Marc laughed. “My lola knows what I do. She’s proud of it.”
This ruled out a small list of occupations that ranged from escort to hit man. I needed more clues. I prided myself on being right on the first try, even if it took more time and effort.
We found two unoccupied chairs to the left of the fountain. He scooted his chair closer to mine and we worked side by side. I used graphite pencils, focusing on capturing the figures of the lovers. My pencil glided across the page to break the figures down to their basic shapes and proportions. I had always sketched for myself. On occasion, I would show my parents or Uncle Michael. Now, I had an audience: I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious about my skills.
I checked on Marc. He worked with ink. Instead of sketching the entire fountain or the figures, he concentrated on the architectural details: the crest, the arch, the columns. Two pages of vignettes.
“Can you tell me who they are?” I asked, gesturing to the sculpture.
“The lovers are Acis and Galatea, and the Cyclops, Polyphemus, is the voyeur.”
As I suspected, the subjects were from Greek mythology. When I was younger, I loved reading about them, problematic gods and mortals with messy lives creating a swarm of dysfunctional relatives. It was familial stress I could consume for entertainment.
“Isn’t Polyphemus the Cyclops who Odysseus tricked?” I asked.
“Yes, the same one. After he found the two, he crushed Acis with his bare hands. Galatea saved him and turned him into an immortal river spirit like her. A rare happy ending.”
Inspired by the story, I flipped to the final page of the sketchbook and listed the names and location. It was a habit I acquired when I visited museums with my family, collecting Greek mythological figures and references and keeping a running tally.
“Have you seen the Panthéon?” he asked. “It’s nearby.”
“Not yet. This is my first Parisian attraction.” When I realized I’d been staring at him when I said the last three words, I blushed. Classic Freudian slip.
The corner of his mouth tipped upward. “I have a few days off. If you want, I can help you add more names to the list you started.”
I waited five heartbeats before saying yes.
* * *
* * *
We visited the palace on the grounds, marveling at the architecture. Maria de’ Medici’s taste at the fountain extended here to the ceiling murals and ornate doorways. Though the building had changed owners and functions, and was now where the French Senate convened, it kept its name. Her influence endured.
“How about lunch before we head to the Panthéon?” he asked as we walked back outside to the gardens.
“Please, show me where the good food is.”
“You’re a foodie?”
“Yes. A huge one. Are you?”
His answer would determine whether I’d be interested in seeing the city through his eyes. Lack of appreciation for good food was a deal breaker. I once tried to date a charming guy who worked at a car dealership. He took me to a greasy spoon. The meal was as horrible as the date. It ended when I predicted he would be denied a promotion, a rare time when a prediction helped me. I wanted to walk out. Instead, he stormed out in a huff, denying me the opportunity.
As long as I didn’t call this a date, I could avoid all the mishaps associated with a Vanessa Yu classic. Marc was a nice stranger offering to show me around the city. A polite Canadian showing this American tourist around. It was nothing more than a kind gesture; though, if I was honest with myself, I wanted more.
“Yes. Why don’t I show you one of my favorite cafés in the sixth arrondissement?” he asked.
“I’d love that.” I tucked a stray strand of my hair back into place. “How long have you been here in Paris?”
“About three years. Long enough to explore the city on my own,” Marc replied. He withdrew a mini Moleskine notebook from the side pocket of his bag. “This has all my secrets and tips including the best places to eat. If you guess my job, you’ll get to see it. I’m surprised you haven’t made an attempt yet.”
“I need more data and time. I don’t want to guess unless I’m sure.” Game nights with the cousins, along with the softball tourney every summer, guaranteed my generation’s spirit of competitiveness. Plus, guessing the right answer too early wouldn’t be in my best interests.
Ten
This is the best sandwich I have ever tasted,” I declared before taking another bite.
Marc grinned. “Croque monsieur is one of the many local delicacies. It’s a simple sandwich with three vital components: great bread, ham, and melted cheese. Simple, but fantastic.”
The crisp, buttery bread contrasted with the spicy, textured Dijon, salty paper-thin slices of smoked ham, and scorched, melted Emmentaler over it all. The extra ingredient was arugula, which added a touch of peppery bitterness. I’d never been a sandwich person, but today I was converted. The quality of the bread was the catalyst. It was fresh and thick. Everything before had been on the chewy side, reminding me of glorified masticated leather.
The crust on this bread crumbled under the perfect pressure, and the delightful crackling noises it made in my mouth were culinary fireworks. The distinct aroma of it being freshly baked added to its allure.
“That’s about how I reacted when I had my first sandwich here. I’ll have you know that this is good, very good even, but not the best.”
I wanted to protest, but I kept my mouth shut for fear I’d lose the delicious contents inside.
“My job is what brought me here. What brings you to Paris?” he asked.
His career was creative and required specific relocation. I filed the tidbit away. “I’m keeping my aunt company. She is opening up a tea shop on rue de Montalembert.”
“That area has a ton of tourist traffic. She should do well there. Is she making her own or importing?”
“The family business is tea imports. I think she also makes her own blends because my aunties keep asking for custom mixes.”
Auntie Faye and Ma would often consult with Aunt Evelyn regarding special blends for a host of ailments, from something as innocuous as a unique iced tea to serve to important guests to embarrassing cures for problems I didn’t even want to know about. My aunt had kept business talk to a minimum. I imagined she would open up more once I started helping her out at the shop.
“There are more food places to try tomorrow,” he said. “I can also take you to more attractions.”
I wiped the corners of my mouth. “You’re being awfully nice. I can see why Canadians have the reputation.”