embrace her natural talents.
Paloma had always believed she’d been overlooked as an artist. She talked about it incessantly to anyone who would listen. And he was a very good listener. It never ceased to amaze him how much people would reveal to you if you simply let them talk. A few questions here and there, most of the time simply repeating the last few words someone said, but with the intonation of a question, was all it took.
“Your great great grandfather was one of the stonemasons who worked on Notre Dame’s restoration?”
She’d turned beet red when he spoke those words. That was interesting. He’d only repeated what she’d just told him. He’d disarmed her and she’d said more than she meant to.
“Not exactly a stonemason,” she’d admitted, her cheeks still a dark shade of pink. “He was one of the day laborers hired to help build scaffolding. His true artistic abilities were never realized during his lifetime.” Her lips pursed as she spat out the words. “Just like mine have been overlooked.”
“What if I could change that?” he’d asked her. He knew what her answer would be.
It would take time, of course. But like any good plan, it took time to do it right.