Someday in Paris Read online

  *

  Zara wondered what it was about that book that got her so interested. Inside there were lilies, more lilies, tens of variations, trees, forests, a thousand angles.

  She flipped a few more pages, and her eyes rested on a ghostly painting. A lonely boat in the middle of the ocean, a red ball of fire in the sky. She stared at it; hypnotized. Impression, Sunrise. Claude Monet, 1872.

  The dream she had the night before. The reason she was there that afternoon, looking for the first time for an art book about paintings, rather than sculpture, architecture, and art restoration. She closed her eyes, trying to remember all the details in the dream.

  It was a room full of people. The men were dressed in nice suits and the women in long, sparkly dresses. And she was standing right in the middle of them all. They had glasses of champagne in their hands and talked loudly. Music played quietly in the background. Someone said something to her, but she didn’t understand. Or maybe she didn’t hear. Where was she? It seemed to be her museum in Colmar, but different. Bigger, brighter. The walls were covered in paintings. Paintings she knew so well. But how and why did she know them? She had never cared for paintings.

  Zara walked towards the corner of the room and found herself in front of a mirror. Who was that woman looking back at her? It wasn’t her. Not the ‘her’ she knew. She was old, well, not old but her mother’s age perhaps. Her hair was long and wavy. She never wore her hair like that. A tiara-like headband? A long, flowy emerald-green dress and high heels? It could only be a dream. A fantasy. She would never look like that, no matter how many years passed.

  She closed her eyes and started humming Edith Piaf’s ‘Hymne a l’Amour’, almost unwillingly. When she opened her eyes, in the mirror, behind her, she saw someone. A man. Her pulse quickened, her legs felt weak, and she had to hold on to a chair, afraid she would fall. She couldn’t see his face, yet she knew what he looked like. She knew who he was. She just knew.

  ‘I don’t know if in this life or maybe in my dreams,’ she heard. It was him, wasn’t it? His voice. Almost like a whisper.

  Zara turned around, but he wasn’t there. She turned to her right, to her left. He was gone. Like he’d vanished. That’s when she saw it. Covering an entire wall. More impressive than all other paintings. Breathtaking. The Monet.

  Yes, the painting in the dream was the painting in the book. She had found it. Now what? What did it all mean? Who was the woman in the mirror? Was it her? What about the man?

  Zara felt even now that sensation she couldn’t describe. In the morning, she woke up with tears in her eyes and now she was almost crying again. What in that dream had made her so emotional?

  The lights in the library flickered for a moment then went off. It wasn’t the first time the old museum had had a total blackout. Zara checked the pockets of her cardigan for her flashlight. It wasn’t there. She’d been in such a rush when she left the house, she must’ve forgotten it. That dream had completely dazed her.

  Never mind. With or without her flashlight, she could return the book to its place, then sneak out like nothing happened.

  She got up when the wall clock chimed loudly six times in the main gallery. Six o’clock? Was the museum closing? Had she really been staring at the painting for that long? What would she do now? Every day, five minutes after six o’clock, the museum’s guard and curator – the watchdog as she’d nicknamed him – always did his rounds.

  ‘Oh, no, this is bad.’ It was bad. The watchdog had warned her mother time and time again to keep her out of the rare books section of the library, or she’d lose her job: ‘This is for scholars only. Fifteen-year-old girls should read Jules Verne and Alexandre Dumas, not art history. There is a kids’ section in the town library, a couple of streets away. Go there,’ he’d said to her a few months before when he caught her browsing through an eighteenth-century tome. ‘This is your last warning.’

  That’s when she decided to hide. What else could she do? She had already read all the books about Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi and Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc she could find. There was nothing left for her in the public library. But here, inside the rare books section, she had discovered a hidden treasure. Albums, notes, drawings and photos of their work, even le-Duc’s own books. Facsimiles of their handwriting. Bartholdi’s drawings and plans for the statue. She had to see them. This was all she had been interested in for years. While other kids were outside playing, she was sitting in her room reading. Teaching herself art. Hiding inside the museum was the least she could do for her passion.

  Why did I do this? It was just a dream. I wasn’t supposed to be back here until Saturday morning. None of this would’ve happened if I had just let it go.

  Footsteps. Coming her way, echoing through the empty hallway. They closed in then slowed down until they stopped right next to her. She couldn’t see anything. It was pitch black. She held her breath, pressing her back against the wall while trying to tuck the book behind her. ‘Hello?’ she heard next to her.

  It wasn’t the curator. Zara didn’t move a muscle and held her breath.

  He repeated. ‘Hello?’ and this time it sounded even closer.

  ‘The museum is closed,’ she said bravely.

  ‘It wasn’t closed when I walked in. What happened to the lights? Can you turn them on?’

  He was trying so hard to sound French, she snickered.

  ‘I wish. The power went out.’

  ‘I don’t really know what I’m doing here,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘That makes two of us,’ said Zara. ‘I wasn’t even supposed to be here today.’

  ‘Is this your museum, mademoiselle?’

  Zara burst into laughter.

  He was quiet for a moment, and Zara felt terrible for laughing at him. She knew better.

