I look at Van Gogh’s Cafe Terrace at Night and tell myself that it’s time to move on to the next painting, and then to the next room. James is standing next to me, contemplating the Van Gogh in impenetrable silence. He must be starting to get impatient, even if he doesn’t show it. He has already visited this museum. For me, it’s a multiple first—my first original painting by Van Gogh, my first visit to the Musée d’Orsay, and my first time in Paris.
How I ended up here is a disconcerting, albeit remarkably short, story. On Tuesday, I received a call from an unknown number. I never answer such calls. Usually, it’s a telemarketer or pollster, and I don’t have time for either.
But for some inexplicable reason, this time I picked up.
“What do you think of Cézanne?” asked James in greeting.
