What kind of an artist are you? I want to say. My painting sucks!
We start to clean up and I try to figure out what happened. I still worry about being exposed as the fake artist that I am, but a strange thought dawns on me as I soak brushes and find lids for tubes of paint. Somehow, something altered inside me. It’s like the “I want to be an artist” lie that I created to have an in with Sylvie is slowly becoming true. Bit by bit, an idea is morphing into reality, like the tiny dots of paint added to a Cezanne painting, one by one, to finally become sky and clouds and earth and people.
And now, I think, taking a breath, it’s time for me to tell Sylvie my story. Unfortunately, when I return to the kitchen, Sylvie tells me she wants me to go down to the shop to help émile. She’s going out again. I can’t figure out how to say what I want to. The right moment is gone, anyway. Dejected, I head downstairs.
The shop is cool inside. When I come in, émile smiles at me in his way, calm and gentle. Clean air, full of the promise of rain, pours through the open door. I pick up a broom and start sweeping, feeling like Cinderella in rags, left behind, unable to go to the ball. I want so badly to be with Sylvie and tell her my story, but it’s like fate is against me. And then, through the wide shop window I see her, hurrying by on the street, heading in the direction of the outdoor market. Where is she going?
“Can I go, émile?” I ask suddenly, catching him by surprise. “For a walk. To Place Massena and back,” I add with what I hope is a winning smile. Then, I have to repeat myself, since my words were scrambled. But I don’t mind. émile is so patient. I repeat myself, say, “Please.”
émile rewards me with an, “Ah,” as he understands, and answers with his little shrug and a smile. He tells me to go, but I have to be back in one hour for dinner. “And you could buy mushrooms at the market for me,” he adds, giving me some cash from the register. I give him a quick hug and fly out the door.
Sylvie is far ahead, barely visible, her braided head bobbing among crowds of tourists. I sprint after her, right through the flower market. It’s early evening but the blooms are still everywhere, in pots, buckets and arranged in bouquets. The smell is fresh and sweet. The colors are so vivid. As I hurry past, I can’t help thinking of all the funny names for shades of paint: cadmium yellow, alizarin crimson, cobalt blue. Sylvie would be proud. But where is she? There she is, sitting on a bench.
Most of the vendors at the food market are closing for the day, so I’m forced to momentarily abandon my quest to catch up with Sylvie. I manage to make a purchase while keeping an eyeball trained on my quarry. I point, smile, nod, and buy without saying anything. émile hadn’t given me specifics, so I choose dark brown shriveled-looking mushrooms that are surprisingly expensive. Their musty smell stays in my nose as I hurry toward Sylvie’s bench. A tram passes in front of me. When it’s gone, Sylvie is nowhere in sight.
With a disgusted sigh, I collapse onto the now empty bench and stare over the black and white checkerboard pavement of Place Massena. The pole guys are close by, kneeling high up on their tall platforms with their legs folded under them and their hands on their laps, patiently waiting for the sun to go down so they can shine. Crowded city sounds swirl around me. I hear trams, cars, buses, horns honking, voices that murmur, shout, and laugh. I smell the ocean and the surrounding trees and bushes. I can tell that a fresh batch of fries is being pulled from the grease vats over at McDonald’s. As the scent wafts around me, I breathe in deep and almost taste them. I pull my knees up onto the bench and wrap my arms around them, closing my eyes.
I’m thinking of Nice as home, already. I know my street, my neighborhood, the naked cherub grocery store that smells like cheese and over-ripe fruit, the post office, the tiny corner shop where Sylvie buys her paint. I’ve planted my feet here and can already feel the tender roots growing under them, connecting me to the earth in this place of sunshine and sand, mountains and ocean. I only need to convince émile and Sylvie to keep me. I’ve got to tell Sylvie my story!
Warm wind ruffles my hair, and my mood starts to rise. I smile to myself. I’m freaking over nothing. Fate was against me this afternoon, but tonight, after dinner, I’ll tell Sylvie everything I’ve been planning to say. This will work.
Then, someone plops down onto the bench next to me, and my mood plunges to the earth.
“What’s with the evil eye? I haven’t even said anything yet,” Gavin says in a soft voice. He’s wearing bright yellow board shorts and a neon green shirt.
My eyes will explode if I have to keep staring at you.
It’s what I want to say. Then, I’d tell Gavin how bad those colors clash with his hair. Then I’d tell him to get lost.