To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Six: It's a Metaphor

"Le pigeon aux petits pois" (Pigeon with peas) by Pablo Picasso (1911), stolen 2010, unrecoverable (thief proclaims to have thrown in trash, along with four other works) - value $23 million

Chapter Six

"Oh? You've fallen in love with the foyer already?" I teased.

The tiniest tilt of his lips rewarded my jab. "I can appreciate a good building."

Touché. I said the same.

For the most potentially significant of tiny moments, I returned his smile, feeling and unmoving as I looked at him. He was returning my gaze just as brazenly as I gave it. His lips were still holding their slight curve and his eyes were still dark. And again, something sparked in those eyes, and hot vexation pounded beneath my skin. I still couldn't read what swirled beneath those perilous shields of his, and part of me both recoiled and yearned at the realization.

But despite my incredibly wracked nerves and flighty hesitation, I was grounded for the barely whole moment the two of us reached a tentative truce. It couldn't be described as a full respite, just short of being so, but long enough to feel how close it was to achieving it.

"So, we going to the exhibits or what?"

Simon and I both looked at the forgotten analyst standing expectantly before us. I cleared my throat and hurriedly stepped away, jerking back the control I'd once had. The same control I clung to with every ounce of strength I could muster; the control I'd used as a buoy for the last few days and needed to float. I put back on the mask I wore so often it'd become more comfortable than my own skin, and took another step away.

"Of course," I said.

I led them down the first hall with the facade still crafted to fit. Our truce was gone, as left behind in the museum's foyer as the sculpture it was born before.

Attraction's not stronger than fear or worry.

Attraction at first sight was a distraction at best. Physical attributes could be symmetrical and pleasing, but could not sway me from the path I treaded alone.

We walked on.

The walls of this particular route were speckled with small pieces from a local artist, some of the first revealed to visitors before reaching the museum's interior. The works told a story; each painting was a continuation of the previous scene shown. The setup was similar in nature to the stages of the cross, but instead of religious depictions set in wood or metal, the paintings were works of vivid watercolors and dark charcoal. One side of the hall showed the watercolors, brilliant brushstrokes forming lush jungles and tropical oases. In each of the paintings, somewhere tucked amongst the colors of the variegated works, were halted charcoal strokes forming an out-of-place pigeon. The pigeon was startling and distracting once noticed, so odd and harshly obvious among the soft jewel tones. The charcoal did not belong amongst the colorful background, nor did the bird fit the environment depicted.

But as the hall went on, each pigeon grew less and less defined until nothing but a penciled sketch among the watercolor, as if the artist forgot to color it or ran out of time. Perhaps it suggested the creator was too occupied with the surroundings to fulfill the entire potential of the work, and so resulted in the neglect of the pitiful bird.

Or perhaps it suggested something else entirely.

On the other side of the hall, was the inversion of the bright watercolors. Instead of vibrant greens and brilliant blues, dark strokes of ebony and slate created the harsh lines of a dulled city. Instead of a pigeon, a watercolor parrot. The parrot was a glimmering emerald or a radiant ruby among the bleak tones of its surroundings. And just like the pigeon, the parrot lost its color until nothing but faint lines at the end of the hall.