Page 53 of Just for a Taste

“Are you ready for your tour, Signorina Bowling?” he asked, strolling over with his hands folded behind his back.

It had been so long since he called me by that name, and now it made my face feel hot. I rubbed the back of my head and stared at the ground. “Yes!”

Zeno walked slowly to the first work, a tall oil painting, and tilted his head up. “Here we have the 1862 oil painting,Sir Galahadby George Frederic Watts. Beside it is theLady of Shallott, painted only twenty-six years later by John William Waterhouse. As you may have guessed from the chain in her hand, it is based upon the tragic death of Elaine of Astolat, Galahad’s mother.”

My eyes widened at the seemingly extensive research Zeno had undergone. “Have you been here before or something?” I asked.

Zeno shook his head and replied, “No, I have not.”

I shot him a skeptical look. At this, Zeno gave me his usual lopsided smile, one fang visible, and looked around meaningfully.

It took me little time to recognize what he was trying to show me. All the works were anachronistic and stylistically disparate, and there was only one connection between them all: each and every masterpiece was related to something I had talked about.Didofrom theAeneidon one wall,The Death of Julius Caesaron another. Every work, song, and book we had ever discussed had its own representation. Even titles or ideas I had mentioned only once or twice in passing had their places amongst the gallery.

“Holy—how did you—when—? How long—?” No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t finish a single sentence. I sputtered out half questions and whole expletives, and Zeno’s gaze softened.

“It took a while,” he answered once it became apparent I wouldn’t be able to talk. “But it was worth it if you like it.”

Zeno sat patiently and wordlessly for the few seconds it took me to gather myself fully, then resumed the tour with a softer, more genuine tone, albeit with the occasional joke scattered throughout. I spoke rarely, but this did not seem to discourage Zeno from asking me about my thoughts or knowledge. When we approached a recreation ofLandscape with Orpheus and Eurydiceby Nicolas Poussin, however, the torrent poured forth.

“Look how beautiful it is!” I cried. “I did a paper about this a long time ago, in my art history class. I got a bad grade on it because I focused too much on the legend itself.”

“Well, what were your thoughts, then?” he asked, giving me a sideways glance.

“The story can’t be separated from the art. It’s the moment just before Orpheus realizes Eurydice has been bitten. Before you see that, it’s beautifully idealistic, but once you realize it, all that’s left is just pure and utter dread.”

Zeno listened intently, then responded, “I must argue with you, signorina.”

I rolled my eyes but still smiled. “Of course you must, you contrarian. Let’s hear it, then.”

“I think everything you need to know is in the painting. The artist does a good job of making you focus on Orpheus and how happy he is outside of the shadows, but when you look into the background—”

“I know, I know,” I cut in, making sure my tone was audibly teasing. “The castle is burning, and the clouds are overcast. All the dread is already in the painting. That’s what my professor said too.”

He reddened slightly but tilted his head up for show. “Sounds like quite the brilliant professor. Have I impressed you with my artistic eye, then?”

I laughed and shook my head. “Maybe you would have impressed me if you used the big words she did.”

After several paintings, we approached the last piece,Dante and Beatriceby Henry Holiday. I stared up at Dante, gazing lovingly at the angelic Beatrice. The idea that Zeno had looked atherlike that made me feel sick.

“I never thanked you for telling me about Serafina the other night,” I told him, continuing to stare at the painting and trying not to tear up. It wasn’t my place, not when he and I would never be together.

In my periphery, I saw Zeno’s expression alter slightly, frowning with worry. He masked it with a smile once I looked over at him and shrugged. “Tit for tat. I did not tell you about my family, and you did not tell me about your love life.”

“There’s not much to tell,” I muttered with a dry chuckle. “A casual ex-boyfriend in my early college days and a serious ex-girlfriend in London who had the gall to break up with me last Valentine’s Day.”

“There’s not much to tell for me either. A father, stepmother, and cousin who despise me, and an extended family who want nothing to do with me. That, and a mother who is either out of the country, in the ground, or both.”

“Your father didn’t tell you where she is?”

He laughed bitterly. “Sure he did. He said she was an actress who left shortly after I was born, when she learned he was engaged. But even as a child, I never believed him. The death in my veins came from her just as much as him. I’m sure she died long ago.”

“Oh,” I replied.

What else was there to respond to such a thing?I guess we can bond over our mutual dead-mommy issues,maybe? Or perhaps,Good thing you’re the one drinking from me, since death isn’t known for having the best flavor?

No, that one syllable certainly sufficed.

Zeno walked in no particular direction, clasping his hands behind his back once more in what I assumed was a futile effort to brighten the mood. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the best at actually steering conversations.

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