by Josh Lanyon
At seven o'clock, right on the button, Thomas knocked on his door and Colin's heart leaped in his throat with something very like stage fright.
He was smiling at the ridiculousness of that thought as he opened the door and Thomas smiled back.
“Hey.” Thomas wore dark jeans, navy turtle neck and a leather jacket. He looked unreasonably sexy even in this city that prized elegance and sophistication so highly.
“Hello.” Colin stepped back and Thomas walked into his small, tidy flat. “Did you have any trouble finding it?”
“Nope. I'm very good at finding things.” Thomas answered absently, looking around, checking it out. There was not a lot to see. An “American kitchen” with a two-burner range, refrigerator, and toaster oven. A few essential pieces of furniture: a battered armoire, a small table and chairs, and lots and lots of canvasses and art paraphernalia. In the closet-sized bedroom was a brass bed–the sheets freshly laundered. “It's nice.”
“Thanks. I like it.”
“Smells good.”
Colin nodded. “You should smell it in the morning.”
And perhaps Thomas would, given the way he was smiling as their gazes locked yet again.
This was one of Colin's favorite times of day. The twilight turned a rich indigo and purple and the shadows lengthened on the winding streets below. The first stars twinkled over the rooftops. At this hour the 18th arrondissement looked much like it had in the paintings of Van Gogh.
It smelled just right too: a hint of woodsmoke, a trace of rain, turpentine and paint, all mixed with the heady scent of café crème drifting from downstairs.
Thomas's eyes seemed to promise to consider the possibility, but all he said was, “Quaint little neighborhood. I couldn't park anywhere near.”
“No, it's a pedestrian square.” Artsy and residential. There were several cafés and about a five minute walk to the Metro stop. A lot of old timers complained Montmartre had changed past all recognition, but in Colin's opinion it still had a small village feel to it. Very, very different from anywhere in the States. Montmartre was a nightclub district too, but Colin didn't do nightclubs.
Thomas walked over to one of the stacks of painted canvasses. “You've been busy.”
“Yes. That's what I came for.” His nerves tightened. He knew he wasn't bad. He'd sold a few things–but everyone sold paintings in Paris–and it really mattered to him what Thomas thought of his work. Maybe that was silly because Thomas would probably be the first to admit he was no art expert.
He picked up a canvas; a small study of Cimetière Saint-Vincent.
When he didn't say a word, Colin said self-consciously, “I'm trying to do in oil and alkyds what Brassai did with his photographs. You know, capture that mood, that feeling, that emotional texture of Paris at night, the moonlight shining on the wet streets, the secret walkways and gardens, the shadows of iron railings against brick walls.”
Thomas said slowly, “I don't know who Brassai is but these are…excellent.” He looked up, serious. “Really excellent.”
Colin laughed, scratched his nose in a nervous gesture held over from boyhood. “Thanks. They're not, though. But I'm getting better.”
“I've never seen anything like this. You only paint in black and white? What do you have against color?” Thomas was rallying him, his expression flatteringly impressed as he put the one canvas down and picked up another, this of the Place du Tertre
“Nothing. There's a lot of variation in black and white, you know. Besides, I use browns and grays and blues, too. I want to capture the way Paris tastes and smells, you know?”
“And you think it smells blue?” Thomas was examining the delicate lines and details of the staircase and funicular.
“In the winter. Brown in the autumn.” Colin loved his browns: burnt umber, raw sienna, burnt sienna, cinnamon, nutmeg, chestnut, bister, fawn, russet…
“Green in the spring.” Thomas looked up, his eyes quizzical.
“And summer.” Sometimes–rarely–he used green in his work, very dark green shadings. The greens of moss growing at the base of cracked fountains, or overgrown ivy, or the deepest of forests.
Thomas had picked up another painting. He said slowly, “And black and white at night.”
“Yes,” Colin said, pleased–probably disproportionately so–that Thomas got that. Starlight and black water, empty streets and white tree trunks, old buildings and shadowy figures.
“Looks like a lot of lonely, dangerous places,” Thomas remarked.
Colin kept his expression neutral but it took effort–he felt that instant tensing at the suggestion that he wasn't safe, needed to be more careful, couldn't afford to take chances. Like he didn't already know? Like he needed a reminder? But he was not– refused–to live his life in fear.
“I'm careful.” His voice came out more flat that he'd intended.
Thomas said, “Good. I'm glad.”
It had never occurred to Colin to wonder, if he and the adult Thomas were to meet, whether they might have nothing in common. Might not even get along. The idea saddened him.
Thomas's look grew inquiring. “Something wrong?”
Colin shook his head.
Thomas put the painting aside. “Are you hungry? Did you figure out where we're going?”
Colin shook off the strange flash of melancholy. “I did. Chez Eugene. It's close by the Basilica du Sacré Coeur.”
“Near the place where all the artists hang out.”
“Right.”
“Place de Tertre.”
“Place du Tertre, yes.”
“I was there earlier today.” Thomas seemed about to say more. He changed his mind. “Are we walking or driving?”
“Let me grab a jacket and we can walk. Unless you'd prefer someplace closer?”
