Someday in Paris

by Olivia Lara

  ‘I’m sorry. I…’ she said apologetically.

  ‘No need, young lady. I don’t mind company.’ He looked at her for a moment. ‘Have we met before?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Dominique.

  The man nodded, then walked around the room, hands behind his back, looking at the paintings. He stopped in front of a pile of unframed artworks and browsed them.

  Dominique approached him. ‘This is the Fontainebleau Forest, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is indeed; you have a good eye,’ he said, sounding a bit surprised.

  ‘It is not signed. I wonder who the artist is,’ said Dominique, mostly to herself.

  ‘Any guesses?’

  Dominique carefully checked out the paintings on the walls. Then went back and forth between them and the small unsigned canvas a couple of times.

  ‘It’s a Cezanne,’ she said, sounding like she’d had a revelation.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘I believe so. Although it looks like a painting from his early years because of the heavy brushstrokes and thickly layered paint on the canvas. See how the texture of the composition is visible to the naked eye? The only thing that doesn’t match is that early in his career he was mostly doing studio work, not landscapes. Apart from that, it all lines up: the dark shades, the violent nature of the view and angle. It is a Cezanne,’ she said all in one breath.

  She smiled, embarrassed, and felt foolish for jumping in and showing off like a schoolgirl.

  ‘You do know your art, young lady,’ he said.

  ‘Dominique. My name is Dominique,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘I will surely remember that name.’

  The museum’s curator showed up in the doorway. ‘JJ, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. There’s someone upstairs who is dying to meet you.’

  The old man took a small notepad from his shirt pocket and wrote something on it.

  ‘If you’re ever looking for a job as an art dealer, come see me,’ he said and left the room.

  The note said:

  AngeD’art

  Rue de l’Exposition no. 8, Paris

  She had heard that name before. AngeD’art. The man who was running the company, Jean Jacques D’Angers, was a legend. Jean Jacques. The curator had called him JJ. It must’ve been him. Even Vincent’s mother, Margaux Saint Germain, spoke highly of him, and she was rarely impressed by anyone. He was to art people what the Louvre was to museums. The top of the top. But Dominique had no plans to become an art dealer. She wanted to be a curator. There was no place for her at AngeD’Art. She wasn’t in it for the money. Yet, she couldn’t help feeling proud she’d made such a good impression on a man like him and the meeting gave her confidence.

  As soon as she finished archiving, she went to the curator and asked him for the Cezanne nobody wanted to touch.

  ‘I know I’m just an intern, but I’m asking for a chance to prove what I can do.’

  He said no. The next week she asked again. And again. Until he finally said yes.

  All because of Monsieur D’Angers, she thought. I hope I get to thank him one day.

  ALEXANDER

  9 DECEMBER 1962

  NEW YORK

  When JJ offered him an initial one-year contract in the New York office, after he graduated from Ecole des Beaux-Arts, Alexander felt he had no other option but to accept.

  Alexander knew he had a long way to go to make his dreams come true. For now, he was caught between what his godfather wanted for him and what he wanted for himself. JJ kept pushing him towards continuing his career with AngeD’Art and even though he wouldn’t admit it, he was training Alexander so he could one day take over the business. Alexander didn’t want to disappoint his godfather, but he wanted to stay true to his dream as well. He imagined dedicating his life to restoration like Viollet-le-Duc did, which ultimately meant he wasn’t about to be JJ’s successor. Alexander knew this was a delicate matter and he kept postponing having that conversation.

  JJ was the second generation to preside over AngeD’Art, and he had worked hard to get to where he was. When he was young, he established his reputation as a scholar and art historian when he became involved in authenticating the works of dominant French, English and Spanish artists. He took over the management of the New York and Paris branches in 1935, the year his father died. Over time, JJ added galleries in Santorini, Tokyo and Milan. Under his leadership, the company became one of the most recognized and respected in Europe and North America, but without a proper successor, it would all go to waste. JJ wanted to make sure it ended up in good hands, and his mind was made up on Alexander.

