The Louvre

[The Exodus]

The Louvre, and expanse menagerie of masterpieces, is teeming with art students to study and tourists with cameras alike, but it's a safe haven for anyone, trained eye or not, in search for some creative inspiration or a nice browse of some of the best art in the world from every recoverable century. Whatever your interest, it will surely come alive in the brush strokes and marble statues at the Louvre.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Penny MaCarthy

Paris was loud and humid. It was nothing like the pictures she had seen. On her first day here, it had rained, and a taxi cab splashed muggy water on her. Mascara had its own race to the finish line on her chin and nose and her white dress clung to her skin, revealing an embarrassing view of her undergarments.

She arrived at Bill's house, and her eldest brother answered the door with a "Wow. Leopard print and lace. Who knew my baby sister had a wild side?" Finally, he gave her a towel and let her dry off in the smoky bachelor pad.

Needless to say, it had been an eventful first day in all the wrong ways.

So she found herself where she was comfortable, looking at the fine brush strokes of Monet and Rembrandt. She listened to the French tour because she, unlike her brother, preferred to learn French through hands on French experiences, not hands on French women.

She put the French audio tour to her ear and listened intently, resting her head against the smooth, cold, pristine wall.

But French didn't come easily to her. And she had a month to learn it well enough. She put her head in her hands. If she expected to get anywhere with this job, she needed to be able to do more with the French language than order a coffee. She could hear Bill's voice very clearly in her head listing the things you can do with the French language, but most of them were vulgar. She blew out her lips and closed her eyes. "Why?" She asked to the ceiling. Why had her day been so terrible? Why was Paris not been what she expected? Why was French so difficult?

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Santiago was pretty sure Paris was trying to kill him. Maybe the city was trying to make him a better man. But the path to self-improvement was essentially a personal hell of trying to follow laws and not be a total d*ck to everyone you met, no matter how much they deserved to be snapped at. He’d spent the past couple days visiting Reese in the hospital and trying not to give the nurses cause to ban him from the premises. Apparently, smoking in the waiting room was frowned on. As was flirting with the receptionist. As was telling the nurses how to do their job. As was calling the doctor an incompetent quack. As was spending the night when you weren’t a blood relative. Who knew?

Finally, one kindly intern took Santiago aside in the hallway and said something like, “Sir, go home. Get a bath. Eat something that doesn’t come out of a vending machine. Do something nice for yourself. Your friend will still be here for a while.”

As if that was supposed to be comforting. So, Santiago said something like, “Take your stethoscope and push it between your intergluteal cleft.” Except he said it in a way that had him waltzed out of the hospital with strict orders not to come back for at least 48 hours. They were cutting him some slack, or something, because he was under pressure or whatever from Reese being sick. Some sort of compassionate bullsh*t like that. In actuality, Santiago was probably sleep deprived and he never could just take orders from strangers in uniform—especially when that uniform was a set of baby-pink scrubs.

So he had two days to himself, during which time he showered, slept a little, and ate a sandwich. He also had managed to smoke through half a pack of Marlboro’s and finish off the last of the whisky in the cabinet under his sink. Also, he managed to approve a couple design changes and tell MaCarthy that he’d swing by tomorrow for a bit in the morning. Santiago Ortiz epitomized efficiency, if not social grace. And now, he found himself with a couple hours to kill. He weighed his options thusly: A) Get drunk. B) Go to work. Or C) Do something nice for himself.

A was out of the question. Santiago promised to be at work in the morning and he’d already fuelled up to get rid of a headache that morning. He didn’t need to pump himself full of booze. B was also out of the question, if only because it entailed seeing MaCarthy while he was feeling under the weather. Santiago had too much dignity to do that. So that left C. Which meant Santiago drove on his motorcycle, splashing through puddles, until he alighted upon the Louvre. It seemed like a good time, wandering a museum blankly, soaking up art, and pretending he wasn’t stressed or anything.

Santiago roamed the halls of the famous museum, looking at the pictures with the glassy-eyed disinterest he’d perfected in the last decade. Nothing caught his eye these days; especially not the same portraits and landscapes everyone had prints of in their flats to look “cultured”. Canvas art was static; it was dead. Santiago loved living arts, movement.

And pretty women.

The brunette caught Santiago entirely by surprise. She seemed to be struggling with her audio-guide the way so many tourists did. But unlike the globs of morons meandering through Paris and pointing out every “quaint” and “charming” café, she was alone. There was no fat, fanny-packed husband telling her to get his picture by the Mona Lisa. There were no caterwauling children begging mommy to take them to the carousel. She wasn’t part of a school group; she didn’t have a local beau sucking her neck. Instead, she stood, looking ceiling-ward with her audio-tour shoved into her skull.

