by Kiera Zane
But now, looking directly at the da Vinci’s painting, Caitlyn could see the true beauty of the figure. The pallid greens and browns drew the eyes in, the dark cloak bringing the viewer directly into that famous face. She truly was quite pretty; he soft cheeks rendered with a style so realistic that it seemed to trump nature itself. Her famously smiling mouth was small and cute, her eyes glistened with a mischievousness that gave her expression real depth.
Of course, it was the depth of that expression that had given rise to so many interpretations of the portrait over the years, in particular that tiny half-smile.
“Do you think it’s true, that this is really a self-portrait of Leonardo himself, and that that’s why she’s smiling?”
Julien looked down at Caitlyn, then back up at the portrait. “Is the the master himself, smiling at his own disguise? His secret lover, smiling at their hidden passion and their unknown trysts? Was she in truth a lesbian hiding her affinity from the paternal order of Europe in her day? For myself, I do not want to know why she is smiling, or who she really was. That is the great essence of the piece, the inspiration it provides for people all over the world; to wonder, to question, to care. The painting is greater than all others because it involves the participation of the view more than all others. You don’t simply look upon the Mona Lisa as you do other paintings; you communicate with it.”
Caitlyn couldn’t take her eyes off him; the majesty of his awe, the strength of his vulnerability.
And there was even more to see in that amazing museum, all of it made even more incredible with Julien’s company and knowledge and perspective. He was as well-educated as he was well-spoken, as enamored by the romance of the art as she was by the art of romance.
They walked through the Egyptian antiquities department, which looked like it was housed in the central chambers of one of the Great Pyramids. The Tanis Sphinx sat like a sentinel at the entrance.
“Amazing empire, the Egyptians,” Julien said. “Architectural accomplishments we cannot replicate today even with all our computers and machinery.”
“Not to mention brain surgery,” Caitlyn said, Julien’s brows rising, impressed. Caitlyn said, “Well, not all Americans are uneducated.”
“No, of course not... all,” Julien said, eliciting a relieved chuckle from them both.
They made their way to the Galerie d'Apollon, above the Petite Galerie. “It was destroyed by fire in 1661,” Julien explained as they strolled through the ornate gallery, veined marble encrusted with gold trimming. “It was rebuilt by Le Vau. The ceiling, begun by Le Brun, is an homage to the Sun King, Louis XIV.”
Caitlyn looked up at the painting on the ceiling, bursting with light and life; panels of muscular gods aloft in the clouds.
“Apollo Slaying the Serpent Python,” Caitlyn said. “Delacroix, 1851.” She’d done a report on the painting for Prof. Daniels’ class, which was the only reason she knew it as quickly as she did. But if she gave her handsome Frenchman the idea that she was even sharper and better-educated than she actually was, that was a misunderstanding Caitlyn was more than willing to let slide.
“You’re quite a bit more worldly than you appear, Caitlyn, even among the most advanced young women here in Paris. You’re an art lover, that is clear.” He took her hand and raised it gently to his face, his eyes combing over its gentle curves, her long fingers trembling. “You paint as well, no?”
“I... I do,” Caitlyn managed to say, suddenly struggling to find her breath. “I... how did you know?”
“I can feel the energy pulsing within you, Caitlyn. I can hear the hearts of the masters beating in your delicate pulse. I can sense you love of color, of shape, of texture. These are fingers that know what cannot be seen but which must be shown; the invisible vibrations of the eons, the chords that vibrate down to the very centers of our being, our very human core.”
Oh, go on, Caitlyn wanted to say, what complete bullshit. I’ll bet you pull this on all the young women you try to seduce.
But in the lingering silence, Caitlyn’s unheard inner voice added, No, don’t stop; I mean, go on, go on!
Caitlyn eased her hand out of Julien’s. “I wouldn’t dream of calling myself a painter in here.”
Julien smiled as they stepped forward, deeper into the museum. “On the contrary, mademoiselle, this is Paris; here, you must dream! To dream is to live, and to live is to dream.”
