Nine
I scanned the sheet for the opening date. Aunt Evelyn listed her home in San Francisco yesterday. The way the market worked, it wouldn’t be surprising if she was already fielding offers. It might explain why she’d been glued to her phone the past twenty-four hours.
Curiosity was a classic Yu trait. Auntie Faye had built a business around it. Aunt Evelyn, though, had mastered secrecy. Her decision did not require my approval, but why keep it a secret? She had yet one more secret and now, by not confronting her, I did too.
I picked up the scarf, returned the sheet to its place on the pile, and headed back.
“Ah, the Faubourg. Great choice,” she said, tying the scarf around my neck. “It will look better on you than it did on me. These spring breezes can be quite cool. Best to have your neck covered. Promise me you’ll start at the fountain and make your way out from there. There is no better place in the city to begin your adventure.”
The simple act of readying for a day out reminded me so much of Ma that a wave of homesickness constricted my heart. We hadn’t been apart for too long, yet I already missed her. She had sent numerous messages through the electronic umbilical cord tying the two of us together, but it wasn’t the same.
“Try and enjoy the city before I make you miserable with my teachings,” Aunt Evelyn said.
I laughed and focused on my first day out. “Where is this garden you were talking about and how do I get there?”
Growing up in California, I had become conditioned to drive everywhere, but Paris traffic was intimidating. The city’s rhythm rocked like an offbeat song. Until I could acclimatize, I exercised the same level of caution young children make when learning to cross a street for the first time. One of the thrills of traveling was discovering the soul of a city, which could only be accomplished on foot, slowing down to know how it danced to its own pace: walking by the buildings and art; tasting its foods through its stalls, shops, and restaurants; and meeting its locals.
Luxembourg Gardens was located in the sixth arrondissement, a twenty-minute walk away, near the district where we had dinner. At my first dinner in Paris, I had glimpsed the palace in the distance and fallen in love, but now, during the day, the castle appeared more magical and splendid with its fairy-tale charm. A pleasant breeze teased my unbound hair and ruffled the petals of the flowers and blades of grass nearby. Blooming rainbow flower beds accented the sea of emerald lawns. English and French gardens stretched out around me, close to twenty-three hectares, according to the website. Runners and families with strollers walked by, along with fellow tourists.
Aunt Evelyn had mentioned a landmark, the Medici Fountain, as the perfect first subject to capture on paper before I made my way through the gardens and its numerous statues. I threaded north through the throng of tourists mixed with trendy locals. The perfect weather ensured a healthy turnout for this idyllic attraction.
I took in the fountain, framed by a canopy of trees, and my heart swelled as I approached the large rectangular reflecting pool and its collection of ducks leading to the monument. The landmark was unapologetically Italian. Named after Maria de’ Medici, the mother of Louis XIII, it reminded me of the Trevi Fountain in Roman Holiday, but on a much smaller scale.
I chose a metal chair with a great vantage point of the three main figures, a giant spying on two lovers below. Which myth did they belong to? I hadn’t had a chance to look up the history of the fountain yet.
A strong gust swept through the area, stirring the branches from the trees into an animated clatter. Stray leaves cascaded in an unexpected rainfall as the people below clung to their belongings. I reached for my purse and held it against my chest. The wind whipped my hair and stripped the scarf off my neck, sending it flying like an errant ribbon into the sky.
I slung my bag onto my shoulder and took off in pursuit.
The pink scarf seemed to change into a bird with fluttering silk wings as I tracked it. I couldn’t lose my aunt’s possession on my first day. It would be a sign of disrespect, which would cloud my lessons. The background blurred as I focused on the silk bird flying away from me.
I collided with a beautiful man who smelled of espresso, vanilla bean, and toasted sugar.
“Je m’excuse,” he said in a deep voice. Tall, Asian, with dark hair and sparkling brown eyes.
“My scarf!” I blurted.
He followed my gaze and took off running. I was wearing heels. The grass might as well have been quicksand. The traitorous gust died as if its purpose was spent. The stranger caught the scarf when it dropped a few steps in front of him.
Scarf. Fountain. Beautiful man. Aunt Evelyn. She might as well have orchestrated the elements of nature to do her bidding. My favorite romance novelist, Ingrid Ing, could not have crafted a more glorious beginning.
He returned, scarf in hand.
“Thank you.” I accepted my scarf and tucked it into my purse just in case it had any other ideas of taking to the skies.
“American?” he asked, switching to English.
He had dimples. I died a little inside.
“Yes, from Palo Alto. You?”
“Canadian from Montreal.”
We stood together, staring into each other’s eyes with a familiarity we hadn’t earned. It was the type of study an artist would do, the appreciation of beauty in all of its forms and nuances.