  ‘I’m sorry. My French isn’t so good. I’m trying to find a painting. It might not even be here but, for some reason—’

  ‘Which painting?’ she interrupted.

  ‘Monet’s Impression, Sunrise.’

  Zara gulped. The one in the dream. The one in the book. She got so flustered, she forgot she was holding the book and let go. It fell to the floor with a loud thump.

  Startled, she stepped to the left but stumbled onto something, losing her balance. Just as she almost hit the floor, he caught her with a strength she didn’t expect. He let go of her arms and their hands touched accidentally. Her heart beat fast. She wasn’t scared of him or the dark. It was just a strange sensation. Zara pulled back, embarrassed. What she felt in that moment for this boy she couldn’t even see, this boy she didn’t even know, was quite impossible and it both scared and fascinated her. A familiar, warm sensation. A tingling in her fingers, a fluttering in the pit of her stomach. Why was it familiar if she had never felt it before?

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Are you alright? I was just trying to help.’

  ‘I’m f-fine,’ she stuttered.

  ‘I found it,’ he said, a moment later. ‘What book is this? It’s so heavy.’

  She hesitated. ‘Monet’s Impressionism.’

  ‘Really? Now that’s what I call a coincidence. I have the exact same book. Well, I used to. My father gave it to me, but unfortunately, I left it on the train when I returned to school in September. I think there are only fifty copies in the entire world, and they’re all numbered, and every sale is recorded. It’s a pretty special book. How amazing you have it too, right?’

  ‘I guess,’ she said.

  ‘So, you like Monet?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about Monet.’

  ‘Why do you have the book then? Do you like art?’

  ‘I like Bartholdi and Viollet-le-Duc if that counts.’

  ‘Never heard of them,’ the boy said in a low, timid voice.

  ‘I’m not surprised. They’re not as famous as painters are, for instance.’

  ‘Yes, I love painters. Well, I mean I love paintings. Mostly by Monet. I like Cezanne too. Degas, sometimes. Pissarro. Manet
less. Renoir is okay too. And Toulouse-Lautrec—’

  He spoke so fast. She stopped him. ‘Can I have it back now?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The book.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, of course.’

  Zara stretched out her arms just a bit and felt the edges of the book. He let go of it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re not from around here, are you? Your accent—’

  ‘I’m from New York. But I go to school in Switzerland.’

  Apart from Paris, New York was her favorite city in the whole world even if, just like Paris, she had never seen it. She knew everything about it. New York was every artist’s dream. The skyscrapers, the fantastic architecture, the bridges, the statues, the parks. She had read many books about the city and even more about the statue.

  ‘You’re lucky. I’ve always wanted to visit New York. Maybe one day. I’m fascinated with Liberty Enlightening the World,’ she said in one breath.

  ‘Enlightening what?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘The statue. The Statue of Liberty. That’s what it was initially called. Did you know the mastermind behind it lived here, in Colmar? The old town is filled with his sculptures and fountains. They’re magnificent.’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Colmar is not just a pretty small town on the Alsatian wine route. But let’s keep it between us because if word gets out, this place will be swarming with tourists.’

  He chuckled, and her heart fluttered. She tried imagining what the face of a boy with such beautiful laughter looked like. She wondered if you could like someone without seeing them, without knowing anything about them. There was something about him. Something that made her feel things she’d never felt before.

  ‘Too late. I’m a tourist, so your secret is out. Tell me about this man who built the statue.’

  ‘He didn’t build it; he designed it. You know who built it? Gustave Eiffel, the same man who made the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Don’t feel bad, not a lot of people know this.’

  ‘But you do,’ he said. ‘Hey, you never answered my question.’

  ‘What question?’

  ‘The painting. Is it here?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ she said. ‘In Paris, perhaps. Like I said, I am not that good with—’

  ‘Paintings,’ he said and chuckled. ‘Apparently neither am I.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘Well, at least I tried.’

  ‘Did you come all the way from Switzerland for this? What’s so special about it?’ Maybe there was something about Impression, Sunrise that would explain her dream.

  ‘It belongs to my family.’

  ‘Really? Then how come you don’t know where it is?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘My mother says that everything worthwhile is at least a little bit complicated. Besides, I’m in no rush. Tell me,’ she said, sitting on the floor next to him.

  She forgot about the watchdog, about getting caught. It didn’t seem to matter anymore.

  ‘Alright then. Claude Monet made four identical Impression, Sunrise paintings. One he signed, the other three he kept secret and gave to his closest friends – among them, my great-grandfather. Years later, during World War II, the painting was stolen from our family’s house in Newport.’

  ‘And someone told you it might be in Colmar?’ asked Zara.

  ‘Not exactly. No. I just – I felt I had to come here. Not sure why. I saw the signs pointing to the museum, and here I am.’

  ‘I’m sorry you didn’t find what you were looking for,’ she said.

  ‘I…’ Silence.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ he said quietly.

  Zara’s pulse quickened.

  ‘Well, now you know why I am here. What about you? Why are you hiding in the dark?’