Caitlyn smiled to recall her first thoughts on the cab into Paris. She really had stepped into another world. And she’d found what, and who, she was looking for.
After several more hours at the Louvre, Julien shared a cab with her back to her rented condo.
“I will pick you up at eight,” he said.
Caitlyn’s first instinct was to be offended. I beg your pardon? You dare to presume that I’ll accept a dinner invitation from you? You may be handsome and somewhat erudite, but that doesn’t mean I’ll just fall down at your feet. You Frenchman really are arrogant and pompous, aren’t you? You make me sick.
Instead, Caitlyn could only nod and offer a half-smile worthy of the Mona Lisa herself. “See you then.”
Chapter Three: Champagne d’Eiffel
Julien arrived precisely on time, wearing a black-on-black Louis Vuitton suit with a lavender shirt and black tie. He looked beyond dignified, so sharp that he almost seemed dangerous.
Caitlyn put on the best thing she had; an Orient blue lace yoke crepe gown, with delicate lace trimmed in fringed scallops to fashion the short sleeves and sheer, paneled back of a subtly textured back and two leg-baring slits. The rich blue material hugged her slender hips, her narrow waist, her perfectly rounded breasts resting in its gentle confines.
Caitlyn anticipated at least one fancy night out, and she was glad she’d come prepared.
She put her hair up, alluring ringlets hanging down in front of her ears and tracing the curves of her long, creamy neck; drawing the eye, the mouth.
“Caitlyn, how beautiful you are tonight,” Julien said, “gorgeous.”
“You’re very kind,” she said with a polite nod.
“I am not merely being polite.” Julien’s French accent coating his grainy but perfect English. “Surely, you realize.”
“It is still very kind of you to say so.”
“How crude your American men must be, for you not even to expect the compliment. Mon Dieu, I’d say it to you morning, noon and night if I were given the chance.”
Caitlyn smiled. “It might not be so true morning, noon and night.”
Stepping out of the condo and into the back of a waiting limousine, Caitlyn took another look at Julien’s black suit, the smiling chauffeur and wondered, Just how rich is this guy?
Well, she recalled, I’ve seen boys pay more than this for prom night, it’s not really a huge deal. What’s a limo for the night, a few hundred bucks?
The Haliwells weren’t fabulously wealthy, but Harrison did well enough so that a ride in a limousine wouldn’t necessarily bowl Caitlyn over. If this dapper Frenchman really wanted to sweep her off her feet, Caitlyn felt he may have been betting his last franc on the wrong horse.
The windows rolled up black around them, even the glass partition between them and the driver, just as Caitlyn was glancing at him for a friendly greeting. Julien said, “He prefers to concentrate on the road.”
Don’t you think that was a little rude? she wanted to ask, but instead shrugged and nodded as if compliant to the driver’s wishes.
Julien was already opening the Champagne bottle, the loud pop filling the back of the limo. Caitlyn looked over with a shock that turned quickly to a look of pleasant surprise.
“In Paris, the Champagne flows like the Seine. At least, it does for you.” He filled a crystal flute and handed it to Caitlyn and then filled one for himself, replacing the bottle into a silver bucket lined with white linen and filled with cubes of ice. He leaned his flute toward her and she did the same, the crystal clinking between them.
“To your bea
uty,” he said.
Caitlyn smiled and nodded demurely, preferring to accept the compliment rather than hand it off to the beauty of Paris or some other more humble retort.
“En haut,” Julien said as Caitlyn was sipping the Champagne, tart and sparkling on her watering tongue. Reading Caitlyn’s confused expression, he explained, “Up, I prefer your hair up. You wore it down this afternoon, and it was quite lovely. But up, as it is, revealing your shoulders, very elegant, regal. Digne de la cour, we would say; worthy of the court.”
“Well, I’m not anybody’s idea of a princess, but you sure have a way of making a girl feel special. I’m not about to believe you don’t do this all the time.”
