What surprised me most was not how out his of element Nate was, but how in his element he was. He chatted with the rugged photographer, asked questions of the drivers, all of whom he recognized, and sought out some of the engineers who were present to ask questions, even collecting a few cards and promising follow-ups. “Believe it or not, some of this technology is relevant to my work,” Nate said. “This event is better than that conference!” By the time Guy circled back to inquire how we were enjoying the show, Nate had already made up his mind to buy one of the prints, a shot of a car on a track rounding a corner in the pouring rain, a gray-green affair with strong composition and a sense of mystery, like a beast emerging from the deep woods. It was the most understated of all the shots.
“Why that one?” I asked, thinking that some of the others in bolder colors and close-ups were a little sexier.
“Driving in the rain really separates the great drivers from the average drivers. There’s only so much the engineers and the technology and the car can do, and then it’s all about the human element. Man, not machine. It’s a good reminder for me. In my work.” In that moment, I had a flash of Casey and his false humility, constantly replying to people who praised his work, “It’s all about the camera.” Maybe it was all about the camera after all. An average man with an above-average tool. Nate was proving to be the opposite of my ex in every possible way. I took Nate’s hand, and Guy noticed. I guess most art consultants don’t do that. Oh well. So my cover was blown a bit. He led us over to his desk to settle up and get the shipping information.
Watching Nate buy the piece of art, I felt giddy for him. Whatever happened to us tomorrow, he’d always have this photo as a reminder of our weekend. An incredible self-indulgent thought, I know, but it made me want my own sort of souvenir. Art can make you want experiences, I said on my museum tours, but experiences can also make you want art.
I tried not to be rushed and rude, living up to the stereotype of Americans, but I was aware of the ticking clock. We only had a few hours to make it to Montmartre and find the “pictures, black & white.” Now that Nate had ponied up for print, a total surprise purchase, I felt I could pump Guy for information. “Guy, I have a question for you. It’s going to sound a little vague. We’re looking for a gallery in Montmartre that has photos—black and white, street photography, maybe some religious overtones, maybe a little Bowie feel. We don’t know the name, only that it’s in the eighteenth somewhere near Sacré-Coeur. It’s hard to explain, we’re on a . . .” I struggled to find a word for what exactly we were “on.”
“A treasure hunt,” Nate piped up as he signed his credit card bill.
“Oui, exactement. Une chasse au trésor. We need to find a similar gallery to Luna near Sacré-Coeur.”
“Comme c’est amusant. Well, there is no similar gallery, of course, because we are the best,” Guy said with pride, and made his way around to his computer, entering a few details in a search engine. “Ah, yes. I think this is a good place to start. There is small atelier on rue du Mont-Cenis run by Jacques de Baubin. Do you know of him? He is a very influential writer in the arts since . . . forever and is someone who brings people together to talk about art and music and philosophy. He sells art, yes, but uses his atelier as a salon as well. He knows everybody and he loves street photography and fashion. I don’t know if he carries religious items, but I know he’s a great advocate for photography. His atelier is right next to a famous record shop, so there is lots of rock and roll in that neighborhood. I am guessing he could be helpful.”
Guy showed us his computer screen. “Do you know the streets behind Sacré-Coeur? They are very old with great history. Take a look at the map.” While Nate leaned in to study the map and entered the address into his phone, I studied the website itself. Simple, more of a web page than a full site, but right away I noticed something on the page above the type, used as a sort of logo. It was a heraldic shield with two fleur-de-lis and a sword. Clearly the coat of arms of associated with Joan of Arc. What is the French word for bingo?
Guy handed us a slip of paper with a street address for Atelier Artemesium. “C’est ?a. I hope you find what you are looking for. Come back when you have more time! I would like to buy you a coffee. When it is not so much chaos!” There was a round of double kissing and handshaking, and I could see right away why Tai liked Guy. Not too many questions, but full of answers.
There was still an electric vibe in Montmartre, and we could feel it, even from inside the car. Nate looked at his phone and said, “Let’s walk from here. We still have an hour to kill. It’s only two hundred and seventy steps to the summit of Sacré-Coeur.” He sounded like a kid on summer vacation. Then he looked down at my shoes and said, “Oh, never mind.”
I pulled out a pair of boots from a bag under the seat. “Eh, voilà!”
“I’m impressed.”
“If Blackbird shows up, I want to be able to run that bastard down.”
“Don’t turn around until we get to the top. Save the view.” Nate was taking the steep stairs up to the top of the hill like a Sherpa, and I thought I might need oxygen. The dress had a compression system that made the most of my figure but not of my lung capacity.
The white basilica gleamed in the lights, and the steps leading up to the front doors were crowded with laughing groups of twentysomethings from all over the world drinking and talking, a couple of guys in dreads on guitar playing Bob Marley, of course. I’m sure there were a few petty thieves and pickpockets, too, despite the lateness of the hour. There was something inspirational about the crowd and the setting that kept me going, despite my shortness of breath. I looked up and focused on the Joan of Arc statue above the right portico, a mannish interpretation of Joan on a horse, once bronze, now green with patina. “Give me strength,” I prayed for the second time that day.
The Basilique du Sacré-Coeur was constructed in the late 1800s and early 1900s as a sort of offering for France’s future protection after the Prussians whooped the French in 1870. The basilica wasn’t completed until after World War I, when the French turned it around and beat the Prussians’ cousins, Germany, so I guess it worked. The Romanesque-Byzantine style was dramatic and fit the site, sitting atop the highest point in Paris. Joan of Arc earned her spot in the front as patron saint and war hero.
Nate slowed his pace to accommodate mine, and when we reached the top, we both caught our breath before turning around. The whole city of Paris, from the Right Bank to the Left, from the Seine to the Eiffel Tower to the Arc de Triomphe was lit up before us. Nate actually gasped. “Spectacular.”
“Worth the climb?” I asked.
“A hundred times over,” Nate responded. “You?”
I turned back toward the basilica, thinking of the photos I’d seen of the Bright & Dark installation with the church bathed in warm white light, a spot of red flare on the statue of Joan. I realized that I’d always thought of those installations as static, because I’d only seen photos. But taking in the hundreds of people, the singing, the cell phone flashes, I understood now that each night was more than just a moment in time, it was crowds, noise, light, and maybe even faith. “A thousand times over.”
There was a long pause, and then Nate said, “We should get going.”
Chapter 16