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Field trips were just as she remembered them being in her first few years of teaching. Students looked forward to them, mostly, and the teachers were happy for out of the classroom learning. Granted, most of the kids probably went to these places in previous years or on their own, but no one ever turned down the chance to spend a day off campus.
Teaching in Paris was, in some ways, not far off from how she’d spent her early teaching career in America. The culture shock passed quickly enough; after all, teenagers were universal in a lot of ways, country differences aside.
Some of them gathered around her, the ones who participated more often in her class. Every teacher had their own small cluster of students who were partial to their subject and moments like this showed as much, especially with a student body of under one hundred.
The school was a small speciality school but she liked it. She was able to get to know every class, something that was sorely lacking when she was teaching in larger schools back in the States. It gave her the chance to hone in on each of her students’ strengths and weaknesses and which approaches worked best for whom.
And she got to know her coworkers. Quite a...colorful bunch.
Speaking of, she needed to have a talk with de Marsant again when they returned. One of her senior students turned in a rather dark paper and she knew by now that he encouraged students to “reach deep within themselves” when writing. Which she didn’t disagree with, but she wished he kept the context to creative writing specifically.
For now, she put other problems out of her head as she stepped out of the bus into the chilly late autumn morning. Sarah Zembe was herding students together, repeatedly asking everyone to gather into their groups. She was the most authoritative, and this trip was her specialty, so the American couldn’t blame her for wanting it to go well. The rest of the faculty stood off to the side, some of whom met the class there rather than take the trip across the city to campus and back. Hugo and Louise were the only staff members not present, as both had duties specifically dedicated to the campus.
That was a shame, she thought. Hugo lightened up around his brother, the drama teacher Leo Dubois, and told the most interesting stories of their childhood.
Kat and Raphael were discussing which sections of the museum was the most relevant for their purposes; despite teaching Latin, Raphael Laurent tended to teach ancient Roman history as well, and it often overlapped into Kat Hong’s territory. Their teaching methods were very different (Kat’s room had beanbags and the kids often did reenactments) but both tried to at least not get ahead of the other in curriculum.
Marion Valette was fawning over TJ Carter’s blazer, a sharp orange piece he’d made himself. He was showing her the lining, a purple silk. The home-ec teacher was better suited for the fashion industry than teaching, she thought, but he had a way with the kids that some of the others didn’t. He diffused fights with a few words and was often seen tending to small injuries the nurse didn’t need to be bothered with. Marion, on the other hand, was a mystery to everyone. The students thought of her as kind and dedicated but the rest of the staff knew better than to trust her anymore than they could throw her. She’d started out with Louise in the front office and within a few years, replaced the Forensics teacher with little to know practical teaching experience.
Noor was running a hand through her short wavy locks and trying to convince Sarah to try another method of organizing the students. By the way Sarah kept re-adjusting her grip on her pen, the younger woman was winning. And not just because her father was also the principal. Tristan de Marsant wasn’t that far from them, pointing out a few relevant galleries on maps to a few of the students that might contain pieces of them to write about for class.
Vincent Karm, the economics and business teacher, was staring at the glass pyramid and waiting patiently as he told other students about the history of the building. Unlike Raphael, he didn’t always wear his glasses, and even stubbornly refused to wear them when he needed to outside of class. They were tucked away in his breast pocket, next to the green pocket square. He looked out of place with the teenagers and more-casually dresses faculty; he was never without a three piece suit, even on dress-down days.
She’d interrupted his class one day in need of a quick stain remover. He was likeliest person to have something to get the coffee out of her blouse, considering his fashion sense. He was prepared for anything, it seemed, as she caught sight of a sewing kit in his desk drawer, along with stain removers, shoe polish, some buttons, and a few extra ties.
He was a bit harsh at times and favored those who excelled in his class. Yet he was often the one who stayed late with students to make sure they understood the material. She was one of the few who could say she did the same.
They kept gravitating to each other, it seemed, which made it all the harder to think straight when he was in the vicinity. They still hadn’t had that coffee together. He’d seemed receptive but they had yet to actually make plans.
Sarah began speaking and pairing teachers off and it wasn’t until she heard her name that the American was taken from her thoughts back to the present.
“You and Monsieur Karm will have Group B,” the Frenchwoman handed the younger teacher a list of students with several lists of clues and moved onto the next pairing.