Julien nodded as he considered, shrugging and sipping and letting a lonesome gaze drift to the inky black of the window at his side. “Funny,” he said, “sometimes we can’t see that which is right in front of our faces.” With that, the window rolled down, revealing the lighted streets of Paris beyond, a gust of chilly air sweeping in around them. “Until we pull back the shades that blind us,” Julien added, “and reveal the truth of the beauty all around us.”
Wow, Caitlyn had to admit to herself that was like something out of Shakespeare. This guy can’t possibly be for real! But if this Julien is some kind of French Don Juan, he’s certainly very good at it. Why not go along for the ride? I’ll know when things have gone too far. Until then, how often am I going to be in Paris with some strange, handsome man who loves art history and takes me around the city in the back of a limousine?
Julien said, “You are not the first woman I’ve dated, Caitlyn. Do you think that deduction worthy of Poirot?”
“No, of course not, and of course I’m not, it’s... it’s just that, a girl in my position has to be on her toes, right?” Caitlyn wasn’t sure why she was suddenly stammering, so quickly concerned that she had overstepped her bounds and mistreated his hospitality or generosity. Then she found the answers; because she was raised to be gracious and well-mannered and not inconsiderate and ungrateful. And because she liked this man and genuinely didn’t want to hurt his feelings, never mind anybody else’s.
And because the last thing she wanted was for the evening to come to an abrupt and unfortunate end.
But there was little more she could say. It was Julien’s limo, it was his offense to take or leave behind. It was his move.
Julien raised his Champagne flute and said, “Forgive my rudeness, please; an unforgivable oversight on my part.”
In a voice that was deliberately formal but not exaggeratedly so, Caitlyn said, “Allow half the blame to be mine and you will be forgiven.”
They clinked their flutes again and drained them, Julien reaching for the bottle. “Maîtresse, embrasse-moi, baise-moi, serre-moi,” he said, the French words rolling from his grainy throat. “Haleine contre haleine, échauffe-moi la vie / Mille et mille baisers donne-moi je te prie / Amour veut tout sans nombre, amour n'a point de loi.”
She waited, sanguine in the sultry silence that wrapped around the echoing of those wondrous words so fresh in her memory. She didn’t need to ask for a translation; she didn’t need to say a thing. He was reading her mind now, sensing her thoughts, feeling the vibrations of her body as a ripple of pleasure passed through her; up from her hips to her heart, pounding behind her chest, and down to her curling toes.
So low that it was almost a whisper, Julien said, “Mistress, embrace me, kiss me, hold me tight / breath against breath, breathe me life / thousand and thousand kisses give me I beg you /
Love wants everything without condition, love has no law.”
A knot rose in Caitlyn’s throat, blocking her pointlessly clumsy compliments on the loveliness of the poetry or the greatness and wisdom of its creator, whose identity was completely foreign to Caitlyn’s consciousness and just as irrelevant.
Around them, the limo slowed to a halt just as their faces began to draw closer together, the dark intimacy and slow rolling of the vehicle lulling them into a moment of delicate but inevitable collision.
But the inevitable would have to wait.
The driver pulled Caitlyn’s door open and she turned away from Julien to step out ito the Paris night, the cool night air tracing the backs of her legs.
The Eiffel Tower stood before them, tall and imposing, like the metal skeleton of a tower more akin to the medieval structures around it. Well-lit with white bulbs, it looked almost like the ghost of a tower, an artistic representation that never could have been intended for regular use.
Because it never was. Erected for the Paris Exposition of 1889, the tower was only left standing because of its usefulness in radio and television broadcasting, despite the almost riotous protestations of the Parisian artistic and architectural communities, which called it monstrous and and useless.
It has since become a symbol of not only Paris but of all France, perhaps the most recognizable such symbol there was. Funny how things can transcend their station, Caitlyn thought to herself, unable to resist drawing parallels to her own life.
They took the elevator past the first level, where shops and a restaurant catered to most of the tourists. The second level was where the other restaurant, the Jules Verne, and the higher-end shops catered to the more well-to-do visitor.
