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.”
Marc leaned over and whispered, “Want a hint?”
My competitive nature answered for me. “I can’t. It’s cheating unless you do it in a way that’s not a handout.”
“How about two truths and one lie?” His boyish grin was infectious. I tried not to stare at his lips.
“That works. I’ll play.”
We stood beside one another, arms touching, and fingers intertwined. Our eyes stared forward at the large canvas.
“One: I am a professional poker player,” Marc began. “Two: I waited all my life to be in this city and to work this job, but I worry the stress will kill my love for it. Three: Even after training all these years, I still don’t think I’m good enough in my field to stand out.”
The second statement was true: I had witnessed the stress. Marc being a professional gambler intrigued me: it seemed viable. His meticulousness with details tied in well with how the game is played. However, it didn’t account for the scar on his hand, nor did it match the reputation of Paris. A gambler would be in Monaco, not the City of Light.
Why Paris? What is the city known for? Art, fashion, and food. He denied he was an artist, and never mentioned anything about fashion.
It must be French cuisine: maybe bread or pastry related. An executive chef or sous chef could not have taken three days off. Working in the kitchen of a bakery or a restaurant would explain the scars on his hands and wrists. One more test would confirm my suspicion, but I couldn’t conduct it in the museum.
A swarm of first-grade schoolchildren rushed in. They clustered around our hips like overgrown tulips in a meadow in their matching uniforms. One little Asian girl with braids tugged on Marc’s sleeve. Without letting go of my hand, he leaned down. She asked him a question in French. His answer prompted an eruption of girlish giggles.
The collective, jubilant noise rippled through the gallery. Their teacher, an older woman with snowy white hair, ushered the children away. The group wandered into the next room to the sound of the educator shushing.
“What did she ask you, and what did you tell her?” I asked.
Marc smiled and pressed a finger to his lips. “It’s between me and Marjorie.”
“No, it was between you and sixteen other children.”
“She asked if we were on a date. I said yes.”
I stifled a laugh. “Nosy.”
“Honest. She said she could tell by how close we stood together.” He nudged me with his arm. “Are you ready to guess my career?”
“I need to conduct one last experiment. Then I’ll know what you do for a living.”
“And where will you conduct this experiment?” he asked.
“At a late lunch or an early dinner. Somewhere we can get something sweet.”
He thought for a moment. “There’s a patisserie I like down the street. They have the best choux à la crème, little golden cream puffs with a variety of delicious fillings.”
“Don’t tempt me into rushing through Van Gogh.”
“Why don’t we go see him now?” he asked. “I have a feeling you’ll want to stay for hours.”
Marc led me to one of the smaller rooms on the second level where the famous Dutch painter’s Starry Night over the Rhône was displayed. Unlike The Starry Night, which captured the energy of the universe as seen from Van Gogh’s asylum window, the work before us was more terrestrial—a night sky over the Rhône river, a scene one would see on a leisurely stroll.
“I’m guessing you’ve seen the other painting?” he asked.
I nodded. I had seen his other masterpiece during a visit to the Museum of Modern Art in New York over ten years ago.
“Are you disappointed?”
“No,” I said. “Why would I be?”
“Everyone I’ve seen this with always compares it to the other one. I feel like this”—he gestured to the canvas—“never got out of the other’s shadow. I can empathize.”
“The other one is dazzling, while this one is quiet, but both are powerful. Sure, the universe is beautiful, but so is life here on earth.” I squeezed his hand. “This is far more real. My feet are firmly on the ground. Family of accountants, remember?”
“I don’t see you that way. You are an artist trapped within a candy shell of numbers.”
His description was apt, contradictions meshing together into a functional person. I likened myself to a half-lit Christmas tree. Dead bulbs represented all the possibilities, paths, and relationships lost. I didn’t know whether the bulbs could be replaced or if the defect was permanent.
We left the Musée d’Orsay at closing time. As promised, Marc took me to a nearby patisserie. Pink and blue morning glories and vines covered the two-story building as if nature wanted to reclaim the brick. The balcony above the entrance carried a window box bursting with pansies and daisies along its wrought iron railing. The green doors were wedged open. Inside, the furniture was painted in different colors as landscape murals covered the walls. Marc ordered a slew of sweet treats as we sipped our lemonade.
“What do you think about the two truths one lie?” he asked, stirring his drink. While he spoke, he covered the end of the straw with his index finger, lifted the straw from the cup, and then released his finger, allowing the trapped liquid to flow back into the drink. The repetitive gesture was mesmerizing.
“I think the poker player statement is your lie. The other two fit with what I know about you so far.”
“Does this mean you have a guess?”
“I will after you answer my question: If you can serve me one dish you’ve made, which would it be? A galantine or a croquembouche?”
The galantine was pressed deboned meat encased in aspic, the other, a tower of cream puffs with strands of spun sugar as garlands. I preferred the taste of the latter. Both were notorious in their level of difficulty and considered benchmark dishes in their field.
Marc arched a dark brow and smiled. “Those are tricky to make. I’ve made both, but I’m better at the croquembouche.”
“You’re a pastry chef, aren’t you?”
He laughed and then clapped. “You’re brilliant. What gave it away, other than the last question?”
“Your hands. My aunties are amazing cooks, and I’ve seen similar marks on them. The homemade jam showed you have skill, but at the time, I wasn’t sure if it was a hobby or a vocation.”
“Let’s have a toast then to your impressive detective skills.” He raised his glass. “Well played.”
I tipped my head as a substitute for a curtsy and lifted my drink. “Thank you.”
The lemonade’s refreshing sweetness and tang rushed onto my tongue. The enchantment of Paris and the company of this charming man almost made me forget why I was here.
Almost.
In the depths of the lemonade, a vision came to me.