She felt her stomach drop and she glanced over at Vincent. He was adjusting his tie, as he often did, but offered a kind smile when their eyes met. One she didn’t see outside of their conversations in the teacher’s lounge or in brief run-ins after school, when they were free from possible intrusion. It was quick, over before she knew it, but she straightened the papers in her hand and walked over to him as Sarah rattled off the students they were in charge of.
“You’ve been here, haven’t you?” Vincent asked, holding out a hand to take the offered papers when she reached him.
She hadn’t, actually. In all her months of living in Paris, never once had she managed to make it to the Louvre. The museum stayed on her to-do list, falling under lesson plans and grading and catching up on any certification requirements.
“Between settling in and getting right into lessons, I haven’t had the chance. I’m glad the two finally collide.”
Even happier that I’m with you but that’s neither here nor there.
Vincent tucked his copy of the list of clues into his breast pocket. He didn’t look bothered in the slightest with having gotten paired with someone who was of no help.
If he was surprised or even insulted that she hadn’t managed to make it to the museum on her own, he said nothing on the matter. But the ghost of a smile appeared on his lips for a moment again as he said, “We’ll have to remedy that, then.”
Their group was, thankfully, students both of them had and seemed like they wouldn’t be much trouble. Each of them had a copy of the list for the assignment and a map; they were already plotting their selections and routes. Vincent gave them a stern lecture about traveling in pairs, to exchange numbers if they hadn’t already, and to meet up in in the reception area of Napoleon Hall at the designated time if the group decided to split up.
Raphael was spearheading his group as they headed for the Sully wing, TJ lingering behind, answering a few questions for one or two students. Sarah was discussing the inverted pyramid with her students with Kat interjecting historical facts for context. Tristan was plotting a course with the group, Marion lingering in the background looking incredibly bored (not that the American blamed her; she was the forensics teacher, after all). She would probably eventually break from her group and leave the museum for most of the day. Leo and Noor were already giving heavy hints to their group, it seemed, far more interested in letting the teens find the things that interested them rather than get stuck on the assignment.
She lingered in the reception hall and stared at the glass pyramids before she felt a hand on her elbow, tentative, professional. His fingers were warm through her cardigan sleeve.
“The rest of the museum is far more impressive, mademoiselle ,” he said before stepping away and heading towards the Sully Wing after their group.
She followed and then kept stride with him as they wove their way through the Pavilion de l’Horloge, up to the ground floor through Egyptian artifacts, through Greek sculptures. Some students lingered in front of a few pieces and the teachers hung back as they came to a consensus on whether the sculpture fit the clue they were looking for.
The American stopped in front of the Venus de Milo, eyes trailing the barely visible seam of the marble. The statue was found in two pieces, along with remnants of the left arm, Vincent told her as he walked up next to her.
“They can’t identify who she is, right? There’s no way to tell her pose or what she was holding?” She asked, peering up at the stone face.
“It’s asserted the statue was found with a hand holding an apple but you’re correct. She’s supposedly Aphrodite but it’s equally possible she was Amphitrite, a sea goddess venerated by the island.”
She walked around the sculpture, taking in the carvings of the folds of the fabric, at the hint of muscle underneath flesh at the abdomen. She’d taken art history courses alongside her English and education classes in college but the knowledge wasn’t as fresh. She felt like she was stretching her legs after a six hour car ride. “Hence Venus, since they can’t identify her. An apple would refer to the Judgement of Paris, or even Hercule’s eleventh trial…”
They continued on, cutting through a few other galleries to get to one of the most beautiful staircases she’d ever seen. As they walked, Vincent asked if she studied mythology, to which she replied that she’d only studied the larger stories.
“The Judgement of Paris is a necessity for the tale of the Trojan War. I couldn’t study classical literature without reading Homer, that’s probably considered sacrilegious to some degree,” she said, her tone light but enthusiastic. She’d enjoyed the stories, fantastical and allegorical though they were.
The stairs gave way to The Winged Victory of Samothrace , the goddess Nike poised to take flight any second. She stood on the prow of a stone ship, which Vincent clarified likely marked the sculpture as a possible commemoration of a naval victory. It was theatrical and grandiose.
She recalled that, among all of the books in his classroom behind his desk, he had a small replica of the sculpture next to copies of a few plays.
“If you wish to use Da Vinci, now’s probably an ideal time to go,” Vincent suggested to the group, skimming the list over her shoulder, the paper creased from being folded and unfolded. “It would seem Ms. Zembe wishes to make us all suffer the tourist crowd,” he muttered under his breath, meant for her ears only.
