The Best Travel Writing 2011 - James O'Reilly [15]
“And you will have it. I promise.”
“And after Mona Lisa I want eat something.”
A flock of Poles and one hungover American stood in the Louvre’s reception area, looking high up into the apex of a glass pyramid with its chain-link-fence pattern of panes.
Everybody’s feet hurt. A hike through woods is fun; a hike through crowds debilitating. And all day we’d dodged humanity. Our pilot—that’s what the Poles called our bus tour guide—announced that we would go directly to the Mona Lisa.
“That’s kind of embarrassing,” I said to Anusha. “It’s not like the Mona Lisa is the only painting here.”
“Yes, but it’s big museum, and he close in two hours. So maybe we go with pilot.”
“That pilot drinks too much,” I said.
“So why you sit all night with him in bar? Why you didn’t come to room? We are in Paris—Love City—and I am wait in bed. But you, Kevish, you in bar with pilot.”
“I know. That was dumb. Look, Anusha, you don’t need a pilot to get to the Mona Lisa. It’s easy. I’ll take you. I’ll be your guide.”
“You are certain?”
“It’s the most famous painting in the world. And I’ve been here before.”
She watched the pilot lead off this flock of Poles, from the central atrium to a wide stretch of stairs.
Two overpriced espressos at the museum café gave me a boost, and though Anusha couldn’t find any pastries that looked Polish enough, her Earl Grey pleased her. So I led the way into the museum—the opposite way that our Polish comrades had gone.
“I have a plan,” I told Anusha. “We’re going to wander around until we find it.”
“That’s not plan,” she said.
But it was precisely how I’d done things fifteen years beforehand. It had all been really simple. I’d made my way to the Louvre, on foot, after spending the night in bushes near the Eiffel Towel. I’d found the entrance—which back then wasn’t all that easy, it being in one of the many archways—and I’d wandered around until I and the Mona Lisa came face to face.
What I didn’t know in 1995 was that I was leading Anusha into the Richelieu wing, which, in 1980, was not even part of the museum, but the Ministry of Finance.
“Where we are going?” Anusha said.
“Mesopotamia,” I said, reading a sign. We were on a marble stairway, white statues in the open area below. It was crowded down there; everyone seemed to be moving along, executing their own game plans.
Anusha was patient in Mesopotamia. There seemed to be a lot of statuary, and broken stuff, pieces of walls or pots with designs on them. These were undoubtedly rare and wonderful to those who understood the context, artistry, and what not. We didn’t.
“Kevilenko,” Anusha said after some time. “I want Mona Lisa.” She sunk her hand into her purse and pulled out some lipstick.
“Hey, I got you to the Eiffel Towel.”
“Tower,” she said. “Eiffel Towel is part of bus tour. You did nothing.”
“Tower,” I said.
“To wel,” she said. “Now I want see Mona Lisa. Then, oh, Kevish, after Mona Lisa, we will find Polish food. Please, please.
“We can probably find, uh, that shninki.”
“You mean naleshniki! You promise?”
Some promises are easy. Naleshniki, though I couldn’t pronounce them, were just like crepes. How hard could crepes be in Paris?
But when things grew less definable, that’s when it got hard. Like about the future. Anusha came into my life during a two-month summer language course in Uppsala, Sweden, just months before. We spent the first month falling in love and the second worrying about what would happen come August.
I followed her to Poland. That at least was a step towards our future, a pretty sufficient one, I thought, since I had no job and not much money. But I lived for a month in a rectangle of guest room between her and her mother’s bedrooms.
Our last fling, before I would return to America, was Paris.
We moved faster through Islamic Art. People skirted to and fro, their shoes tapping, their clothing swishing.
Two girls from our group, Magosha and Kasha, found us.
Anusha asked them in Polish: Did you see the Mona Lisa?