The security guard shakes his head. “Je suis désolé.” He goes on talking, and Louis’s face grows more concerned with every word.
“Non, non,” Louis says, becoming agitated. “On en a pour deux minutes.” We’ll just be two minutes.
The man shakes his head again, and they keep talking for a while.
“He’s not letting us in?” I ask Louis as soon as there’s a lull in the conversation. He turns to me, looking stricken. “I’m so sorry, Mia. I had no idea some auctions are by invitation only.”
I feel my whole body deflate, and not just because Louis seems so disappointed. For the last few minutes, I’ve been replaying Grandma Joan’s stories in my head, my heart filling with excitement at the idea that I could be about to uncover my family’s great mystery. I’m starting to accept that it’s not going to happen when the security guard sneaks a glance behind him. Then he looks from Louis to me and sighs.
“Trente secondes,” he says in a whisper. Thirty seconds. “C’est tout.” That’s it.
Louis’s eyes open wide with shock as the man steps aside, deliberately ignoring the both of us.
I grab Louis’s hand and we rush inside, my heart beating faster with the thrill of it all. Pastel colors, creative brushstrokes, and soft lines abound on the walls in front of us. Many feel familiar, but there’s only one artist I recognize for certain: a small painting of a dancer dressed in a bright blue costume, sitting on a bench, bending over to tie her shoes. The work is so precise that I find myself wishing I could run my fingers on the silk of the ribbons.
Unfortunately, you can’t see her face, only the top of her dark brown hair in a neat bun. I read the small placard next to it:
EDGAR DEGAS
ENVIRON 1879
ORIGINE INCONNUE
TITRE INCONNU
LIEU INCONNU
Circa 1879. Origin, title, and location unknown.
I let out a sigh. It seems like every time I allow myself to hope that this legend is true, something comes along to remind me that dreams are just that: something nice to think about between large stretches of reality. I study the painting again, searching inside me. What do I feel? Is this the one? But before I can even begin to form answers in my head, the security guard clears his throat loudly in our direction. Louis and I share a nervous glance. The man looks scary enough that we don’t even attempt to argue. I sneak one last look at the painting before Louis drags me away.
Back out on the street, we stand on the sidewalk facing each other for a moment.
Louis is the first to break the silence. “I really hoped this would be…something.”
“It was a long shot.” I act like it’s no big deal, but I know I’m lying to him, and to myself. Louis seems genuinely bummed, so why can’t I admit that I am, too?
“I’m sorry, Mia. I shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up. I just thought…maybe your great-great-great-grandmother’s painting has been sitting in an attic for a century, and that’s why your family is still looking for it. I was being naive.”
“I guess we both are,” I say with a sad laugh, but he just shrugs as he looks down at his shoes. “But we shouldn’t let this ruin our afternoon.”
“No…It’s just…，” Louis says, but then he trails off.
“Hey, I have an idea!” I say, feeling the need to cheer us up. “We might not find the painting, but we can at least relive it.”
“Oh!” he says, perking up. He grabs my hand and starts to walk. I love that we both know where we’re heading without having to say it.
* * *
Half an hour later, we’re first in line at the cashier of Opéra Garnier. Doing my best to enunciate, I say, “Deux tickets, s’il vous pla?t.” Two tickets, please.
But when I pull out my wallet, Louis puts a firm hand on my arm. “It’s on me,” he says. “To make up for our aborted mission at Drouot.”
I shake my head. “It’s not your fault.”
He shrugs, clearly feeling responsible, and pays before I have time to do it.
As soon as we begin exploring the building, my mind twirls with thoughts of my great-great-great-grandmother who, maybe, danced here. From the grand double staircase punctuated by bronze statues, to the colorful ceiling of the main stage and the never-ending ballroom covered in gold detailing, everything in this magnificent space makes me yearn to become a ballerina even more so I can perform here one day.
“It means a lot that you took me to see the painting,” I say as we reach the end of the main ballroom. It’s quieter in this part of the building. The tour groups we saw at the bottom of the stairs are clearly moving at a slower pace. “You really…get me. I can’t say that about many people.” I look away as I finish my sentence, almost regretting it.