“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.