Musée de Villèle was a short taxi drive away from our hotel. I’d read a little about it on the way. It was a former colonial mansion once owned by a prominent and wealthy family in the eighteenth century, set on the remains of what was once one of the biggest sugar plantations on the island, run by hundreds of slaves. That part left me feeling somewhat cold and queasy, but I was still curious to see it.
We finally arrived and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been to a museum. But I was looking forward to a change of scenery.
The old plantation house was exactly as I imagined it might be, right down to the colors. Cream walls, yellow trims around the windows and doors and pale blue shutters. And it was huge, standing amidst an old overgrown garden that in its day must have been spectacular. With each step closer, I felt like I was stepping further and further back in time.
“It’s beautiful,” I said to Alex as we reached the entrance.
“I like museums,” Alex said. The tone of his voice had changed somewhat, a kind of reverence hanging in his intonation.
“Really?” I asked. “Sounds like there’s a story in that somewhere.”
He turned and smiled at me as if I was right, therewasa story behind his love of museums. “I have a bit of a museum crush.”
“Tell me.” I smiled back at him.
“I find them very calming. Not those big, busy, tourist museums, but the smaller more obscure ones.”
“What do you like about them?” I was curious.
“The silence. Have you ever noticed how people always seem to whisper in them?”
I thought about this for a while and it was true. For some strange reason you did feel compelled to whisper in a museum.
“It’s the one place where time seems to stand still. It’s not about moving forward, it’s about looking back.” He strode ahead of me, entering the front of the museum.
“Why do you like silence?” I asked as we bought our tickets and began our walk around.
Alex stopped and stood next to me. “Would you think I was boring if I told you my ideal evening would be chilling at home quietly? No TV. No phones and computers. Some wine, food, reading a book, going to sleep?”
“Yeah, that’s totally boring,” I said with a playful smile. But truthfully, it sounded really,reallynice. My life for the last three years had felt like a chaotic, wild ride of highs and lows and, quite frankly, I wanted off the ride now. I desperately needed a change of pace, and suddenly I quite liked museums.
“Connie always wanted to go out to dinner with friends to these fancy, busy restaurant or trendy bars.”
“Sounds hectic,” I added quickly.
“Very.” We walked into the first room. “I prefer a dusty, old, quiet museum any day of the week. I’ve found one or two in London that aren’t overrun with tourists, and sometimes after a long day of surgery, I like to go there to unwind.”
“Have you ever lost a patient?” I suddenly found myself asking.
Alex paused. He looked straight ahead, not focusing on anything in particular. “A few times,” he said slowly. “It’s usually cancer, and by the time they get to me, it’s too late anyway. It’s very hard when that . . .” His voice was soft. It tailed off and he didn’t finish the sentence.
“God, I don’t know how you do it,” I said. A thick lump crawled into the back of my throat. “You’re remarkable.” Alex turned and smiled at me.
“Thank you for saying that,” he said. There was genuine appreciation in his voice, as if he didn’t hear that very often. “And what about you? Revolutionizing the sex lives of couples the world over. Helping millions lose centimeters around their waists . . . Did you know that fat around the stomach is particularly damaging to organs and is the most dangerous kind?”
“Oh, please. I haven’t written anything truly worthwhile, anything that could make a genuine difference to people’s lives, in . . .” I paused and thought about it. “Ever. Maybe I just don’t have anything important to say.”
Alex looked at me curiously for a moment or two and then a slow smile spread across his face. “I think you have very important things to say and I have a feeling you’ll be writing something like that very soon.” He walked down the hall and into the first room.
The room looked like the kind you retired to after dinner to drink cognac and smoke cigars. The décor was very French; gold trimmings, low-hanging elaborate chandeliers, old patterned chaise longues and wooden floors that creaked when you walked on them.
There was no one else here and the only sounds I could hear were those of our feet as we walked from room to room.
I looked out the window at the sprawling gardens outside. A massive tree that had almost been taken over by bright orange bougainvillea stood in the center of the garden. I’d never seen orange bougainvillea before. It was so striking, especially against the cool of the green.
“Shall we go outside?” Alex asked, leaning over my shoulder. He was so close that I could feel his breath on the back of my neck and the warmth radiating from his body. There was something so comforting about his presence. He was always calm, his voice soft and soothing and his demeanor always set me at ease. I felt like I could breathe around him. He was like a human tranquilizer, only non-addictive and probably better for your liver and kidneys.
“Yes.” I nodded and smiled at him, imagining him as a giant white walking pill.
