Page 4 of One Year Ago in Spain
But then she was face-to-face with his work again, and it was like trying to walk during an earthquake while the ground was still shaking. Basic assumptions weren’t straightforward anymore.
Each of his pieces was painted in a style reminiscent of classical European masters, done on wood panels rather than canvas, which seemed to give the colors a richer, almost glowing quality. Matías’s style was very realistic, except that in each painting there was one incongruous, imaginative element.
There was a portrait of a man and a woman at home, him drab and slouched and slack-faced on the couch watchingmindless TV, completely unaware that beside him, his wife was gleefully reading a book from which a cute, thimble-sized red alien had emerged and was waving from the pages. Claire laughed out loud, remembering her own amazement when, after moving to New York and having some subway commuting time to kill, she’d rediscovered the joy of reading.
Next, she stood for a long time in front of a painting of a little boy in a field blowing on a dandelion, but rather than seedlings, there were tiny drones, dutifully flying off into the blue sky with his wishes. A trill of happiness vibrated through Claire; this was a vision counter to all the doom-and-gloom headlines about how computers and robots were going to devour humanity. Instead, Matías had found a way to show a path forward where technology was infused with hope.
But it was a painting in the quiet corner of the gallery that knocked the breath out of Claire. In it, a gap-toothed, smiling monk held out a partially peeled orange to the person gazing at the painting. But it wasn’t an orange peeking out from under the peel—it was the planet Earth.
Peace, cupped in his hands and offered to every single person who stopped to look.
“Oh my god, Matías,” she whispered.
He’d stood quietly next to her as she walked through his work, understanding that sometimes the best tour is one the traveler leads herself on. Now he smiled, and those golden eyes glimmered under the gallery spotlights.
If it were possible to know someone’s soul without knowing the person at all, this was how. Matías’s art was his pureness, his sanguine exuberance, his belief in the promise of the world. And—just like when Claire first saw his painting of theManhattan skyline reflected in a puddle as a forest of sunflowers—she thought,
I wantthat.
I wanthim.
But ordinary people only get to mingle with the extraordinary for brief interludes before they have to return to the normal world. Claire knew to savor these moments because she wouldn’t get to have them again once she walked out of the Rose Gallery’s doors.
Unfortunately, the adoring crowds soon found Matías again. A group of society matrons converged on him and swept him away before Claire could even thank him for sharing his work.
She stood there alone then, with his art, wondering if someone like her could ever inspire a similar passion in someone as vibrant and original as Matías.
But after a few seconds, Claire laughed at herself. She had had her brief interlude with the extraordinary, and now it was time to return to the norm.
—
He called herat her office the next day at 9a.m.
“Hi, Claire? It’s Matías. I asked Yolanda for your number. I hope that was okay. I’d like to take you to dinner.”
Claire gawked at her phone for a moment. Was he really asking her out?
Her voice squeaked when she answered. “Um, dinner sounds good. What date were you thinking of?”
“Tonight, if you’re available.”
Tonight?Attorneys were never free on such short notice. Claire’s calendar was often booked a month in advance.
“Unfortunately, I’m busy all this week,” she said.
“Oh, okay. I understand. If you are not interested, I am sorry for bothering you—”
“No, wait! I am! Interested, I mean. But I have to work late.”
Matías laughed softly. “All right. Well, what if it is alatedinner tonight? You have to eat, don’t you?”
“I do,” Claire said. “But I honestly don’t know how long I’ll be working. I have a call at seven that will last at least two hours, and I’ll have some follow-up work I have to take care of afterward. I might be here until eleven or so. I was planning to just grab a salad from the cafeteria before they close and eat at my desk after my call.”
Matías made a disapprovingtskwith his tongue. “Claire, that is no way to live. In Spain, meals are more than just nourishment. However, I understand that you’re busy, so I’ll tell you what—I will bring food to you at the office after your call tonight. Give me thirty minutes for a break, and I will prove to you that dinner can be efficientandpleasurable.”
The way he saidpleasurablesent a warm rumble straight through her core.
—