The height difference between them and the volume of noise around them required he bend down to speak to her. An easy-to-misconstrue action. The students went ahead without them after some encouragement but were told to stay within the first four galleries.
She didn’t miss the glances they shot between her and Vincent and then among each other. Someone giggled.
Is it that obvious? She wanted to curl up and die from horror. The last thing she needed was their students catching on to her ridiculous…infatuation.
That’s all it was. Yes. Just a fleeting infatuation.
But he’d flirted with her. Helped her. His own actions only fed into her frustrations at having to pretend she didn’t feel something towards him. And seeing each other every day didn’t help.
He led her to the Galerie d’Apollon , home of the French Crown Jewels, where she saw bracelets and diadems and crowns. History tied to craft and the artistry behind the designs of the hefty pieces. She stared at what was labeled Charlemagne’s sword, although the didactic said it was possibly older.
They moved onto the Mona Lisa , the painting surrounded by a steady crowd. Their group was spread out a little within the first few galleries, she noted; only one of them was near the painting, attempting a selfie. The painting was smaller than she expected it to be. She tried to grab a clear picture of the painting but was of equal height to most of the crowd, which didn’t appear to be thinning anytime soon. Long fingers brushed hers as Vincent took her phone and succeeded where she failed. She felt her face go red as she thanked him and took her phone back.
“Only famous because it was stolen,” Vincent remarked as they stepped out of the crowd. “They questioned J.P. Morgan and even Picasso before the painting was found twenty-eight months later in Florence when the thieves tried to sell it to a dealer.”
They made their way through the gallery and Vincent paused in front of an innocuous portrait of a woman wearing red. She followed his eyes to the painting and noted it was attributed to Da Vinci.
“Whereas this one has as much history as the Mona Lisa but hardly gets a second glance unless anyone knows her tale,” her guide gestured with an open hand, palm up, presenting the painting to her. The figure’s long hair was tied back and the details of her dress indicated that she was a woman of standing.
“ Portrait of a Woman, copy of La Belle Ferronière ,” she read. “I’ve never heard of it.”
He told her the story of the copy from Kansas City and Joseph Duveen, a famous art dealer in the twentieth century, the lawsuit of the Hahn family that involved many of the art world’s connoisseurs. He moved behind her and pointed to sections of the painting as he taught her about Morellian connoisseurship and why the case was so contentious, how delicate the art world truly was. She could smell his cologne and found it hard to focus on his words as she tried not to think about how close they were.
That he was so well-versed in art history didn’t exactly surprise her; he had an eye for detail and grew up in Paris, as a few of their coworkers had. He probably grew up in these very halls, she realized, coming year after year where little changed except for temporary exhibits. She saw first-hand not only how he taught but how passionate he was about sharing his knowledge. He was the opposite of Raphael Laurent, who was as excitable as a puppy the second someone mentioned Ancient Rome; Vincent was focused and wove a story out of the object, ensuring she had all of the details she needed to understand his point.
She caught a few students glancing at them curiously, whispering among themselves. She felt her cheeks warm when she realized they probably saw what just transpired between them. It was bold but not against policy for them to be that close together; plenty of people worked in close quarters together.
She didn’t want to think of the gossip when they returned to work. The students were horrible with keeping stories straight but the small staff heard everything and the school would know all about the scenario by the end of the week.
They wandered the halls of the Denon Wing until someone asked about lunch. They were already on the ground floor and, after some discussion, they decided to eat at the closest spot, Café Mollien.
The smell of coffee, fresh bread, and sweet pastries made her stomach remind her it’d been longer than she wanted to admit since her breakfast.
“I prefer Cafe Marley, on the other side,” Vincent gestured with a said as the two of them sat at a separate table, far enough away to keep an eye on the students while also giving the kids (and themselves, she mused) privacy. “One of Paris’ secrets, right under the nose of visitors, many get lost looking for it.”
“That’s usually the way to find other hidden spots, in my experience,” she replied, looking at him for a moment before she dropped her eyes to the menu.
Lunch was a brief, but delicious affair. The students were more than eager to get back to their assignment; they’d worked on it over the meal and narrowed down their missing pieces. Both teachers decided to let them go on their own for the rest of the trip on the condition they met in the lobby by the designated time. She ran her fingers over the handle of the coffee cup as she watched the last student leave. Vincent didn’t seem concerned in the least that they would be wandering without them and soon they were relatively alone, surrounded by other visitor taking a break.