"Why?" she moaned aloud in English.

And at first, Santiago wondered the same thing. Why was she alone? Why was she mashing her audio tour into her head like she wanted it to stick there? Why did she sound so despairing?

And why was Santiago just standing there?

He smiled crookedly and walked over to her.

“Do you need help, senorita?” he asked, mostly in English. “I couldn’t help noticing you have an audio tour stuck in your skull.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Penny MaCarthy

“Do you need help, senorita?” Penny jumped at the not French and turned to the source. The last thing she needed was a strange man talking to her. No matter how attractive he may of been. Not that she found him attractive. She gawked momentarily, and put a hand to her chest as if to ask "Are you talking to me?". “I couldn’t help noticing you have an audio tour stuck in your skull.”

Penny looked at the man, then to the audio tour. Then back to the man. "It's not stuck." She managed to stay. Determined to not look flustered, she took in a deep breath, lowered the audio tour and stood up straight. "I mean, why are you looking, anyhow? Is the art not interesting enough?"

It sounded ruder than intended. He, a stranger, creepy or not, didn't deserve that. She was just having a bad day and she didn't need to take it out on him. She took a deep breath, grateful the ambassador was nowhere near her. She would be demoted to stapling papers for the secretary.

She sighed. "I'm sorry. That was rude. Can we start again? I'm Penelope. Penny."

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

The girl looked flustered. Santiago repressed a laugh. He had that effect on people, no matter where he was. At work, on the streets, in a museum… You’d think Santiago was a 21st century ninja, the way people didn’t hear him coming.

"It's not stuck,” the girl insisted in a British-y accent. "I mean, why are you looking, anyhow? Is the art not interesting enough?"

Unprompted rudeness made Santiago chuckle. This girl was defensive. Santiago wondered if he had “ex-con” tattooed to his forehead or something. She was pretty, though, so maybe she wasn’t used to guys like Santiago approaching her.

"I'm sorry,” said the girl with a sigh. “That was rude. Can we start again? I'm Penelope. Penny."

“Santiago,” he returned. Then, thinking: Why the hell not? if they were exchanging nicknames, “Diego. And trust me… After you’ve seen one Monet, you’ve seen them all. But I haven’t seen you before.”

He smiled as best as Santiago could, closed lips and a shrug.

“Your first time at the Louvre?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Penny MaCarthy

“Santiago,” the man introduced himself and Penny couldn't help but smile at the name. It wasn't a funny name, but it seemed too elegant for him. But then again, her name did the same thing for her. "Diego." That was better. She liked that. It suited his appearance better.

"And trust me… After you’ve seen one Monet, you’ve seen them all. But I haven’t seen you before.”

Penny raised an eyebrow and crossed her hands in front of her, closing herself up protectively. He said 'trust me', but that slick, flirtatious fringe to his voice made her think she should do other wise. She had heard Bill and Freddy both use that voice and it disgusted her.

“Your first time at the Louvre?”

"Diego, Paris has a population of nearly 12 million. The Louvre is open six days a week, for about twelve hours a day. Even if you spent all day, every day here, the chances of you not seeing me before this are likely. So your assumption that this is my first at the Louvre is just that, an assumption."

But really, she wasn't trying to get him to go away. She just wanted to be sure she didn't look like a tourist. She didn't want to be hit on.

"Why?" she asked, dropping her voice, "is it that obvious?"

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

"Diego,” Penny said and Santiago realized how much he’d missed his old nickname. He grinned at the sound, greeting it like you would an old friend. “Paris has a population of nearly 12 million. The Louvre is open six days a week, for about twelve hours a day. Even if you spent all day, every day here, the chances of you not seeing me before this are likely. So your assumption that this is my first at the Louvre is just that, an assumption."

So she was a smart girl, then. One with no qualms about lecturing a stranger. Santiago’s grin faded just a little, but he was used to that level of feisty lecturing. He enjoyed a challenge. Besides, she had a good point…

"Why?" she asked, dropping her voice, "is it that obvious?"

Santiago laughed.

“If you’d been any more obvious, you’d be wearing a fanny-pack.” He shook his head. “No, I’m kidding. Mostly. I’ve just been here long enough to pick out the tourists from the expatriates. Only tourists waste money on audio tours, anyways. They’re a complete waste of money.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Penney MaCarthy

Santiago laughed at her. He laughed. Penny felt her face go red with a combination of embarrassment and rage. So much trying to be taken seriously, so much for trying to blend in. At the rate she was going, she would never be trusted to run a country. She clenched her teeth tightly together, feeling her jaw cramp and and her teeth grind together.

