A B C Dali (Tristan/Martzel)

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Martzel Jimenez

The Dali exhibit was closed for renovations and behind red velvet ropes, employees worked diligently to move the great works into the places Martzel deemed worthy to hold the very instincts and inventive irrationality of an artistic deity. It was what Martzel loved most about Dali and his Dadaist counterparts: the conscious rejection of logic in the face of turmoil when logic, on that ever rare occasion, failed to do the work of intuition and impulse.

He sat on a bench and leaned his head back against the hot glass window, his name plate glowing warm in the summer sun. Outside, Paris sprawled and rippled beneath him like a canvas with too much paint that threatened to tear apart at the slightest touch in the heat. In Paris, the air was somehow simultaneously smoky and clear; he could see the city for miles from his spot on the bench. The air in Malaga was too salty to even smell the smoke. And Paris was massive and wound around itself like a giant maze. Martzel loved mazes and would enjoy every moment of exploring.

Some other time, though he told himself. Maybe after work. Because now, he had to make sure that Dali’s majestic art was assembled just right. He turned back to the growing exhibit, which looked good so far, considering the weight and abundance of the pieces. But as he turned his head to scan the space once more, something—no, someone—caught his eye. A tall, slender man was ducking under the velvet ropes, no employee badge in sight.

“Excuse me, señor,” he said, tapping him on the shoulder. “You can’t be here. This is for employees only, at the moment. Closed to the public. To see the exhibit, come back tomorrow, por favor.” He nodded towards the sign, which in bold, white lettering said ”Le personnel autorisé seulement”. Authorized personnel only.

That wasn’t to say that Martzel didn’t appreciate the man’s eagerness to see the exhibit. But was it really worth breaking the rules of the Louvre to do so?

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

The police received the ring in the mail. There was no note attached, no return address. Tristan was able to return it to a disgruntled customer, whose daughter was howling “emotional distress” and “compensation”. She wouldn’t have a case, of course, since emotional distress was part of every funeral. And Tristan had bent over backwards to discount the service in an attempt to appease the angry and grieving family. He’d personally absorbed some of the cost, but that was between him, Solange, and the Lafollettes.

It was the only thing he could think of to do to make things right.

They’d performed the Lafollette funeral this morning and the dead woman was buried with her jewelry as per her last requests. The funeral home was closed for the rest of the day; Tristan’s cell-phone rested snugly in his pocket, on vibrate, should the morgue or a nursing home need him to pick up.

Usually, he’d be with Solange or Gwen or Torben right now. But Tristan just wanted to be alone.

He wanted to paint. Desperately. His fingers itched to do something; his mind bustled with thoughts. But nothing came to him in color or shape. It was all grey, all noise. Angry, tired noise. Uninspired.

He hadn’t done a damn thing with a paintbrush since the interns started working for him. Everyone always told him that having extra hands in the embalming room and in the lobby would give him more time to do things he wanted to. That was such a pretty lie, he wanted to believe it. But Mathis was pedantic at best and bossy at worst. Chelsea’s French was garbled and made her sound clinical and morbid instead of compassionate. And it was a wonder Gaston had passed his mortuary classes; for all his eagerness to learn, he was a sloppy embalmer. Tristan’s time and Solange’s, now that she was back, was spent cleaning up their messes.

The only thing Tristan had been “inspired” to do lately was strangle somebody. And that was unacceptable. He came to the museum today to get inspired. To see real art in its natural habitat. There was something about the stillness of the museum that was more comforting than the stillness of the funeral home right now. It was the silence of awe, not the silence of death and until this week, Tristan hadn’t cared about the particulars that made the two so different.

He milled about aimlessly for half an hour, not heeding any map. And somehow, he stumbled upon a sign that said “Dali Exhibit: Coming June 2013”. Intrigued, he followed the arrows.

He turned down a largely vacant corridor. Overhead, a red “Exit” sign glowed. The sound of movement urged him on. When Tristan came out of the other end of the hall, he was greeted with the sight of melting clocks and skeletal branches. He’d always loved Dali. Next time, he’d take Torben with him to see this.

Tristan took a step forward and bumped into a velvet rope. He rolled his eyes and clambered over it to get a better look at the large painting dominating the exhibit.

Someone tapped his shoulder and started to speak. The French spoken was so heavily accented, Tristan was left staring blankly. He’d heard “Por Favor”. Spanish. Tristan didn’t know a word of Spanish. He followed the guy’s head-nod to the sign. Authorized Personnel Only. Tristan had seen signs like that a thousand times; it had never stopped him from tagging a building. It wouldn’t stop him from looking at Dali’s work.

