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Pyotr chuckles and takes my hand once more. “Good, because this is where we’re spending the rest of the afternoon.”
“Really?” I sound like a kid who just got set loose in a candy shop.
“If that’s what you’d like,” he says, leading me toward the door.
I smile, unreasonably flattered that he would be so willing to cater the day to me.
We stop at the ticket kiosk just inside the doors, and it’s the first line we’ve had to stand in all day. But Pyotr doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he focuses his attention on me, turning in line to ask what I would like to see most.
“The chalk and charcoal drawing collections,” I say avidly. “The Met’s got some of the best charcoal art in the world.”
Pyotr quirks an eyebrow in mild surprise. No doubt he expected me to say something like Degas’sThe Dance Classor Monet’sBridge Over a Pond of Water Lilies, and of course, those are on my list. But da Vinci’sHead of the Virginis at the very top, along with Umberto Boccioni’sSelf-Portrait.
When we get to the front of the line, Pyotr purchases four tickets and a map, then we fall in among the group of museum-goers flooding through the halls.
“What do you want to see first?”
“Da Vinci’sHead of the Virgin?” I suggest.
Pyotr examines the map for several seconds, then takes my hand in his strong, calloused one once again. This time, his fingers interlace with mine, and the gesture feels far more intimate–like what a real couple might do.
That shouldn’t make my stomach quiver like it does, but I find it hard to catch my breath when the tall, mercurial Russian touches me. It’s an inherent physical response I can’t make sense of. But somehow, the aura of danger that surrounds him combined with this gentler side gets my heart racing.
We head into the classical art collection, Pyotr barely needing to pause at each doorway to make sense of the building’s layout. When we enter the far room, I can almost feel the sacredness of the paintings and drawings casting a quiet stillness over the people.
Then I see it.
Taking charge, I pull Pyotr across the room, my free hand hovering over my mouth as I take in the delicate lines, the perfect emotion in the Virgin Mary’s expression.
“This is it?” Pyotr asks, sounding slightly skeptical and more than a little disappointed.
“Are you kidding?” I breathe with reverence. “This is one of da Vinci’s masterpieces. Look at all the perfectly unified left-handed strokes. Look at his brilliant use of shadows and shading. He used red chalk to work out the details of his figures and where the shading would be before going over them in charcoal. And here, see how he blends the color to make the transitions smooth and seamless?”
I pull Pyotr closer, pointing out each of the details I mention as I marvel at the wondrous art. After several long minutes, I look over at Pyotr to find him studying me. Warmth pools in my cheeks.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “I never realized how much thought and intention went into a drawing. I guess I’m just impressed by how much you know about art.”
“Oh.” A shy smile stretches across my face. “Thanks.”
Pyotr gives a subtle nod, his eyes still sharp and intense. “What do you want to see next?”
“Adolphe Appian’sA Pond with a Fisherman Along the River Ain?”
“Are you asking me?” Pyotr smirks, making me suddenly shy.
Then I pluck up my courage and square my shoulders. “No, that’s definitely where we should go.”
Pyotr’s smile spreads, and he gives a curt nod before checking the map once more. This time, he takes me into a room several floors up, stopping just before the drawing I was thinking of.
Emotion constricts my throat as I take in the large-scale charcoal drawing. So much feeling in such a tranquil landscape. All I can do is revel in its beauty.
“Well, professor, what do you have to teach me about this one?” he teases lightly.
But that’s all it takes to get me gushing about the incredible artist’s technique. I explain Appian’s ability to capture landscapes and how he brought his hometown of Lyon to life in black and white.
“He would wipe the material with cloth, paper–sometimes even breadcrumbs–and then scratch the paper’s surface to create this tonal range no artist had been able to accomplish before,” I say, hovering my hand over the lifelike reflection in the water.