  Alexander shadowed JJ for the first six months, then, as time went by, he took on more and more responsibilities. They went to numerous auctions around the world and without realizing, Alexander started becoming what JJ had wanted all along.

  As the end of his year in New York drew close, Alexander got ready for his first solo art transaction. Monet: Waterloo Bridge, London. It was a raving success.

  ‘If you continue like this, the Paris office will soon be yours. I’ve been looking for someone to manage it for years,’ said JJ with a big grin on his face.

  Going back to Paris. Yes, he definitely wanted that. He missed France. As much as he liked New York, there was something about Paris that pulled him back in.

  *

  On Alexander’s birthday, Nicole called and asked for a favor: ‘Please go pick up the painting JJ had delivered at the Metrier Gallery in SoHo. It’s urgent; he needs it tonight for the auction.’

  He was surprised JJ hadn’t been in touch himself and even more surprised she cared about the company’s business. Maybe it was a sign she was willing to give it a shot. He would’ve loved to work with her. She was smart and even as uninterested as she was, she proved to have a keen eye for valuable works of art. As if it was in her blood.

  Alexander rushed to the gallery.

  ‘Surpriiiise!’ he heard from all corners of the massive room. The place was filled with work colleagues, Nicole’s friends, artists – over a hundred people. Nicole jumped into his arms and kissed him as everybody sang ‘Happy Birthday’.

  ‘I have something for you. Wait here.’

  She rushed to the corner of the room and from behind a curtain she picked up a large, flat box. ‘Happy Birthday,’ she said.

  He tore open the paper. It was a Joaquin Sorolla. A painting titled Fifth Avenue, New York.

  ‘I thought it was only fitting that you have a New York painting of your own, to remind you of our first kiss,’ she said.

  ‘Nicole, you shouldn’t have. This must’ve cost a fortune.’

  ‘Who cares?’ she said giggling. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  He did like it and he was moved by her generosity, and he didn’t let it show that he felt a bit troubled, all of a sudden; unknowingly, she had reminded him of what he was actually doing that day on the street. In the rain. Before his first kiss with Nicole.

  That whole evening, that over-the-top extravaganza, though not what Alexander would’ve chosen for himself, touched him. This beautiful woman, who could’ve had any man she wanted, had chosen him. She wasn’t running from him, she wasn’t enigmatic, she wasn’t hiding somewhere in the corner of the world, far from him. She wasn’t some childhood fantasy. She was Nicole. And she was his. And it seemed like she was the best it was ever going to get for him. Perhaps it was time he started thinking about their future together.

  PART VI

  ‘We love truly only when we love without reason.’ — Anatole France

  DOMINIQUE

  9 DECEMBER 1963, 5 P.M.

  PARIS

  First Annual Fundraiser and Charity Ball

  Wednesday, 9 December 1963

  Château Saint Germain, Île de France

  Starts at 18:00, Attire black tie

  RSVP

  Château Saint Germain was about sixty kilometers south of Paris in the middle of the Fontaineb
leau Forest. It took Vincent, Dominique and Margaux over an hour to get there, but still they made it before anyone else.

  The moment she stepped out of the car, Dominique’s jaw dropped. The hundred-acre park surrounded by water was like something out of a fairy tale. In the Saint Germain family since the thirteenth century, it was a castle in the true sense and it was epic, inside and out. From the oak furniture, priceless paintings, large marble stairs, chandeliers and ballrooms for hundreds of people to the Roman sculptures, romantic fountains and perfectly trimmed trees. For Dominique it was magic. For Vincent and his family, it was just one of the few dozen properties they owned around the world. Nothing special.

  *

  When Margaux told her about her project, back in the autumn, Dominique asked why she wasn’t joining the Louvre initiative. They were already doing an annual charity event. But Margaux was determined. She wanted to help French struggling artists, not just raise money for museums. She would try and sell their artworks to wealthy, influential people in her circle.

