In her year alone, Clare told me, she spent most of her time reading. It wasn’t until I showed up that she even thought of going to an art gallery or museum; such an idea was just too far outside her own realm of experience to consider.
In Paris, we more than make up for it, and our mutual education in the finer points of human culture is both rapid and extensive. We leave no stone unturned in our explorations, taking the better part of a week to wind our way through the labyrinth of the Louvre, marvelling at how much energy our civilisation put into creating objects of such immense beauty. Clare has developed an intense love of classical sculpture, and spends hours running her hands over the lines of works such as the Victory of Samothrace, and is almost brought to tears when she discovers the Venus de Milo, a spirit of incredible lost beauty floating in the darkness of the museum’s halls, radiant in our torch light.
For my part I find fascination in the works of the Renaissance, tracing the development of perspective, light and shadow through works that span three centuries of a cultural, artistic and scientific movement. Clare loves Da Vinci’s exquisite attention to the detail of human anatomy, but my real interest is in the complex symbolism and moral messages that the artists chose to portray. The most explicit example has to be Ship of Fools, which is but part of a triptych depicting every extreme of human behaviour. Bosch’s work is packed with symbolic references to greed, lust, madness and heresy, and it exerts a strange pull on my imagination.
Clare finds me unscrewing the Mona Lisa’s casing from its secured wall mount, and spends some time convincing me to leave it behind. I relent, and settle for a photo which I take with a polaroid camera Clare has been using. I note that she has taken several dozen pictures of various sculptures, and has acquired books on the subject from the gift shop. I think to myself that it’s good for her to have something to keep her occupied, and the next day I take her to the Rodin museum for further inspiration.
Weeks pass in this manner. Evgeny joins us when the mood takes him, and I notice that with our company he makes a considerable effort to remain sober. In April the weather takes a turn for the worse, and he remains at the hotel we’ve commandeered for almost a fortnight whilst Clare and I take long walks in the pouring rain. He hasn’t asked about it, but Evgeny clearly thinks Clare and I are sleeping together, and sometimes goes out of his way to allow us time alone. We’re not, no matter how often the thought crosses my mind these days, but I enjoy spending time with her and so don’t disabuse him of the idea.
When the weather improves Evgeny makes a trip out to find some books, and Clare and I follow him around for the day, chasing each other through corridors of bookshops whilst he hunts for whatever it is he’s after. Finally, laden with maps and guides, he announces that he’s ready to leave, and we walk back to the Napoleon, Clare pestering Evgeny to find out what he’s up to. I already know, and share a look with him that she doesn’t see. Guidebooks and maps. Evgeny’s an old man, and the only thing he’s got left is the world. He wants to see it.
That’s why he came to Paris in the first place.
Later that evening Evgeny lays out his plan before us, and it’s close enough to my own ideas that I can’t help but agree with it. We discuss the route, the various sights that we want to see. Clare asks a lot of questions about the places we suggest, many names familiar from our last two months of intensive erudition, and the plan forms by mutual consent.
We spend another week organising and enjoying the last of our time in Paris. We keep the mobile home, the convenience is too useful to ignore, and load it up with as much food and fuel as we can find.
On the last day, Clare and I climb the Eiffel Tower once more, a final farewell to the city. We stay until sunset, drinking wine, eating snacks, and passing a joint between us. The afternoon has been warm, but cools are the sun lowers in the sky. Clare moves closer and leans her body against mine, and we sit there sharing warmth, our breathing falling into unison, and the whole world is silent apart from the sound of my heart racing. I wrap my arms around Clare’s waist, linking my fingers over her stomach. She turns aside, and leans her head against my shoulder.
When the last traces of the sun have disappeared, and the first stars are visible in the sky overhead, we begin the long descent down the tower. We don’t talk at all until we reach the hotel, but Clare holds onto my hand all the way back. When she goes to bed she plants a kiss on my cheek, wrapping her arms around my neck as she does so. I wish her a good night, and she disappears into her room with a smile.
I don’t sleep at all. The next morning we leave Paris, and start the long drive south to Barcelona.