“Why business and economics?” She asked after she sipped the foam off her cappuccino. The promise of getting coffee was more than fulfilled. “You’re more informative than any of my art history professors were.”
“Art history doesn’t lend itself to innovation and change. There is a canon, an agreed upon narrative, that will often change an object’s history to fit rather than change for the object. I would rather be at the forefront of change, leading it. I enjoyed experiencing human ingenuity and problem-solving, building a business from the ground up. Teaching had given me the best of both, I suppose. Leading change by sharing knowledge, teaching leadership skills, to look from different perspectives to solve problems.” He fixed his coffee with only a bit of cream, she noticed. Vincent stirred the drink quietly before looking pointedly at her. “Why English?”
Her stomach sank to her feet at his gaze. She hadn’t felt this nervous around him before, at least not this strongly. Asking for help was one thing and most of their conversations came easily, the comfort of their shared career usually providing a cushion. But there was no pretense anymore, not when they were outside of classroom walls and most of their students were elsewhere.
“There’s something universal about language, about the stories we write and share,” she said. “I love the feeling of finding stories that resonate, seeing the techniques one author used to convey a point, how someone else might accomplish the same thing in a different voice or with different methods. I didn’t want to teach the language itself, structurally, but rather what we can do with it. Tell stories, communicate, learn from our past. It’s history but without the boring stuff.” She threw up her hands in defense, jokingly. “But don’t tell Raphael or Kat I said that, they’ll argue with me to no end on historical inaccuracy or how muddled allegories can get out of context.”
Vincent’s face took on an expression of solemnity and he marked an X over his chest with a finger. “Your secret is safe with me.”
There was something gentle in his smile again. He was a stranger, coworker though he was, and she’d just bared a little bit of her soul to him. He was far from oblivious to how others saw him, surely. Or maybe he was, in turn, showing a sliver of himself to her. She didn’t want to hope. Hope would drive her mad and ruin her lesson plans for the rest of the term.
Somehow, she felt much lighter on their last treks through the galleries. They stood closer together than before, walking beside one another rather than Vincent leading the way. More than once, hands reached out and brushed, knuckles against knuckles, or fingertips against fingertips, never wanting to break the space entirely.
“Are you leaving from here or returning to school?”
The question was unprompted, asked as they descended the stairs into the atrium. She was so caught up counting the heads of students she could see that the question didn’t register at first.
“I was going to catch the 7 line, or maybe walk since it’s nice out,” she replied, tearing her eyes away from the students to look up at him for a moment. “Why?”
He stepped off to the side before he could give an answer to let people pass and she followed, her heart quickening. It was a simple question, she told herself, that didn’t necessarily mean anything other than mere conversation. Vincent glanced at the cluster of teenagers before focusing on her again and tucking his arms behind his back. He tilted his head to the side ever so slightly, like he did when he was proposing a complicated situation for a student to solve. His gaze was always intense but there was something different about the way he looked at her, something...softer, perhaps. She felt her stomach flip, rather than sink as it had before.
“I thought, perhaps, we could continue our earlier conversation. Over dinner.”
If she’d learned one thing about her fellow teacher, it was that he was surprisingly direct when it mattered; more than conversation, then. It was a start. She quelled the desire to react to the bubbling feeling in her stomach but the grin tugging at her lips couldn’t be contained.
“I’d like that.”
The moment was broken when someone jostled her and she threw her arms out instinctively as she fell forward. She felt hands on her shoulders as Vincent caught her before they both went tumbling back. He smelled like sandalwood, musk, and...something lightly floral. A strange combination that suited him just fine. How had she never realized how good he smelled?
She was broken by her reverie when he asked if she was okay and she felt her face warming yet again.
“I’m fine,” the English teacher smiled, acutely aware of how close they were to one another around their students. She resisted the urge to stay in his arms and pulled away; across the room, she could hear a few giggles.
First my coffee, now this!
One glance told her all she needed to know about the children’s opinion of what transpired and she stepped away further.
“But yes, dinner would be...lovely.” she amended, and then nodded her head towards the growing group of students, accompanied by some of their coworkers. “We should probably…”
He fixed his tie absentmindedly and hummed in agreement. She brushed off her sleeves and waited a moment before following him, unable to keep the smile off her face and her heart from racing.