Twenty-Two
AXEL
The Louvre is a beast of history and grandeur, swallowing us up. I keep one hand in my pocket, the other one at my side, brushing against Jo’s as we join the slow-moving queue for the gallery that has Jo so excited, the small one with the Mona Lisa and The Last Supper, pushing forward inch by inch. I glance at the faces around us, all tourists craning their necks, but my eyes keep drifting to Jo. She’s quiet for the moment, taking in the high-ceilinged corridors, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration as her mind catalogues and analyses everything around her.
“Are you excited?” I ask, leaning slightly toward her.
She grins, her eyes sparkling, the kind of grin that makes me forget everything but her.
“Excited? Axel, I’ve been waiting for this moment for what feels like my entire life. I might burst from enthusiasm.” She laughs, light and airy, a sound that seems to echo around thecavernous hallways, makes me want to bottle it up and keep it forever.
“Where’s my commentary? Why have you gone so quiet?” I tease, elbowing her lightly.
A faint flush colors her cheeks. “You don’t need my commentary. My father was a connoisseur of fine art. I’m sure he must have taught you a lot.”
“Yes, he did,” I say honestly. “He taught me to know the brush strokes, the value, the provenance, but you see the beauty in the smallest details, and I like seeing them through your eyes.”
She snorts, shaking her head. “Flattery won’t get you closer to the Mona Lisa faster, you know.”
“But it might get me closer to you, though?” I say with a wide grin.
Jo rolls her eyes, but she laughs. Her laugh is soft and musical, and I realize I’m grinning like an idiot. I’ve made her laugh, and that feels like a victory. I can’t believe this is the woman I was so determined to hate. When I learned the truth about that email that hurt Joseph so much, that it wasn’t her who sent it, and that she had no idea he even existed, I was so fucking relieved and happy I wanted to punch the air. Already, I was finding it harder and harder to turn off my feelings for her and maintain the outward impression that I didn’t like her.
Finally, we’re inside the gallery. Under thick glass, the Mona Lisa is less imposing than I expected, yet the painting extrudes energy like no other painting. Perhaps it is all the billions of eyes that have witnessed it. The slight smile, the knowing eyes, the way centuries of obsession cling to her image like a shroud. Jo leans closer to me, whispering under her breath.
“Look at the layering,” she murmurs, pointing subtly to the texture of the paint. “The way Leonardo built the background so softly, it almost melts into her. It’s absolute genius.”
I nod, fascinated by Jo’s intensity, the way she notices and explains with effortless passion. And the way she calls Leonardo DaVinci, Leonardo as though he’s an old family friend.
“You make it sound like she’s alive,” I murmur.
“That’s the point,” she says softly, her eyes glued to the portrait. “She is alive, in a way. In the art, in the emotion she conveys, in the legend.”
I glance at Jo’s profile, and I feel a surge of something I haven’t allowed myself to feel in a long time. The curve of her lips, the tilt of her head, the way her fingers twitch slightly as she gestures, it’s like she’s radiating light and beauty. My mind switches the scene, imagining the same precision, the same attention, focused on me. And the thrill is a dangerous thing.
The crowd moves along, and we push forward towards The Last Supper. I’ve seen plenty of religious works, plenty of iconic pieces, but Jo’s commentary on other pieces has made me see nuances I would never have noticed on my own, and I am interested in hearing her opinions on this one. I cross my arms.
“All right,” I murmur. “Convince me.”
Jo tilts her head, her violet eyes catching the low museum lights and seeming to almost dance. “Convince you of what?”
“That it’s more than a long dinner table and a bunch of upset men.”
She huffs a quiet laugh. “You are impossible.”
I glance at her rather than the mural. “So, enlighten me.”
“You’re allergic to romance,” she corrects gently, stepping closer to the painting. “Look at the moment he chose. It’s the second after Christ declares that one of them will betray him.” She gestures toward the center of the piece. “He caught a moment in time. The shock of Jesus’s statement.”
My gaze shifts back to the artwork. The figures are frozen mid-reaction, their hands lifted, brows furrowed, bodies leaning toward or recoiling from the central figure.
“They’re all reacting differently,” she continues. “That’s deliberate. Leonardo wasn’t painting saints. He was painting men.”
I step closer.
“So that one,” I say, and I nod toward a figure half risen from his seat. “He’s angry?”
“Peter,” she says. “Angry, yes. Also, impulsive. Defensive. See how he leans forward? There’s tension in his shoulders. And he’s holding a knife.”