The Memory Painter

He was about to set off on foot when a white truck slowed down and pulled over. A young woman jumped out from the passenger side and hurried toward him. She had a pixie haircut and was dressed in a colorfully woven skirt, a tunic-like blouse, and was wearing dramatic stone jewelry. The first thing Bryan noticed was her smile.

She saw the rental sticker on the car and gave him a sharp appraisal. “You have a flat tire? We are happy to help.” She spoke in English but with a French accent. “I am Claudette. That is my husband, Martin,” she said, waving to the driver. “Martin! Vite!”

A man—towering well over six feet, with a powerful build and a shaved head—got out of the car. Bryan gaped at him. He looked like Zidane, the retired pro soccer player.

Martin joined them and gave Bryan a nod. Claudette turned to him, “Chéri, this poor man has a pneu problem.”

Martin headed to the truck bed and got out his tools. Within minutes, he had jacked up the little Mazda and was busy unscrewing bolts. Claudette had a hundred and one questions for Bryan and was thrilled that he spoke perfect French. What was he doing in St. John’s? What did he do for a living? Was this his first visit? Bryan tried to keep it simple and as close to the truth as possible, explaining that he was a painter and here for inspiration. Claudette became even more animated and wanted to know everything about his art. For some reason, Bryan didn’t mind. He found her charming.

In the time it took Martin to fix the tire, Claudette also informed Bryan that they were from France and had been invited to teach at Memorial University in the graduate Archaeology Department. It seemed they were specialists in ethnographic fieldwork techniques. They had only just settled into their new house, which happened to be just a few kilometers away, “and it was very lucky for him because this road got very little traffic,” Claudette bounced on. Bryan found himself nodding quite a bit as he tried to keep up.

After the tire was fixed, Claudette surprised him by inviting him to their house for dinner. Without waiting for an answer, Martin threw the tools into the truck and the two of them tore off. Bryan fumbled to start his car and zoomed down the road to catch up.

Martin’s car turned onto a long winding drive, which ended next to an old farmhouse. Up close, the building looked to be in serious neglect with its stripped paint, shuttered windows, and tattered roof. Bryan got out of the car and joined them at the porch.

Claudette seemed to sense what he was thinking. “We spent all our energy fixing up the inside.”

“No, it looks nice,” Bryan replied, bending the truth

Claudette said, “Martin, the porch lights, vite, s’il te pla?t!”

Martin vanished inside, and within seconds the porch sprung to life as decorative lights transformed the exterior into something more like an enchanted cottage at twilight.

The minute Bryan walked into the house, he understood Claudette’s comment about the outside being misleading. The floors shone with rich mahogany wood, and two sofas were angled around a mammoth stone fireplace. Beautiful artifacts—framed papyrus, a gold scarab collection, Egyptian bowls, glasswork, and a statue of a sphinx—hung on the walls and were displayed on futuristic chrome-and-glass bookcases. Bryan took it all in. What were the chances that his car would break down, and he would be rescued by a couple who had an ancient Egyptian sphinx in their house? “Amazing,” he said, speaking his thought aloud.

“Merci.” Claudette beamed at him. “My hobby is restoring homes such as this.” She stationed herself in the open kitchen. A whirlwind of energy, she continued to talk while she cooked dinner and checked e-mail. Meanwhile, Martin had lit the fireplace and was opening a bottle of wine.

Bryan studied the framed pictures on the back wall. They were all of pyramids. He glanced at Martin, who gave a new meaning to “the strong, silent type.” He had yet to say a word. Bryan cleared his throat and pointed to a photo. “Excuse me, where is this?”

Martin put on huge tortoiseshell eyeglasses, looking even more eccentric. “China, the White Pyramid.”

“I didn’t know China had pyramids.”

“Oh, they have hundreds,” Martin replied. “The White Pyramid is one of the oldest and largest in the world. I was there in ’94. The government has closed the entire region now.”

Bryan moved to the next photo, a step pyramid with Martin and Claudette pictured in the foreground. “Is this Mayan?”

“Good guess, but no.” Martin poured the wine. “Cambodia, the great pyramid of Koh Ker.”

Bryan studied the photograph. “It looks so similar to the ones the Mayans built.”

“Yes,” Martin agreed, “fascinating when you consider they’re over six thousand miles away from each other.” He motioned to the next two photos. “These of course are Mesoamerican—at Cholula and Teotihuacán—the largest pyramids in the world next to Cheops.”

Bryan moved along the wall as Martin ticked off more sites: Greece, Italy, Russia, Peru … He was beginning to reevaluate his first impression about Martin. The man had plenty to say.