THE ART GALLERY
She was standing in front of Camille Pissarro’s Place du Théâtre
Français, Paris the first time he saw her.
Her hair was short and strawberry blond and she was wearing a wedding band on the ring finger of her left hand. She was shorter than he was and she was younger and she had nicely shaped legs and a nice figure and gray eyes and there was something about her that had attracted her to him the first time he saw her and he’d ignored the painting and stared at her.
She’d looked down at the small card on the side of the painting.
And she’d said, “Pissaro’s eyes were bad and he couldn’t paint outside. He painted this from his room at the Hôtel du Louvre.”
Her accent was perfect and she’d turned to look at him, saying, “I know you lived in Paris, is the Hôtel du Louvre still there?”
He’d smiled and said, “Not any longer I’m afraid.”
She’d looked into his eyes before she’d said, “I know you’re the Writer, I’ve read your books.”
He’d liked her eyes and the way she’d looked at him and he said, “Do you like the painting?”
She’d looked at it again. Saying, “I looked at it longer than I needed to because you were looking at me. But I think it’s romantic that he was looking out from his hotel room and painting what he saw.”
Then she’d said, “Do you like the painting?”
Even though she was beautiful it wasn’t part of her personality and she didn’t use her beauty to expect anything. It wasn’t part of her ego. And he’d liked her right away.
That was a year and a half ago. He’d met her in the gallery every weekday of every month she was in the city since then. And he’d given her a copy of the book with her short story in it and a copy of his new book and they’d talked about books by other Writers and about her husband and her daughters and his wife. And once they’d talked about having dinner together with his wife and her daughters when her husband was away, but they never planned it and it never happened. Then she went to Scotland for three weeks and he went to Spain for a month and they both went to the gallery every day to wait but they didn’t tell one another they’d been there and twice she’d gone out to buy her lunch at the Polish Deli across the street and she’d brought back enough for both of them. Other than that they never left the gallery when they were together and they left the gallery at different times but never together. Although they had never talked about it the gallery was their place, it was where they met to be together and to talk and laugh and look at one another.
But one Friday she had to go to Boston for the day and she was going to be there overnight and she’d sent him an e-mail about a story he was writing and they’d talked about the day before. Saying, “If life were only like that.”
He’d read the e-mail that evening and he’d thought about her that night. He’d thought about seeing her the next day before and he’d thought about her going to Scotland with her husband before. But he’d never thought about her being alone in a different city over night before and he’d suddenly realized that he missed her and that he loved her in a way he’d never loved anyone before.
Nothing had ever been made clear. There had never been any rules or guidelines about what was permissible and what wasn’t. And they had never planned anything. They had met in the gallery weekdays for a year and a half, they’d exchanged Christmas gifts and cards and he’d hugged her once but there were no rules they’d agreed upon. She’d reached over and picked a piece of lint off his jacket Tuesday and he’d looked into her eyes and they’d both smiled but they hadn’t kissed. But he’d dreamed about her that night. Dreaming that she was asking him something about the Pissaro and he was looking into her eyes for the first time and she was deciding they would only love one another in the gallery and their love would be intense and pure because it would only exist in the gallery or in intimate e-mails and that they would never meet outside the gallery. He would never see her as a wife and mother, he would never see her house or garden, or her in her jeans and sneakers, and she would never see his office where he wrote his books or anything in the apartment that he shared with his wife. In the gallery they could love one another deeply. They could touch one another’s arms or hands, they could look into one another’s eyes, and they could think about one another and look at one another. They could even kiss. But they could never leave the gallery together or see one another outside the gallery.
He’d assumed that she’d planned it that way. That she’d decided that in order for them to love one another as a man and woman who were both married they had to meet somewhere neutral and only in that place.
He’d assumed that she knew it was the only way it would work between them without becoming something neither of them were prepared for and that neither of them could afford.
But he never asked her about it. He never tried to define what they had or set any limits on it. Telling himself that it was enough that he saw her every day and that they were together every day and that they loved one another without ever saying the words.
Opening the book he was reading while he waited for her in the morning and looking at the wooden bookmark she’d seen and she’d known she had to buy for him.
One day one of the women working in the gallery had come over to him and she’d called her by her given name and she’d asked him if she was coming in that day and he’d realized that he’d never called her by her given name before and he realized that calling her by her first name would have sounded too familiar somehow. Too casual. But he’d intentionally called her by her given name when she’d come in and she’d looked at him for a moment before she answered and he promised himself he’d never do it again. And she’d signed an e-mail she’d sent him that night with her initial only to let him know she was agreeing with his decision.
Then it was spring and he knew that one day soon he was going to leave New York and that he might not be coming back and that he’d miss her bad. But he knew she would never come to spend a weekend with him and his wife and that he’d never ask her and that he wasn’t going to walk into a gallery or a book store and find her standing there waiting for him. But he wasn’t going to say good-by to her or tell her that he wasn’t coming back. She’d know and there wouldn’t be anything to say.
But wherever he went he’d look for her.
He’d never find her but he’d look for her just the same if for no other reason than to look into her eyes again and to see her smile back at him.