“If you’d been any more obvious, you’d be wearing a fanny-pack.” He had to push it, he had to go there. If she had been Virginia, she would have struck the man in front of her. If she had been Frederick, she would have just smiled suspiciously and plotted her revenge. If she had been Benjamin, she would have jumped to conclusions about his masculinity. And Heaven knows what William or Rupert would have done. Penny didn't see any of these as good, acceptable options. So she bit at her tongue.

“No, I’m kidding. Mostly. I’ve just been here long enough to pick out the tourists from the expatriates. Only tourists waste money on audio tours, anyways. They’re a complete waste of money.”

Joking. Joking was acceptable. She grew up with five brothers. She could handle a joke. She relaxed. "Actually, I have one because I need to learn French. I understand art well enough, a family friend of ours growing up made sure of that. It's the French that I need."

She would not go to Bill for help. Though he spoke it well enough, he would undoubtedly teach her the wrong words and meanings in hopes that she would use them in a meeting and get fired.

"Unless," she said, setting the audio tour down, the ingratiatingly mechanic voice of the woman on the other end of the speaker still talking away, "Well, you said you've been here a while. Maybe you could help me? I'd pay you and everything for your tutelage." Oddly, she trusted this Diego character more than her own brother when it came to French.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

He didn’t miss the way her body tensed at his joke. His brand of humor took some getting used to. Sometimes, he forgot how shocking he could be to delicate sensibilities. But Penny quickly relaxed.

"Actually, I have one—“ she meant the audio tour “--because I need to learn French. I understand art well enough, a family friend of ours growing up made sure of that. It's the French that I need."

Santiago nodded appreciatively. He’d learned French from books and Gisele and operas. In fact, he used to be able to recite the works of Dumas and Hugo with shocking perfection, before he needed that brain-space for more practical things like how to pick locks and the difference between a tenor and a baritenor.

"Unless," said Penny, putting down the audio tour. "Well, you said you've been here a while. Maybe you could help me? I'd pay you and everything for your tutelage."

He smiled and stuck out his hand for a handshake. Again, this was a ‘why the hell not?’ moment. It wasn’t like Santiago had an abundance of fulfilling hobbies or of friends. He certainly didn’t have girls lining up at his door these days.

“That,” Santiago said a little slyly. “Is the most interesting proposition I’ve got in a museum. When do we start?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Penny MaCarthy

Diego offered a hand for her to take. A good politician always offered up a good handshake. She gripped his hand firmly, the right combination of friendly and command for respect (or so she hoped).

“That is the most interesting proposition I’ve got in a museum. When do we start?”

"Wednesday," Penny said quickly. "I don't have work and the Louvre is closed. Ergo, I won't have anything to do." Her mother had set up a lunch date for her and Bill that day, and after that one time Bill stood her up, Penny would have loved nothing more than to repay him. She released his hand and procured a pen from her bag. She pressed black numbers into his palm. "Contact me and we'll meet up for those lessons."

[The Exodus]

OOC: Natalie/Evrard! BIC:


Natalie Blackwood

Natalie scarcely understood the appeal the Louvre held over her son. To her, it was a labyrinth of paintings, perfect for losing your eight year old son in. Maybe she was biased, but even passing by the famed museum made the bottom of her stomach fall out with parental panic. But even ten, fifteen years later, Damien remained fascinated by the Louvre; even after the museum sent him a letter denying his application. He spoke of it with the bitterness of a spurned lover when insisting Natalie visit today. She could imagine him, pressing the cell phone to his seashell ear while trying to pin some leathery costume on a cheap looking slag at the Moulin Rouge, sighing and nibbling the corner of his pouty lips. No matter how happy being at the Moulin Rouge supposedly made him, Damien was meant for better.

And that was why Natalie dared to venture in her equivalent of a haunted house. This was an espionage mission. Reconnaissance. She was trying to understand the atmosphere, the employees, everything. And then she would do what any good mother ought to: support her son in a second attempt to win over the curator and HR department of the Louvre.

Her black high heels clacked against the floor. In a less crowded place, she’d cut a statuesque and impressive figure. But the Louvre was packed full of tourists who pushed and shoved for a glimpse of the Mona Lisa; no one took notice of her, which was all just as well. After all, a good “spy” blended in.

What a ridiculous term, she thought dismissively, the instant the notion entered her head. I’m a mum on a mission, not a spy.

Still, as she traced a manicured nail over the path to the curator’s office on her map, Natalie couldn’t help a small smirk. MI6 had nothing on her when it came to getting a job done.

