by Zelda French
“No,” he says, amused. “No, nothing like that.”
As I begin to calculate really quickly which station he intends to stop at, my elation is almost gone, replaced by a familiar sinking feeling and fastening pulse. I think I know where he’s taking me. I should have decided where to go. I should have just told him, let’s go there. I wanted to do something nice. I gave him free reins. And what does he do?
He takes me to the Orsay Museum.
Mustering my whole repertoire of facial expressions, I follow Michael outside without dragging my feet and pretend to be just as amazed by the splendour of the museum as he is.
“I know you said Rockstars don’t go to museums!” Michael says.
Then why, why are you doing this to me?
“But I haven’t finished this one, yet,” His cheeks are pink with excitement. “And I think you’ll like it.” Interpreting my clipped smile as enthusiasm, he slaps me on the shoulder, his eyes glinting. “And I was dying to take someone with me.”
His hand reaches out to my shades, gingerly removes them. “Don’t wear them in the museum, please. Or you’ll miss out on the details.”
I pocket the sunglasses follow him grudgingly toward the entrance. “Why didn’t you? Take someone, I mean.”
“Couldn’t think of anyone.”
Michael opens the door as group of a hundred and fifty tourists leave the museum, huddled together. He waits patiently for each and everyone of them to exit while I bit my nails.
This doesn’t make sense. I could think of at least three people he could drag to the museum with him. Why not take François? After all, taking François would make much, much more sense than taking me. And François would have probably exploded with joy at the prospect. Or just exploded, period. But I wouldn’t be so lucky.
“Why not take François?” I ask, trying not to sound too prying.
“I don’t know.” Michael takes my arm and pulls me inside. “It never occurred to me.”
That’s even more of a surprise, since they’re always together. I want to probe for details, but there’s no time. Michael is already storming the place with the look of an excited explorer.
This the beginning of a never-ending torture which consists of strolling from one vast high-ceiling room to another, each filled with ancient pictures trapped in gilded frames. The museum being one of the largest in the capital, a part of me fears we’ll never get out of this place.
Michael is excited. He wants to show me everything. The prospects of kisses in the park or in a dark corner soon vanish. There’s nothing else for me to do than to follow absently, being all smiles not to offend him, while I begin to think he took me in here to test me.
Tony’s words from Wednesday ring especially true. Michael and I have nothing in common. Michael is much smarter than me, and belongs with a François. I fear he took me there to test the waters of exactly what kind of things we could share together, calculate how dumb I really am.
This is all a test. I’m going to fail, for sure.
What if he gives me a little interrogation on the way out? I even can’t remember a single painting we’ve seen in the last hour.
I begin to sweat and must remove my jacket. This is my punishment for lying to Lucie. Michael will know shortly I’m a profound idiot, will never kiss me or see me again. I can always console myself, after all there was only one kiss, there was no lasting damage…
Michael stops abruptly and I slam head first into him.
“Wow,” he goes.
Moving aside so I can peek at the object of his awe, I almost swallow my own tongue in shock.
Framed in golden monstrosity, is a small painting of a fanny.
I’m not sure of what I’ve seen at first, and I’m sure I don’t want to stand any closer to it, but Michael approaches in long strides, determined to stand close enough to smell it. I reluctantly follow him, promising myself that should I get another chance, I’ll never ask him to pick an activity for a date ever again.
The painting is worse up close. Its depiction, too realistic. Pornographic. Vulgar. I hate it, I want to leave, and never see it again.
“This is the origin of the world!” Michael says, beaming.
“What do you mean?”
“That’s what it’s called.”
I dare to look at it again.
Why do I feel so threatened, almost disgusted, definitely outraged by it? I don’t know. But it can’t be because of what it is. I’ve seen one before and I didn’t feel like sprinting away from it like my life depended on it. All I know is that I’m repulsed by it, and if I show it, Michael will think I hate women.
“This is powerful,” Michael says.
I grunt something back. He studies the thing, eyes narrowed, an expression of great fascination on his face.
Now would be the perfect time to ask him what he feels about it. Not exactly the painting, but the fanny. It could tell me volumes.
But how should I phrase this? ‘Hey babe, what does this clam inspire you? Does it make you horny? What I mean is, are you gay or do you just fancy me?’
Christ. Not only would that sound horrible, but I just realised that my terror at this exposed nightmare might say something about my own sexuality. Something I’m not ready to think about yet. Even less talk about it. My personal life is, unlike this horror, very private.
So now I’m looking at this fanny, asking again the same question.
Am I gay? Am I gay?
The fanny stares back, but doesn’t answer.
Michael is looking from the painting to myself, like he’s expecting me to say something very deep about it.
“What do you think, Louis?”
There it goes. The test. Are you deep, or dumb, Louis? Careful. Your answer will determine our future interactions for the next weeks to come. Whether you get kisses or sent back the back of the class with a big ‘F’ stamped on your forehead.
“I don’t know…” All I see is a monstrous fanny. “This is… bold.”