“I didn’t see that,” he said, folding his arms. “That’s very… anti-Dali.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Martzel Jimenez

As Martzel enlightened the guest, he couldn’t help but notice the unreceptive look in the man’s eyes. It was vacant, vacuous, and very vexing. The man blinked a few times before looking at the sign, something clicking behind his blue irises as if Martzel’s words had finally been soaked up by the man’s distracted, detached brain.

“I didn’t see that,” the man said, his arms crossed like a blockade more effective than Martzel’s measly red velvet rope. “That’s very… anti-Dali.”

The sentence was less than articulate, but Martzel couldn’t argue with it. If Dali’s work taught the world anything, it was that conformity was the poison hell-bent of dissolving the world, that logic whispered and instincts roared. And this man seemed to know that all too well with his blatant disregard for the sign and eagerness to look closely at the viscous clocks and humanoid pianos.

“Be that as it may,” Martzel said, pulling himself up straighter, “it is protocol and as long as you are this museum, you will follow the rules unless you wish for this to be your last visit.” In reality, Martzel didn’t quite have the authority to ban this man from the Louvre, nor was he quite frightening enough to scare him off, but he had to try. “If you come back tomorrow, you will more than welcome to view this exhibit, but until then, please entertain yourself with the other paintings the Louvre has to offer.” He touched the man’s shoulder and attempted to steer him firmly in the right direction, away from the priceless pieces. “Have you seen our postmodern section? It’s new and exciting, of this I assure you…!”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

The guy was shorter than him and much more formally dressed. Tristan had exchanged his suit for jeans and a t-shirt; a decision he now cursed, since he could have otherwise tried to convince the stranger he worked here. He knew enough about the Louvre to fake it if he had to. Once, he’d been mistaken for a tour guide here by a school group and a two hour jaunt through the antiquities section became an all-day event for a very baffled Tristan. If only it wasn’t the middle of June… Then he wouldn’t have bothered with the switch anyways.

The other man drew himself up to full height. Tristan puffed up, peacocking a bit. At six-foot-four, he towered over the Spanish guy. Well, not exactly towered. But two could play that game and Tristan very seldom lost at the who-is-taller-than-whom game.

“It is protocol and as long as you are this museum, you will follow the rules unless you wish for this to be your last visit,” the man said. Tristan tilted his head ever-so-slightly. Could he really get kicked out of the Louvre for sneaking a peek at the new exhibit a day early?

Did it matter?

There was plenty of art in Paris. Tristan had seen the Louvre a zillion times. He had grown up in Paris, after all. There were smaller, lesser known venues. Other museums, unnamed street artists, art galleries…

Because, really… Protocol? That was why this guy was stopping him? Tristan wasn’t hurting anyone, wasn’t being disrespectful…

“If you come back tomorrow, you will more than welcome to view this exhibit, but until then, please entertain yourself with the other paintings the Louvre has to offer,” said the man. He was being reasonable enough, but Tristan didn’t have time tomorrow. He had time now. He might not get a pocket of time like this again for a very long time. But, he was totally willing to cut his losses and walk off. No point in getting bent out of shape.

But then the Spanish guy – who still didn’t have a name – touched him. It was so freaking patronizing, Tristan wrenched out of the guy’s grasp.

“Have you seen our postmodern section? It’s new and exciting, of this I assure you…!”

“I assure you,” Tristan said, trying to sound as scathing as possible by flinging the guy’s words back at him. “that if you touch me again, man, I’m not going anywhere.”

He walked over to a sun-warmed bench and plopped down, staring intensely at a sculpture of a piano with high-heeled feet. He wasn’t budging. Just because he was seriously pissed. Everyone expected him to bend over backwards. His customers, the police, even this random museum guy. And for what purpose? Protocol. Protocol wasn’t a reason to do anything. It was an excuse bureaucratic stiffs gave to keep people from acting organically.

Hah. Stiffs.

Tristan leaned forward and studied Dali’s artistry with an appreciative smile. In all seriousness, he wasn’t leaving until he’d calmed down. There was no way he was going back out into the world in a foul mood, guns blazing. And there was something soothing about the fluidity of Dali’s pieces…

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Martzel Jimenez

The other man grabbed his arm and wrenched it away. Martzel could feel his shoulder ache from the force. “I assure you that if you touch me again, man, I’m not going anywhere.”

