Waterloo

Therese got up very early the next morning. To be honest, she hadn't slept very well at all and when she got up, she was in a rather bad mood. It was too early to have breakfast in the hotel, too early for anything, but Therese needed to do something other than stare at the locked door between her and Carol's adjoining rooms. 

After taking a shower she decided to go for a walk. Before leaving she texted Carol a message.

 Will skip breakfast. Meet u @ lobby @ 9 for d'Orsay

After all, that's what they were here for – to catch up on the exhibitions. And that's what Tate Modern was paying her for and she was indeed a true professional. Determined, she grabbed her coat and bag and exited the hotel. No one seemed to be awake at this ungodly hour and it suited her just fine.

The streets of Marais were empty with only street cleaners at their work. She needed badly her caffeine fix but knew she'd have to wait for at least another hour to get it. Paris was only just opening its eyes, yawning, getting ready for yet another Friday, a work day and a promise of two days of leisure for the city folks.

For Therese it spelled no such thing. She was here to fulfill her obligation and she would make damn sure Abigail Gerhard would sing her praises after the week was over. It was not her fault there was only a one passenger aboard on this trip and Miss Gerhard must have known it too. It was however no reason for her to get slack at her work. Mrs Aird would get her money's worth on her pleasure trip, she decided ignoring the bitter sentiment accompanying the thought.

This wasn't her first trip to Paris, far from it. She had come here by herself a couple of times just to see the museums, to get a feel of the city everybody was raving about, to breathe in the history and culture so vibrant everywhere. She had also visited it with Richard when they had still been a couple.

The trip hadn't been very successful. They had stayed in a small, noisy hostel near Bastille, and kept on going with very little sleep and mediocre street food - baguettes and crêpes mostly. "Why do you always have to be so critical, Terry?" Richard had asked repeatedly. "We may not have a lot of money but this is how the American Moderns did it – on a shoestring, really!" Richard had been right, of course, but it wasn't the lack of funds she complained about, that was just a way to hide her real disappointment. She wasn't having a good time with Richard. 

"Joie de vivre, Terry, let's live a little – with the little we have!" He had laughed at his own joke but Therese hadn't found his quip funny at all. It was exactly "the little they had" which bothered her the most. Thank god their dorm room had been crowded with other people as well – at least it had saved her from his amorous advances which had been getting on her nerves for quite some time. Still she had felt guilty about seeing Richard try so hard to humor him in any clumsy way he could possibly have thought of. I am a terrible person who can't appreciate a perfectly decent person, she had thought regret taking over her. 

Paris is said to be the city of lovers, and the fact she had been there with a person she didn't love had only seemed to confirm the cliché. It had rained the entire time they were there, but had she been visiting it with someone else, she was sure it wouldn't have mattered one bit.

Richard had saved money for a special night out. On their last night he had wanted to treat her to a nice dinner “the French way”. "We'll do it like the natives... the works, everything." He had been very excited about it. Once they'd gotten to the restaurant of his choice – an unassuming neighborhood bistro – he had grown all nervous and self-conscious all of a sudden. A wave of trepidation had swept through Therese. Richard was up to something and she needed to stop him before it was too late.

"Richard..." she had started apprehensively. "Yes, honey?" He had replied his voice filled with tenderness the meaning of which hadn't yet dawned on her in its horrifying entirety. "I've been thinking..." she had continued trying to find the right words. "Well, isn't that swell since I've been also..." he had interrupted joyously. "Richard!" He had cut his sentence short. There had been no other way than to be blunt about it. "I think we need to take some time apart once we get back home..." she had said calmly.

Richard had stared at her in disbelief. She had knocked him out with one of the most obnoxious euphemisms for an imminent break-up. "What are you saying, Terry?" He had managed to ask her after a stunned silence. "Are you breaking up with me or what?" Why couldn't she have just said it right there and then? Because they had to travel back home together the next day? Surely she didn't think they could have still had a go at it? Instead she had conformed to yet another lame excuse. "No... it's just there's so much coming up in the next few months..." Yeah, right. "Study wise, that is, and I need to find out about the Tate job, if they'd consider me for it. I really can't be distracted now, you know?" What a bunch of crap.

Therese shuddered remembering the incident which had only postponed the inevitable. At least she had blocked him from saying something he would have felt really foolish about later on, she consoled herself. That should count as something?

A small café was unrolling its awnings and Therese used the few French words she could muster up to get a café creme and a croissant. There were a lot more people around now, on their way to work with their rucksacks and laptop cases, looking self-important and busy. She was grateful for this private moment. She was even grateful for the quick detour down the memory lane since it seemed to sober her up from last night.

