Page 14 of That Weekend in Paris
“Ah, oh, gosh,” the girl says. “Maybe the back of my T-shirt?”
“That’s fine,” he says, smiling in a way that puts her at ease.
She shrugs out of her leather jacket, turning her back to him. Her friend passes a Sharpie, which she’s dug from the bottom of a backpack. Klein glances at me with an apology in his eyes. I shrug, shake my head. It’s part of what he does, and I’m actually happy to see him getting recognition for his talent, although I’m sure the girls’ interest in him includes the fact that he’s so easy on the eyes.
Klein writes something and then scrawls his signature across the middle of her back. She turns to thank him when he’s done. “Would you mind doing one for my friend? She’s too shy to ask.”
“Of course,” he says.
The other girl steps around her friend and displays the back of her T-shirt, giggling as she does.
“We can’t wait to hear you tonight,” she says.
“Well, I certainly appreciate both of you planning to be at the concert. Where are you from?”
“North Carolina,” she says. “We’re here on tour with our college debate team. We heard you were going to be playing while we were in Paris, so we begged our professor for permission to get tickets. Luckily, he’s cool and agreed.”
Klein hands her the marker back and says, “Lucky for me.”
Both girls giggle now, the more daring one giving me a look of envy. I start to reassure her that she has nothing to worry about, but press my lips together and keep silent.
“Okay, then, we’ll see you tonight, Klein. We’ll be waving from the audience.”
“I’ll be watching for you. Thanks again.”
“No. Thank you,” the two girls say in unison, turning around to skip off.
“Does that ever get old?” I ask him once the girls are out of earshot.
“Ah, it’s not something I think I’ll ever get used to,” he admits.
“How so?”
“Well, being recognized for one thing. And I always want to look over my shoulder to make sure they’re not talking to someone else.”
I smile. “Yeah, I get that, but by now, you should know you have a lot of admirers.”
He shrugs, drops his chin. I realize he really isn’t comfortable with fame. “You don’t need to feel guilty about it, you know.”
He lifts his gaze, stares off into the crowd for a moment, and says, “Sometimes, I do. I don’t know. People do far more important things in this world than sing. And yet, I get so much recognition for it, not to mention the money.”
“People like to be entertained,” I say. “There’s nothing wrong with that. You let people escape for a little while into something they enjoy. Put aside the realities of life.”
He looks down and then meets my gaze. “I get all that. That’s what music has always done for me, but somehow being on this end of it, there are times when I wonder how justified it is.”
The line has started to move, and within a couple of minutes, we are standing in an enormous open area that appears to be the center of things. Since we’re short on time, we agree to do the Richelieu wing and tour the French paintings on level two.
We follow the brochure map and then take a staircase up. We start in Room 1, standing and staring at the artwork hanging wall to wall. I sense that Klein is as awestruck as I am. We amble room to room for the next twenty minutes, saying little, each of us lost in our own wonder at the masterful works surrounding us.
I stop in front of one painting. The title reads,Trussing Hay. I stare at the people captured lifelike in their work.
I look at Klein, and ask, “Do you think the artists here were aware of their talent or saw it as something that would be revered hundreds of years after they completed it?”
“Some of them, maybe, but I kind of think most of them would be amazed to know that anything they created could have such a long life. And too, I doubt many of them actually earned a lot of money for their art.”
“No,” I agree. “Probably not. It’s kind of hard to understand why it would be nearly priceless now and virtually worthless at the time it was created.”
“That’s one of the reasons why I don’t think of what I do as art,” he says. “I would never compare myself with any of the artists here.”
