Fourteen
I checked in with Ma after dinner. She received her assignment from Auntie Faye. The Yu women were rallied under one cause: to investigate one of their own. I acknowledged my guilt in starting their crusade. My only comfort lay in the certainty that the aunties would have found out anyway. They always had.
Aunt Evelyn greeted me in the morning surrounded by a stack of papers.
“Bring the umbrella.”
“Another prediction thing?” I asked.
My aunt smiled. “No, a weather thing. It’ll rain today and you’ll miss climbing the Eiffel Tower. Don’t worry, you’ll get your visit another time.”
I opened my mouth to ask her for hints, but decided against it.
She watched me with avid interest, leaving her work aside for the moment. “Do you want to know anything more about today? Aside from the weather forecast, that is.”
“I do. I like Marc, and I feel like I’m getting attached. I’d rather know now that this is really the last day I’m spending with him. Is there a chance for more?”
Madam Fong said I had no red thread. Pursuing a long-term relationship with Marc was impossible, yet I wanted it. My romantic history was littered with shattered possibilities. For once, I would have loved to see something survive.
“Be careful what you wish for.” Aunt Evelyn folded her fingers together, resembling a church steeple. “You and Marc aren’t meant to be long term. Today will be memorable for both of you. After that . . .”
I allowed myself a twinge of disappointment. To wade deeper into the lake of self-pity would tarnish any joy on the horizon. “Thank you.”
“Oh, dear one”—her voice softened into a whisper—“be thankful you at least have today.”
I crammed my emotional baggage back into the closet and headed out the door.
Marc was on his phone when I arrived. His shoulders were hitched high to his ears, and if the muscles of his body were a string, they would be tangled into a Gordian knot. His harsh, clipped tone harnessed his command of French into a weapon.
I couldn’t catch anything from the conversation except from the clear body language: it must be another call from work.
His hand clenched into a fist around his phone. He’d been so locked into the call that he only noticed my presence after he hung up. “I’m sorry. Things are blowing up at work.”
“If it’s that stressful, can you find another job?”
“I can, but I have too much at stake where I am right now. My field is competitive. I’d rather leave on good terms. Recommendations are important.” The tension he carried melted away. Marc flashed a smile. “This would be easier if you already knew what I do.”
I hadn’t made much progress in our little game. If I’d been fluent in French, I’d have known what his job was after the first phone call. He carried no physical signs other than the faded scars on his hands. He wasn’t a contractor or a freelancer because he had a boss, not clients. The elevated stress levels at his work environment indicated he worked with a team.
“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.”