  Her circle was not so keen to open their checkbooks for donations yet again though, so soon after the Louvre. And when her assistant suddenly quit, less than three months before the event, and moved to London, Margaux had asked for Dominique’s help. She’d gladly accepted although almost nothing had been done and at the same time, she had to help Constance finish restoring the café, and her exams were coming up at school.

  The two of them spent countless evenings thinking of a plan. Sometimes Vincent would join as well, when he wasn’t busy with the other family businesses. They sent letters all around Europe. They curated the list of paintings for weeks, made catalogs and brochures, made countless phone calls and Vincent even took several trips to Italy, Spain and Greece to try and convince people to come. There were some RSVPs, but not enough to make a difference and there was no way knowing if they had succeeded or not, but to go through with the night.

  *

  ‘You look beautiful tonight,’ said Vincent, looking at her admiringly.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You don’t look too bad either.’

  He laughed and kissed her.

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  ‘I love you too,’ she answered, and when he took her in his arms to kiss her again, she jokingly pushed him inside. ‘You have to go. We have a schedule here.’

  At six o’clock, a dozen people came. A few minutes later, more. And more. And more. Dominique and Margaux greeted the guests at the entrance, while Vincent waited for them inside, showed them around, told them how the night would unfold, and offered them drinks.

  Within an hour, there must have been almost three hundred people inside, so they had to open two more rooms to accommodate all the guests.

  ‘Already more donations than the Louvre got all night, and we’ve barely begun. We did it, Dominique, we did it,’ said Margaux, visibly pleased and excited.

  ‘We sure did,’ said Dominique, smiling. She was proud of what they had accomplished.

  She grabbed a glass of champagne and went on another tour of the room. There were still people they hadn’t talked to, and Vincent couldn’t do it all by himself.

  Dominique took a step and stopped like something held her in place. Had someone called her name? She turned and looked around. Faces she recognized, others she didn’t. But nobody seemed to pay particular attention to her. Another step. That presence; it was overwhelming. A pressure in her chest like something was taking her breath away.

  She found herself searching, without knowing what for. She was about to turn around when a large group in front of her broke out into two smaller groups.

  In the middle of them, a man. Staring at her.

  When their eyes met, it was as if a void ate everyone else. They were the only two people there and nothing and nobody else mattered.

  There was something familiar about his presence, something that wasn’t possible, really, as if she had been longing for him, missing him, without even knowing it. Why was he looking at her like that? Why couldn’t she turn her eyes away from him? What was this feeling she had? It wasn’t nervousness, she wasn’t scared, yet her heart beat out of her chest. Who was he?

  A head above everyone else, he had spiky-looking hair, was a bit scruffy, and had a lopsided smile, almost like a smirk. He seemed oblivious to everything around him, like it didn’t interest him in the least: the company, the food, the glass of wine in his hand, the conversation. People moved around, left and right. He stood still like a statue. Looking at her.

  Then a couple stopped in front of Dominique. ‘Beautiful evening, isn’t it?’ the man said.

  Dominique slapped a big smile on her face and nodded, all the while trying to peek behind them. When they finally moved away, he was gone.

  Out of nowhere, almost like magic, he appeared in front of her.

  Up close, he took her breath away. Those eyes. They were almond-shaped, and the color was like the sea. No, like evening clouds. Sapphire. Spellbinding. Hypnotic.

  They both stared but neither of them said anything for what seemed like an eternity.

  He took yet another step towards her and not letting go of her gaze, whispered in her ear, ‘I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.’

  He smelled like summer rain and cinnamon.

  Dominique gulped. Her breathing accelerated. ‘Excuse me?’

  He smiled and pointed at a painting on the wall by the door.

  ‘Who said contemporary artists are not as talented as the masters? How much do you think it will go for?’