  ‘My mother works for the museum, but I’m not allowed inside. Not in the art library at least. You must be an adult and even then, you need the curator’s permission.’

  ‘What does she do? Is she in charge of the collections? Is your father into art too? They sound like my family – collectors of everything, keepers of nothing. Paintings, drawings, sketches, sculptures. Anything they can get their hands on. Our summer house in Newport is filled with them. And our apartment in New York.’

  He was speaking very quickly again, not even stopping to take a breath.

  ‘I doubt our families are alike, although yours sounds lovely. My mother cleans the museum. Sometimes she also takes care of the books. Puts them all back on shelves, in order. Back in Romania, she was a literature teacher at the university,’ she said.

  ‘You lived there too? My father went there once; he said it’s pretty.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I was born in Romania but only lived there for a few years.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My father died when I was little, and then we moved here.’

  Talking about it always made Zara feel sad, although she barely remembered him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Not your fault. Not anybody’s fault, I guess. Well, except for the war.’

  ‘Why isn’t your mom a teacher in France too?’

  ‘For years now, she has been trying to go back to teaching, but it’s hard to do that in a small town like Colmar. There are plenty of universities in Paris though, and she just took her last teaching exam so now she can get a job there. I really hope it will happen soon. She wants this so much.’

  ‘I hope so too. Paris is amazing. Or so I’ve heard.’

  She chuckled. ‘You’ve never been to Paris?’

  ‘Not yet. You?’

  She shook her head then remembered he couldn’t see her.

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Is that why you’re into art? Because your mom works in the museum?’

  ‘Not really, no. I think that’s from my great-aunt, my grandmother’s sister. She was the artist in the family.’

  ‘Was?’ he asked.

  ‘Unfortunately, she died a few years ago. But when I was young, I used to stay home with her while my mother was at work. She was in her nineties and could barely see, but she still found her way around the house, and I remember her gathering a huge pile of art books every morning and making me read them to her. Page by page. And in the afternoons, she would take me around town to show me the sculptures we had just seen in the books and tell me their stories. I didn’t understand much, but I was fascinated. When she died, I kind of carried on her passion and I continued reading and learning. And when I finished all the books in the public library, I discovered the museum.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear she passed away. She sounds amazing.’

  ‘Thank you. She was.’

  ‘Now it’s just the two of you alone here?’

  ‘Pretty much. Alone, but not lonely. Colmar is a special town.’

  ‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘Too bad I didn’t get a chance to see much of anything in Colmar. Like those sculptures.’

  ‘I could show them to you later. It’s not a big town and it won’t take us long. And not just the sculptures. There are a few places unlike anything you’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Like what? Tell me.’

  ‘I could take you to see the winding waterways and the medieval streets to understand why Colmar is called “Little Venice”. Then there’s my favorite bakery that sells kugelhopf and the best croissants in all of France. And the little Statue of Liberty – yes, we have that too. The French Neo-Baroque and German Gothic architecture, which I can’t let you miss. And you must see three fountains that have Bartholdi’s statues as centerpieces. Words can’t describe them. Colmar is just—’

  ‘Magical.’

  ‘Magical.’

  They were both quiet for a few moments.

  ‘Why the Monet book?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Why were you holding the Monet book earlier? Why that one of all the books?�
�

  She took a deep breath. ‘I – I’m not sure. I really don’t know anything about painting.’

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Let’s see. Do you know, for instance, who the most prolific painter is?’

  ‘Dead or alive?’

  ‘Whichever.’

  ‘Picasso?’

  ‘Seriously? You said you don’t know anything about painting.’

  ‘It was just a lucky guess. Try again.’

  ‘Fine. Do you know the name of the town in Starry Night?’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘Vincent van Gogh’s Starry Night. The blue and yellow painting.’

  ‘Oh, yes, wait. I know this. The mayor visited the town. It’s in France.’

  He was quiet.

  ‘Remy? Saint-Remy?’

  He scoffed, amused. ‘You’re making fun of me.’

  ‘No, why? Am I right?’

  ‘Of course you are right.’

  ‘It was just a coincidence.’

  ‘I don’t believe in coincidences.’

  ‘Try again.’

  ‘Last time. Do you know why some painters are called Impressionists?’

  ‘Because they painted their impressions of… no, I don’t know.’

  ‘Finally, something you don’t know.’

  They both chuckled. ‘Because of Monet and his most famous painting. The one I am looking for. Impression, Sunrise. Get it? Impression. Impressionism.’

  ‘See? You know things I don’t.’

  ‘Barely. Truth is, I never met anyone interested in art before. Anyone my age, I mean.’

  ‘How do you know we’re the same age?’

  ‘I don’t know, you just sound my age, I guess. How old are you?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘I just turned sixteen,’ he said and paused. ‘You and I, I think we’d make a great team. Maybe you could help me find the Monet.’

  ‘What will your father do with the painting after you find it? Is it worth a lot?’

  ‘Millions. But he’d never sell it. I’m sure he’ll donate it to the Monet museum in Paris.’

  ‘There’s a Monet museum in Paris?’

  ‘Yes. The Marmottan.’

  ‘I don’t know many people who would give up millions of francs.’