Julien had a table waiting, even though Caitlyn distinctly heard another American tourist just a few feet away mention that it took weeks to get a reservation there.
She didn’t allow it to bother her too much. Could be he keeps a bunch of reservations like this open, she reasoned. This is Saturday night, after all, and like he said, I’m not his first date.
Though I may just be his last.
Paris was spread out beyond the windows like a sea of light, twinkling and shimmering in the starry darkness, the lights off the tower itself casting a golden loom over the window.
Julien said, “You can see why Paris has such a hold on the human heart, and always has.”
“And always will, I imagine.” Her mind skipped across the innumerable sights she’d already taken in; the great artworks in the Louvre, the Arc.
Julien.
A waiter arrived and Julien muttered a stream of French at him, the words charging past Caitlyn’s ear at a volume too low to decipher even if she could hope to translate. But she knew Julien was ordering for them both, which she allowed and even enjoyed. It had an old-world sophistication. It meant that Julien was in control, knew what he wanted and how to get it. What was more, it meant to Caitlyn that he knew what she wanted, and how to give it to her.
She said, “What a day this has been. I’m still reeling from the Louvre this afternoon. That Portrait de l’ariste tenant un chardon, the expression in his face...”
“Heartbreaking, yet it fills the heart with strength at the same time.” Julien nodded. “That is France, that is Paris.”
“And the colors, the textures, in the Fra Angelico, like I could reach out and touch those royal robes.”
“Sometimes the things which seem the forever beyond our reach are those things which are the closest to us.”
His words rang in her soul, her body reacting to the growly syllables, the grainy vowels, the rustic consonants as they wafted toward her; spiraling around her head, dizzying. The waiter brought two plates of escargot, snails seared in oil and presented swimming in garlic butter with their own shells.
It didn’t look good, but the texture was soft, almost creamy as the meaty little au d'eurves slid down her throat; taste buds jumping with the scintillating garlic, leaving a flavorful, buttery coating on her tongue.
“So many religious paintings,” Caitlyn said. “Beautiful though they are, I’m afraid some of their grandeur was lost on me.”
“You are not a believer in the Christ, or in the Lord?”
Caitlyn shook her head, small shakes that sent her blonde ringlets brushing against her cheeks. “I’m not against it, the way a lot of people are. I think religion brings a lot of solace and comfort to a lot of people, and chur
ches do a lot of good things for the community. I just wasn’t raised to believe all that stuff. I guess we’re more of a science household.”
“Ah, the Age of Reason,” Julien said. “Newton, Hume, Darwin, Voltaire. The giants of human thought.”
“Not that I think religious people are stupid, mind you.”
“Have you ever read the bible?” Caitlyn shook her head again, and Julien added, “Two-thousand pages, encompassing a thousand years of history, sophisticated military strategies that are still used to this day, some of the most beautiful and oft-quoted poetry in all of the human experience. It is not for stupid people.”
“Well, that’s what I mean,” Caitlyn said, another little escargot sliding into her mouth before commingling with her teeth and tongue to take the quick slide down her throat. “My God, these things are delicious. I had no idea.”
“But they are not the most delicious thing you’ve ever had.”
“No, but -- ”
“What is?” Caitlyn took a moment to consider, so Julien went on to say, “Your favorite food, your favorite color, your most treasured possession. I want to know everything about you, down to the smallest detail. Please, I need you to share these things with me, Caitlyn.”
But... why? she wanted to ask.
“But... why?” she asked.
Julien just gazed at her, his eyes smiling with a twinkle of romantic dedication. No, Caitlyn had to correct herself. Determination.
Caitlyn took a sip of the chardonnay that was sitting in the chilled glass next to her; she hadn’t even noticed the waiter bring it. It was chilly and refreshing, wiping her tongue clean, bracing the insides of her cheeks, which twitched with delight.
“Well, I guess lobster is my favorite food, which isn’t so different from escargot; kind of a big bug that lives under the sea, I guess. My favorite color is green, deep forest green.”