At five to ten she was at the lobby waiting for Carol. She breezed in ten minutes behind the schedule. "Good morning", Carol greeted her absentmindedly. The gray eyes looked tired, dull even, Therese thought. "You ready to go?" Therese asked sounding a bit too perky for her own good. Putting her shades on, Carol just nodded.

They arrived at the former Gare d'Orsay right on time. Miss Gerhard had arranged for them to get in without having to wait in line with the rest of the tourists which Therese greatly appreciated seeing the queues forming in front of the establishment. Therese loved d'Orsay for its impressionist and post-impressionist collection, the largest in the world. She was ready to flaunt her impeccable knowledge of the subject.

Carol hadn't said more than a few words on their way to the museum which suited Therese fine. Once inside, she was determined to introduce each and every highlight the exquisite museum had to offer. 

Georges Seurat was one of Therese's favorites. Seurat, a divisionist, believed that color could be used to create harmony and emotion in art the same way a musician uses counterpoint and variation to create harmony in music. Although she herself had no real wish to approach art scientifically like the late 19th century painter had, she was drawn to his paintings, to the optical challenge they presented. 

They stopped by Poseuse de dos, Model from the back. Delicately observed in minute detail, the woman in the picture sits closed and mute. "Seurat believed art is harmony, an analogy of the contrary and of similar elements of tone, of color and of line,” Therese started. “Basically it disposes lighter tones against the darker ones, but he didn't just leave it there, he studied complementary color pairings, red-green, orange-blue and so on..." She was mesmerized by the pale, pink hue of the model’s skin perfectly contrasted by the dark, dotted background.

Carol didn't seem particularly impressed. "I find it far too gimmicky and rather soulless," she commented dryly. "Whenever one has such an idée fixe, one tends to lose the real thought, the human justification behind it." She cast a bored glance at the painting. "No wonder Monet, Renoir and rest of the Impressionist gang refused to exhibit with him..." She moved towards the room where the masters she had just named awaited.

Therese was stunned by her abrupt judgment. It felt like a slap on the face. Peeved, she followed Carol who stood by Bal du moulin de la Galette, Dance at Le moulin de la Galette, by Auguste Renoir.  “This is one of my favorites,” Carol acknowledged, “albeit an obvious one. But it’s not called a masterpiece for nothing.” Therese looked at the exquisite painting depicting a lovely Sunday afternoon in Montmartre. A typically impressionist snapshot of real life, it celebrates the joy of working class Parisians at leisure. Therese marveled the richness of Renoir’s vision, the enviable ease of his fluid brush strokes which lit the scene with flickering light. She held back her praise, though.

“I prefer Toulouse-Lautrec’s take on the same subject. It’s darker and more intimate in its approach,” Therese said sounding slightly condescending. “Compared to him, Renoir is much too obsessed with recreating the entire scene. It makes it rather staged in my opinion.” Carol turned to face her but refrained from saying anything. Her eyes were alert, live again.

“How about this one?” Carol had stopped by Édouard Manet’s Olympia. Therese adored the picture of the nude prostitute, modelled by Victorine Meurent, gazing so confrontationally at the viewer. “I absolutely love it,” she admitted, “I can only imagine the shock it stirred when it was first exhibited. All the details pointing to her true profession – the hair, the bracelet, the earrings, the brazen sensuality…” Therese cast a quick glance at Carol, “a portrait of an independent woman who’s in command of her own body – for money, of course.” She was suddenly very pleased with herself.

“So glad you approve,” Carol replied somewhat callously. “She’s a young girl, not your typical demimondaine of her time – an exceptionally thin girl which quality, by the way, Charles Baudelaire found utterly indecent.” She clicked her tongue and turned away once again. “I’m a bit peckish. Maybe we should head for some light snack after we’re done?” Confused, Therese nodded her approval.                

Their lunch was nothing like the day before. Carol wasn’t in the mood to travel to the other side of the city just for a quick bite to eat so they settled for a neighborhood bistro. The food wasn’t particularly inspired but it served its purpose.

“What’s next?” Carol asked wiping her mouth with a napkin. She seemed to look right through Therese. “I thought we might squeeze in a visit to Musée Rodin as well if you feel up to it?” she replied meekly. “So The Gates of Hell it is, then?” Carol concluded referring to Auguste Rodin’s famous bronze doors. “I’m up to it if you are.”