[Deleted]

Evrard Ludovic-Marcellin

Evrard leaned back in his chair, which made a pathetic groan as he settled his weight against gravity and the strength of the chair's spine. He turned his head lazily to the side and rested his elbow on the chair's arm. He brought his hand up to support the side of his head. His eyes absently scanned the view of the Seine and the Quai François Mitterrand. It was hardly past noon and the day had already been a long one. As soon as he got in, he was bombarded with reports and concerns and situations that needed resolving. That was his job. That was what he expected everyday he set foot in the adminstrative offices at La Louvre. For the past eight years, he had overseen budget decisions, human relations issues, countless policy creations and revisions, and contract development. There was so much more. His work had such a large impact on the workings and dealings of the world renowned museum. The average person - tourist, student, local - only knew of the art when they came or thought of the Louvre. Few ever gave any mind to the administration behind the entire operation. Without people like Evrard, it would all go to hell.

Evrard closed his eyes and sighed. As a whole, he enjoyed his job. The stress was manageable and the power was satisfying enough. He had failed in his theatrical aspirations as a youth and had turned to management. This was what he was made for. He smiled now, imagining himself on a stage in ridiculous outfit, spouting off nonsensical pseudo-philosophical lines in character. Fortunately, he had passed that phase and he did not regret it. He was still a staunch supporter of the arts, but he left the stagework to the professionals, those who were actually passionate about the perfoming arts.

There was work to be done, but that could wait for a few minutes. His lunch made him feel somewhat sluggish and he relished the relaxed feeling. Whenever he had a moment to himself, he did not waste it. These precious quiet times were something akin to gold around the office, especially at peak activity hours. Six more hours and then he could go home or perhaps make a stop at Le Moulin Rouge. It was difficult to say what sort of mood he'd be in by the time the day was over. It was likely he'd be too tired to do anything today, but he would keep his options open.

[The Exodus]

Natalie Blackwood

Once Natalie snuck past the security guards, she realized that stealth wasn’t all she assumed it to be. The administration portion of the Louve was a labyrinth of closed doors with names and abbreviations that made more sense to French-speaking museum buffs than a lone British woman. None of them said “curator” and after passing the same water fountain three times, Natalie had to admit to being lost. There was one door, labeled “Evrard Ludovic-Marcellin” that looked important. Natalie studied it for a moment and deduced that whoever worked in there was important. In her desperation, Natalie knocked on the door. She drew herself to full height and smiled, not sure quite what to expect.

[Deleted]

Evrard Ludovic-Marcellin

As soon as he had begun to drown out the sounds of traffic and random shouting from beyond his office windows, a knock interrupted the peace. Evrard furrowed his brows and groaned, rubbing his fingers gingerly against his temples. "Quel est-il maintenant?" He mumbled with a sigh. He opened his eyes, readjusting them to the moderate light from outside. During the day in the summer, he rarely turned on the lights in his office. It was not because of the fact that he was an environmentalist, which he was not. The sun simply provided enough light for him to work in.

Evrard pushed himself up from his chair and extended his legs and rolled his head and shoulders. He strode over to the door. He could have yelled "Entrez," but he wasn't in the mood to raise his voice. In addition, he probably would have given away his irritation. This way, taking the time to walk over to the door, he had just enough time to compose himself and make himself pleasant enough for whoever it was that was disturbing him in his lunch hour. He smoothed his hair as he turned the door handle.

The sight lessened his irritability - if only slightly. It was a woman, several inches shorter than himself, and perhaps a couple years younger. At the most, she was only a few years older than himself. If that was the case, she was very attractive for her age. She was well-dressed, in a way that suggested money and a sense of entitlement. This woman knew how she looked and she knew how to complement her appearance. Who was she? He didn't recognize her. If she was something worth knowing in the administration, he would have known her. She looked a little old and too finely dressed to be a mere secretary or aide. She had no papers in her hand, so it didn't appear she was hear to deliver anything tangible. Evrard smiled down at her. Well, he would find out what her business was in a moment.

"Bonjour, madame. Que devez-vous?" His tone was smooth, but he knew he couldn't completely mask his irritation, even with such a marvelous looking creature standing at his door.

[The Exodus]

Natalie Blackwood

The man who opened the door was not the mustachioed villain who had taken her baby’s dreams and ripped them to shreds. He couldn’t be. Natalie expected some moustache-twirling and oily looking man who looked down his hooked nose at all those who dared to set foot in his museum. Instead, what she got was a man around her own age, who wore a suit and had salt-and-pepper hair and weary, hazel eyes.

"Bonjour, madame,” said the stranger. “Que devez-vous?"

For a deer-in-the-headlights moment, Natalie forgot any and all French she knew. Instead, she was listening to tone, trying to tell if he had essentially told her to piss off or if he was willing to help.

“What do you want?” That’s what he said.

Natalie smiled.

“Bonjour, sir,” she said, French and English coming together as she tried to figure out how to say what she wanted. “Je suis Natalie Blackwood… Je suis désolé si j'ai interrompu tout. I’m looking for the curator’s office. Or human resource management. Whichever you can point me to?”