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.”