Not if I have security drag you out. But Martzel pulled his shoulders back, his arm still sore, and said nothing. Tentatively, he put his hands at his side and took a deep breath. “Lo siento,” he said softly. “Look, señor, I’m new here and I’m just trying to do my job. If you could please leave the exhibit until tomorrow when it’s ready? I don’t want to start a fuss.”

This job was important to Martzel. The Parisian atmosphere slowly assuaged his hunger for adventure that Malaga didn’t. He had worked diligently on French, holing himself up in El Biblioteca Publica del Estado de Malaga, monopolizing their free wifi and language center until he saved up enough money from art dealing to move. But Paris offered something Malaga didn’t: a new start, a chance to make his mother proud of him, an opportunity to prove to his Basque family that he was more than just the b*stard son of a Spaniard. And this man-- this trespassing, blatantly brazen man-- was not going to stop him.

“I see that you’re upset,” he said evenly. “And I’m very sorry about that, but your visiting this exhibit is against museum policies and I can’t allow it. As I said earlier, please come back tomorrow when we are done getting it ready, señor.”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Maybe this was what Solange and Gwen meant when they called him “stubborn”. He didn’t think of himself that way, but as he sat staring at the Dali sculpture intensely, looking but not really seeing, just to piss off the museum staff it dawned on Tristan that maybe he was stubborn, after all.

Just a little bit.

Maybe.

But, seriously. Couldn’t this guy just take a breather for maybe two seconds and see that it was not the end of the world if one person quietly sat and watched the exhibit come to life? If Tristan had been the curator of this exhibit, he would have let art enthusiasts watch quietly as long as they stayed out of the way. Hell, in his daily life, he let Torben do body studies of decedents as long as he promised not to touch. And he was particularly fastidious about the embalming room. Like, this guy worked with precious pieces of art, yeah, but Tristan worked with people’s precious grandparents and children and parents and lovers. It was just as sacred space and he let appreciative eyes drink it in.

There was no harm in letting a guy watch, after all.

Tristan pretended to ignore the man at first. It was almost pathetic, the way he was whining about it being his first day on the job. Like, Tristan felt a little bad for him…

No.

He wasn’t supposed to feel bad for the annoying curator. No way, no how. He trained his eyes on the golden angel atop the piano-with-feet. It reminded him of Torben’s gaudy, gold skull that went on the Fontaine-Blau Christmas tree.

“I see that you’re upset,” the curator said. His tone took Tristan by surprise. It was the same tone he used when talking to mourners who were breaking the funeral home’s policy. Like the woman who had sex with her brother-in-law in his supply closet or the man who let his young child son play hide-and-seek in the casket showroom during a service. It was the same tone Tristan spoke to Madame Lafollette’s angry daughter and husband in. He swallowed and looked over at the other guy. “And I’m very sorry about that, but your visiting this exhibit is against museum policies and I can’t allow it. As I said earlier, please come back tomorrow when we are done getting it ready, señor.”

“I get you,” Tristan said, rising to his feet. “You let one person break the rules, you gotta let ‘em all break the rules. No hard feelings?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Martzel Jimenez

Finally, a look of clarification overtook the man’s features, as if Martzel’s words had finally pierced his skull and got to his brain like a finely sharpened arrow. Martzel smiled softly. At last, the stubborn man was listening instead of deflecting. It was as if some force field of arrogance was lifted and at last he saw the light.

The man stood, and Martzel had almost forgotten how tall he was “I get you. You let one person break the rules, you gotta let ‘em all break the rules.”

“Precisely,” Martzel said with a nod.

”No hard feelings?”

“None.” Martzel said, extending a hand for a handshake. “I take it we will see you at tomorrow’s grand opening?”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Tristan took the offered handshake, grateful that the other guy wasn’t calling the cops. He’d dealt enough with the police this week alone to last him a lifetime.

“I take it we will see you at tomorrow’s grand opening?” the museum employee asked. Tristan groaned.

“I wish,” he said, hazarding a last, wistful glance over his shoulder at the paintings and sculptures. “Free time’s hard to come by in my field. I’m just glad I got a chance to see some of the exhibit.”

Tristan wondered when his next opportunity to visit the Louvre would be. Probably not for months, long after the Dali exhibit had gone home to Spain. He looked back at the curator and shrugged. It wasn’t as big a deal as he’d been making it out to be. He wasn’t in the right frame of mind right now and Tristan was just now realizing it. Maybe Torben would swing by the exhibit when it was open and get some pictures…

“Good luck with the opening.”