“Marc Santos.” He held out his hand.
I reached out and grasped it. The heat of his skin tingled against mine. “Vanessa Yu.”
“Are you planning to go back to the fountain?”
I nodded. “Yes, it’s my first day out and I wanted to break in my sketchbook.”
Marc pulled his canvas messenger bag open to reveal numerous sketchpads and notebooks along with art supplies. Beauty, indeed. My aunt and her clairvoyance seemed to have outdone themselves. If Aunt Evelyn and Madam Fong ever decided to join forces, nothing could stop them.
“You’re an artist?” I asked.
“No,” he replied with a boyish grin. “Not quite.”
“I’m an amateur artist and an accountant back home.”
“We have the amateur artist part in common,” he replied. “As for my career, how about you guess? You have unlimited chances.”
I bit my lower lip. Unlimited chances meant he wanted to spend more time with me.
“Deal.”
We made our way back to the fountain. I took my task seriously and began peppering him with questions. “Is your job something you can tell your grandmother about and she’d approve?”
Marc laughed. “My lola knows what I do. She’s proud of it.”
This ruled out a small list of occupations that ranged from escort to hit man. I needed more clues. I prided myself on being right on the first try, even if it took more time and effort.
We found two unoccupied chairs to the left of the fountain. He scooted his chair closer to mine and we worked side by side. I used graphite pencils, focusing on capturing the figures of the lovers. My pencil glided across the page to break the figures down to their basic shapes and proportions. I had always sketched for myself. On occasion, I would show my parents or Uncle Michael. Now, I had an audience: I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious about my skills.
I checked on Marc. He worked with ink. Instead of sketching the entire fountain or the figures, he concentrated on the architectural details: the crest, the arch, the columns. Two pages of vignettes.
“Can you tell me who they are?” I asked, gesturing to the sculpture.
“The lovers are Acis and Galatea, and the Cyclops, Polyphemus, is the voyeur.”
As I suspected, the subjects were from Greek mythology. When I was younger, I loved reading about them, problematic gods and mortals with messy lives creating a swarm of dysfunctional relatives. It was familial stress I could consume for entertainment.
“Isn’t Polyphemus the Cyclops who Odysseus tricked?” I asked.
“Yes, the same one. After he found the two, he crushed Acis with his bare hands. Galatea saved him and turned him into an immortal river spirit like her. A rare happy ending.”
Inspired by the story, I flipped to the final page of the sketchbook and listed the names and location. It was a habit I acquired when I visited museums with my family, collecting Greek mythological figures and references and keeping a running tally.
“Have you seen the Panthéon?” he asked. “It’s nearby.”
“Not yet. This is my first Parisian attraction.” When I realized I’d been staring at him when I said the last three words, I blushed. Classic Freudian slip.
The corner of his mouth tipped upward. “I have a few days off. If you want, I can help you add more names to the list you started.”
I waited five heartbeats before saying yes.
We visited the palace on the grounds, marveling at the architecture. Maria de’ Medici’s taste at the fountain extended here to the ceiling murals and ornate doorways. Though the building had changed owners and functions, and was now where the French Senate convened, it kept its name. Her influence endured.
“How about lunch before we head to the Panthéon?” he asked as we walked back outside to the gardens.
“Please, show me where the good food is.”
“You’re a foodie?”
“Yes. A huge one. Are you?”
His answer would determine whether I’d be interested in seeing the city through his eyes. Lack of appreciation for good food was a deal breaker. I once tried to date a charming guy who worked at a car dealership. He took me to a greasy spoon. The meal was as horrible as the date. It ended when I predicted he would be denied a promotion, a rare time when a prediction helped me. I wanted to walk out. Instead, he stormed out in a huff, denying me the opportunity.
As long as I didn’t call this a date, I could avoid all the mishaps associated with a Vanessa Yu classic. Marc was a nice stranger offering to show me around the city. A polite Canadian showing this American tourist around. It was nothing more than a kind gesture; though, if I was honest with myself, I wanted more.
“Yes. Why don’t I show you one of my favorite cafés in the sixth arrondissement?” he asked.
“I’d love that.” I tucked a stray strand of my hair back into place. “How long have you been here in Paris?”
“About three years. Long enough to explore the city on my own,” Marc replied. He withdrew a mini Moleskine notebook from the side pocket of his bag. “This has all my secrets and tips including the best places to eat. If you guess my job, you’ll get to see it. I’m surprised you haven’t made an attempt yet.”
“I need more data and time. I don’t want to guess unless I’m sure.” Game nights with the cousins, along with the softball tourney every summer, guaranteed my generation’s spirit of competitiveness. Plus, guessing the right answer too early wouldn’t be in my best interests.