  His voice was bewitching. Not too deep, not too high. Serious somehow. But not too serious. Perfect.

  ‘That one is not for sale and it’s not contemporary either. It’s Bocca Baciata by Rossetti. Over a hundred years old.’

  He smirked or maybe it was just his way of smiling. She didn’t know.

  ‘Is it now?’ he asked.

  Silence again. Staring into each other’s eyes.

  It should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. It was tense. Just being there with him felt forbidden somehow. Dangerous.

  ‘Are you here to bid on paintings?’ she said.

  With a certainty she had never experienced before, he took her hands in his.

  What was he doing? Who did he think he was? She didn’t even know him. And there were people around. She pulled her hands and backed off, but he didn’t seem bothered.

  Dominique didn’t want to admit it even to herself. But his touch felt so right. Like it wasn’t the first time their fingers had come together. No, it was like she knew him. She knew his face, his voice, his perfume. Those amazing eyes. Yet she didn’t. She was sure she had never seen this man before.

  What was going on with her?

  Her body was reacting to him in a way she couldn’t explain. Like it recognized him.

  He leaned down. Their faces were close now, so close that Dominique felt they were one, not two people anymore. Their bodies almost touched.

  His lips. So close to hers. His breath on her cheek.

  ‘I think I know why I’m here,’ he whispered in her ear.

  She looked into his eyes. I think I know why I’m here too, she wanted to say but couldn’t. I’m here because of you.

  ‘There you are,’ she heard behind her and recognized the voice. It was one of Margaux’s friends. He backed off.

  Dominique turned. ‘Madame Laurent,’ she said, feeling ashamed. Like she had been under a spell.

  *

  ‘Look at you, Mamie. Even now you’re blushing. And they say people in the old days didn’t know how to have fun,’ chuckles Valerie and winks.

  ‘I had never done anything like that ever before.’

  ‘Yes, yes. It’s called lust,’ she says and grins.

  ‘It wasn’t that. It was beyond physical attraction. I lost control of myself and it both scared and fascinated me. If he’d asked me to run away with him that very moment, I would’ve. Without hesitation.’

  ‘N
aughty Mamie,’ teases Valerie. ‘Read on. I want to know what happened next.’

  *

  ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you, darling. What a marvelous night, isn’t it? Oh, I’m sorry, did I interrupt?’ asked Madame Laurent, and Dominique turned back to the man, but he was gone.

  The woman took her arm as they walked towards Margaux. ‘Who was that fine gentleman?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Dominique murmured.

  She was telling the truth. She didn’t know. And yet… she did. She knew something. She felt something, although she didn’t understand what. A certainty. Peace. Home. A memory.

  ‘Well, as long as his pockets are wide, he’s welcome,’ she said and winked.

  ‘Vincent!’ exclaimed Dominique. How long had he been standing there? Had he seen what happened?

  ‘I was about to come looking for you. We just got a major donation,’ he said, taking her in his arms and showing her a check.

  She looked at it blankly.

  ‘Aren’t you happy?’

  ‘Oh, no. I am. Of course I am. That’s wonderful.’

  Suddenly his expression changed.

  ‘Everything alright?’ asked Dominique, turning to see what he was looking at.

  A woman was coming towards them. A doll-like face, light blue eyes, long blonde hair, and a sparkling golden dress with a deep cut that showed off her long legs. She was the kind of beautiful that made both men and women turn their heads. There was something familiar about her; about the way she handled herself, the way she walked.

  The woman ignored Dominique, came straight at Vincent, and threw her arms around his neck. ‘Vincent, dear,’ she said in a flirtatious tone.

  He took a step back. ‘What are you doing here?’

  She grinned. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’ she demanded.

  Vincent grabbed Nicole’s arm, turned to Dominique and said, ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘What was that all about?’ Dominique asked Margaux, watching them walk away. ‘Who is she?’