“Yes, very. Extremely controversial at the time, and still is today.”
I pretend to look at every aspect of the horrendous display of flesh. “The painter must have really liked this woman.”
“Not necessarily.”
WRONG. Just like in the game shows on telly. Two more strikes and you’re out.
“Women, then?”
“No, not really.”
WRONG! One more chance before being shipped off to a gulag for ignorant fools. Must keep a straight face.
“ You know,” Michael adds, “since it’s your thing, I see Courbet as a rockstar myself.”
“You do?”
Where is he going with this, and can we talk about it elsewhere please.
“Yeah. Courbet and other artists. They’re seekers of the truth, about others, and themselves.”
This is getting too deep for me. It’s a painting of a woman’s genitals. But to look disgusted would only complicate our conversation.
“I thought they just, you know, paint pretty stuff. Beautiful stuff.”
“Not only,” Michael says. “I prefer to imagine they valued truth more than beauty.”
“Right.”
All I see is a big, fat, terrifying fanny, and its title only serves to remind me of my mother. That’s all it takes for a spark of anxiety to become a furious blaze. The tips of my fingers are already growing numb.
“You know so many things,” I say, focusing on controlling my voice.
“Not really. But my dad’s passionate of arts.”
Great. Now I feel even worse.
Michael insists on driving me wild. “You don’t seem to agree with me.”
Shit. How much longer will we have to stare and it and talk as though it wasn’t staring us right in the face? Perhaps, If I give him a pseudo-deep answer, he might let me leave.
“I don’t know, Michael. I haven’t thought that far. I’m not an artist, and I don’t know anything about artists. Tony and I only call ourse
lves rockstars because we want to be different.”
Another look at the painting has me heaving a sigh. Michael’s brow is furrowing. Did I say too much? Not enough? Was I supposed to stick to the painting?
“Why do you want to be different?”
“Who wants to be boring? No one likes boring people.”
Michael doesn’t say anything, turns back to the painting. I probably said something I shouldn’t have. Focus back on the painting, say something on the painting.
“But… I like the painting. I mean, I like women, you know? Maybe I don’t like staring at their parts like that, I don’t know. Not that it means I’m gay, of course.”
Michael’s eyes widen to the size of teacups.
“Wait, sorry, what? ”
Fuck, this conversation does not go anywhere where I want it to go. If he had spent more time with his tongue in my mouth, I wouldn’t say such stupid things.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay! I’m only saying. Gay, not gay, I’m not sure what I really am. I know I don’t think I’m like the other ones. You know. Like François.”
Michael gives a derisive sort of laughter, as though he’s not sure whether to be amused, offended, or purely horrified.
“You do know they come in all shapes and colours, right?” When I don’t reply, he adds. “Don’t worry. Perhaps the only thing you and gay men have in common is that… you’re a man, and you like… one man. If you say you’re not gay, I believe you.”
Wait, did I say that? I just wanted to show him I wasn’t afraid of the horror of a female sex laid bare, now I’ve convinced him I’m not gay. Which is perfect, really, since the more I look at his face, the louder I’m asking myself if I’ll ever get back to being straight.
Damage not done, my ass.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Gloomily I walk away from the Origin of The World and toward a darker, quieter room. Michael follows in silence.
The conversation is already too much for me. I have the feeling I’m failing whatever test he wants me to pass. It’s over, I’ve made a complete fool of myself, and on top of that, he’s going to think I don’t want to kiss him anymore.
We go on for a moment, the silence between us no longer pleasant, but charged with unsaid things. Neither of us know where to start. We have been struggling for a good fifteen minutes when, Michael, his gaze unfocused on the masterpiece he’s been staring for the last seven minutes, takes a deep breath.
“All I wanted to show you is that, rockstars do go to museums. In fact, they make them. They painted, sculpted, photographed every masterpiece between these walls. I just wanted to show you there’s no shame in being smart.”
“You’re saying this because you’re smart. It’s easy for you.”
The corners of his mouth turn down. “I don’t get you. Don’t you like the museum?”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “It depends. Did you bring me here to make fun of me? Do you think I’m that stupid?”
Michael, livid, almost leans on the pedestal onto which a fragile looking statue is perched, but miraculously refrains from it.
“You think I brought you here because I think you’re stupid?”
“Well…”
“No! I don’t think you’re stupid, Louis.” He draws closer, his hands outstretched. “I think you’re great. I just wanted to show you nice things because I think you would like them a lot if you’d allow yourself to enjoy them.”
I shake my head. “I don’t get it.”
“I think you’re the opposite of dumb, but… you play dumb.”
“Oh, right.” I can’t help a snigger. “No, I am not as smart as you think I am.”
“You loved Dorian Gray, but you would lie to Tony if he asked you if you liked it, wouldn’t you?”
A moment of consideration confirms his theory. I stare down at my shoes, embarrassed.
“That’s… possible.”
“I might be a nerd, but I’m not embarrassed by it. I just— I just want to be true to myself. I want to live real things. Be around real people. Isn’t that your philosophy too?”
