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.