“It's a good brisk night for a walk.”
Colin grabbed his jacket and they went downstairs and stepped out into the cold November evening. The cobbled streets were shining in the lamplight. It had rained, but the rain had passed. There was not a cloud in the night sky. The stars sparkled overhead.
They walked and talked, continuing up the winding street to Rue Lepic then turning right towards the intersection of Rue des Saules and Rue St-Rustique. Colin pointed out various places of interest. Interesting to him, anyway. He hoped they were interesting to Thomas. If not, Thomas was good at hiding his boredom.
“The Auberge de la Bonne Franquette was the one of the favorite hang outs of the Impressionists,” Colin said, pointing out the white restaurant as they hiked past. “Toulouse-Lautrec, Utrillo, a lot of penniless artists lived and worked around here–there's a museum dedicated to Dali up there.”
Thomas smiled, his face enigmatic planes and shadows in the lamplight. “I can see why this is Mecca for an artist.”
They followed Rue Poulbot to Place du Calvaire, and at last right round to Place du Tertre. The square was brightly lit and still crowded with artists and easels, the cafés were ablaze with music and lights.
They found Chez Eugene without trouble, the famous brasserie in the shadow of the magnificent Basilique du Sacré Coeur. Outside tables with red umbrellas were charmingly arranged between heaters and romantic globe lamps within a white picket fence.
Inside it was warm and crowded and cheerful. There was confetti on the floor and Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling. There were wooden horses and a musical organ. The waiters were dressed like real Parisian street urchins from the last century, with caps, suspenders, and cravats.
“What do you think?” Colin asked.
He couldn't read Thomas's smile at all. It seemed almost…affectionate. “I like it.”
“Okay, yes there are merry-go-round horses, but the food is great,” Colin said. “You'll see.”
Thomas laughed, but the food was excellent–as was the wine–and the company was even better. Colin had the lobster ravioli and Thomas had the veal, and they sampled each other's meals and talked and drank more wine and smiled into each other's eyes
.
Thomas teased Colin about being a starving artist and Colin teased Thomas about being a cowboy; Thomas was originally from Wyoming and the papers had made a big deal of his “western” background after the daring rescue of Mason Lambert's sole heir. The fact that Colin could joke even about that much was probably a good sign, though Thomas probably didn't even notice.
All too soon they were finishing their melon and sorbet, draining their glasses, and starting the long walk down the hillside steps.
The smoke of their breath hung in the night air. Thomas put his arm around Colin's shoulders and Colin's heart sped up with happy anticipation. He was pretty sure that he and Thomas were going to spend the night together; the very idea made his head lighter than the wine they'd consumed.
Back at Colin's the lack of furniture became apparent when they brought their espressos from downstairs up and sat down at the little table in the uncomfortable wooden chairs. Colin didn't own a sofa and seduction wasn't quite as easy in the kitchen nook, although he was game–and Thomas showed no sign of wanting to bail.
“Are you…seeing anyone?” Colin asked tentatively.
Thomas sipped his espresso. Said in that measured way, “No. I was seeing someone for a while but it turned out we were both married to our jobs.”
“Can't you have both?” Colin cocked his head, and Thomas said slowly, “At the time I didn't think so.”
The look in his eyes brought color to Colin's face.
There was a crash against the wall dividing his apartment from the one next door. He jumped. Even Thomas tensed at that crash, immediately ready for trouble.
“What was that?”
“Oh no,” Colin groaned.
“What?”
“The Sackos are at it again.”
“The what?”
“My neighbors.”
“Are they throwing chairs at each other?”
Never mind the chairs, something that sounded a lot like a kitchen table hit the wall, followed by smashing glass and then raised voices.
Thomas's eyes went wide. “What the heck?”
Colin started to laugh. “I think maybe it's a French thing.”
“Le Homicide?”
“They're not going to kill each other. At least, I don't think so. They never have yet. It's kind of like…you know those beatnik skits of French guys in striped shirts and berets, cigarettes hanging out of their mouths? And they're always throwing around some sleazy mademoiselle. Like in Funny Face.”
Thomas blinked. “I'm not following.”
“Funny Face. It's a film with Audrey Hepburn. She comes to Paris–well, anyway. There's a scene where she does one of those French beatnik dances…”
Thomas looked bemused–but he was grinning. “I see. Your neighbors are on the colorful side.”
“Er, yes.”
More splintering and shattering glass.
“They must be heck on dining ware.”
Colin groaned and then started to laugh again.
Thomas asked mildly, “How long is this likely to last?”
“Hours,” Colin admitted.
Now it was Thomas starting to laugh. “Yeah? Well, why don't we go to my hotel?”
Colin looked hopeful. “Yes?”
“Oh yes.”
Thomas did the drive in record time. He was staying at the Hotel Lutetia in the heart of one of Paris' most fashionable and arty districts, Saint-Germain-des-Prés. The hotel had Art Deco architecture, period furniture, crystal chandeliers, a Michelin-star chef, and the flirtatious notes of sound of jazz music curling from drifting through from the highly popular bar–none of which was remotely of interest to Colin.