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
I’m feeling quite tired. This date isn’t going as well as I thought it would.
“Louis?”
“What.”
“You’re not just a pretty face, you know.”
Cheeks warming up, I tug at the lapel of my jacket. “I am pretty.”
The way Michael nods makes me think he’s thought long and hard about the subject.
“Very.”
Oh no. Do not get any closer. Or I will be tempted to throw caution to the wind.
But Michael’s apparently an expert at sneaking around, and deftly nudges me into a corner. A painting on the opposite wall, depicting a man biting another in the neck, feels almost appropriate. The demon watching over them has me hoping it’s not a bad omen.
“I want to kiss you,” Michael says. “All the time.”
“What. Here? In public?”
“Why not?”
When he gets close enough that we can touch, I hold up a hand.
“People will see.”
Michael looks around us. The room is empty at the moment. Temptation grows. So does fear. He leans in, rests his cheek against mine.
“I don’t care,” he whispers.
“But I do.”
Michael leans away from me, his expression a mixture of confusion, disappointment.
“But you do.”
“I’m sorry.”
He smiles. “That’s fine.”
Michael’s face is so close. I feel lucky just to be so close, to study the deep green of his irises, the olive skin and the angular jaw, the softness of his gaze and the way he smiles, like happiness is easy to him.
Before I can stop myself, my fingers are trailing along his cheek, and he doesn’t hesitate. His lips brush against mine first, teasing, before he claims them properly.
It’s just as it was in the bathroom, with again, the thrill of the secret, which mingled with my terror of being discovered, adds some kind of spice to our kiss. For a moment my feet, despite being planted firmly on the ground, feel so light that I might as well be floating around.
It’s too short, however. Michael soon parts from me, leaves me breathless. I never noticed I stepped back, but I’m almost against the wall.
“Well…” I begin.
He has the indecency the lick his lips while straightening up. “That was…”
“That was nice.”
He nods. “Nice, indeed.”
I really like museums. Museums are the best thing in the world. It’s what I think.
“Can I ask you something?” I ask, feeling emboldened.
Michael nods. “Of course.”
“Why did you take so long to contact me after we kissed?”
He gives me a bewildered look. “Are you serious?”
“I get it, Paquin was sick, we didn’t get to—”
“Louis, you’re the one who told me you would call me, remember?”
“Did I?”
Did I really do that? I have no memory of it. I must have been transplanted to another plane by his otherworldly kiss. How can I have no recollection of this?
Michael laughs. “You’re so funny, sometimes.”
“What? Why?”
He takes my elbow and nudges me to follow him, but doesn’t let go of my arm. Electrified by his touch, I say nothing.
“You’re the most anxious person I know.”
“I’m not anxious.”
Michael tilts his head. “Yes, you’re the most anxious person I’ve ever met.”
“No, I’m super chill. The chillest person ever.”
“Actually, that would be me.” He gives my elbow a squeeze. “I don’t mind, Louis. I just mean you don’t have to worry so much about me.”
Chill people are people who don’t give a damn about anything. His words could be a warning
to me, and should have been, but the heat of his touch made me lose all my focus and soon, his warning words are forgotten in profit of brushing our hands together as we walk closely side by side.
I’m too distracted, too far gone, to notice a voice that I should have recognised immediately and from a distance. When we round the corner, our fingers intertwined, we find Sacha standing right in front of us.
I jump back like a startled cat, pulling Michael with me. We backtrack into the previous room and flatten ourselves against the wall, breathing hard.
Did she see us? No, I don’t think so. She wasn’t exactly looking in our direction. She wasn’t, was she?
A quick look around the corner and I catch another glimpse of her. Her face looks confused, as though she may have saw us, but she isn’t sure. But again, Sacha always looks like that. She’s not exactly the sharpest knife in the box.
She’s not alone. With her are four children, all of them likely relatives, and a group of adults. A woman looking just like her affectionally plays with her ponytail, while asking her a question. Sacha, all smiles again, answers, and they all set off together toward the next room.
I exhale a long breath, my hand clutching my chest. We need to get out of here, now.
Motioning Michael, a little pale in the face, to follow me through another exit, I do not stop until we are outside, and I slap my sunglasses on the moment I feel the air on my face.
“Do you think she saw us?” I ask Michael, out of breath.
Michael seems a little amused. “So what if she had? It’s—”
“Do you think she saw us!”
“No!” He drops his arms to his sides. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
“Fuck.” I start pacing on the spot, my pulse racing. “She could call Lucie. She will.”
“Calm down. She probably didn’t even see us.”
I wave my hand frantically toward the station. “Let’s keep walking. Please,” I add, because he’s not moving, “please, can we just keep walking?”
Michael makes a move at last, his hands stuck in his pocket. Rising my hands to the sky, I try to explain.
“You don’t get it. I lied to Lucie to come here. Sacha and Lucie text all the time.”
“I’m sorry you lied,” Michael says, but I’m barely listening.