The Curator

Have you ever felt like someone’s watching you? The warmth that falls on your body from the direction of the stare? It’s like a force that awakes your consciousness and makes you turn around to find its source. Sometimes that source piques your interest. Sometimes, you want to run from it.

The sculpture was propped on a ledge, on the wall directly in front of the museum's entrance, right where the first set of stairs ended. The best way to see it was from the second floor, peeking through a glass wall that faced it. It must have been a new acquisition because it wasn’t there during my last visit, about a month before. I saw it as I was walking in, the reds, blues, and yellows grasping my attention so tightly that, instead of starting on the left room as usual, I ran up the steps to see it first.

For a late morning on a Saturday, the museum was overly packed. Rivers of people moved from room to room, many of them children, who were either in awe of the exhibitions, or bored to death. I usually avoided the museum on days like this when the entrance was free but, as soon as I woke up, I felt the urge to visit. I regretted my decision the moment I had to fight my way up the stairs.

Like a kid with her nose pressed on the window of a toy store, I leaned on the glass wall once I reached the second floor, wanting to absorb the sculpture with my eyes. It was a cowboy riding a wild horse, but instead of being brown or white or gray as most sculptures are, it had spots of screaming colors that usually have their place in paintings.

I was mesmerized by the artist’s creativity when I felt it. It was more than a warmth, it felt like someone was gently pulling me away from the glass. I looked behind me, in the direction of the pull, to see the crowds coming and going, minding their own business. But for a split second, the multitude cleared, giving my eyes a path to the other side of the room, where he was.

An angel fallen from Heaven would sin to look like this guy. He was standing there with his legs spread and his arms behind his back, like a soldier, clad in black suit, shirt and tie. His pallid, squared-jaw face slightly tilted back, his black eyes piercing mine, with a perfect smile on his well-defined, full lips.

As ice cubes fell down my spine, I quickly turned to the glass wall, like a child caught doing something wrong. I felt naked, stripped down to my very bones. In my head, I wanted to run from there, but my body froze, my hands glued to the glass. Even though we were surrounded by people, there was silence, as if he and I were alone in the museum.

I want you. I heard it whispered so close it felt like a thought. I jerked and turned around, to find him standing a few steps behind me.

“Hey,” he said, lifting his hand, his eyebrow faintly arched as he smirked.

“Hey,” I replied and looked down, the room getting a little warm all of a sudden.

“I noticed you like that sculpture.” He pointed at the cowboy and walked to me, standing by my side. His words came out as the notes of a piano, when played by someone with a broken heart.

I don’t know if I replied. I don’t remember saying anything.

“We got that piece last week. It’s a loan from a private owner, a good friend of mine. The colors hypnotized me when I saw it.” He looked straight into my eyes. “I had to have it.”

I stumbled, I’m not sure over what, but I had to place my hand on the glass wall to keep myself from falling.

“D’youworkhere?” The words ran over each other as they left my mouth.

“Yes, I’m the curator.”

My dad was an art history professor, so I spent my childhood and teenage years surrounded by art. Instead of taking up sports or musical instruments, going out to the movies or shopping with my friends, I would spend afternoons and weekends with my dad, immersed in books that depicted the great masterpieces in history. We would go on museum tours, even traveling to other cities to see the collections. This very museum had been my monthly routine for the past couple of years, since I moved out of my parents’ house. In all that time, I had never met a museum’s curator. I always imagined them looking like my dad, smart and wrinkled, not like a piece of art.

“If you like that sculpture, I think you’re going to love this. Walk with me?” With his hand, he invited me to walk toward the room right behind us. We had to dance around a family of four with a screaming kid in tow, a group of teenagers that all giggled at once when they saw him, and the museum guided tour, which was very popular at this time of day.

Pieces from the masters of cubism welcomed us when we finally reached our destination. Picasso, Cézanne, Braque, all my favorites were hanging on the walls. Even paintings that should have been in other museums were there.

“This is amazing!” I said, a little too loudly for a museum. “These weren’t here a few weeks ago.”

“Well, let’s say I have some influence with some powerful people.”

“You did this? How long have you been working here?” I asked, approaching one of the paintings to examine it up close.

“A couple of weeks.” He followed me. “There is something in this museum I couldn’t find anywhere else, so I decided to come get it.”

“And what’s that?” I blurted the question out of courtesy, more interested in the strokes of a Picasso.

“A soul.”

He was standing two steps away from me, but I felt the warmth of his breath on my ear when he talked.

“A soul... mate?” I said after a moment of silence, ignoring the butterflies rumbling in my stomach, fighting to make their way up and escape through my mouth.

The succulent sound of his laughter permeated the space. I started laughing too, without knowing why.

“Come this way,” he said as he walked on.

We entered a room filled with Dalí, Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. At the sight, I stood still, covering my gaping mouth with my hand. A tear broke free and rolled down my cheek.

“I’m sorry,” I said, wiping it with my finger. “These are my dad’s favorite artists. If he was here, his face would light up.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. I find it lovely that you have such a sensitive heart.” He smiled. “Tell me about your parents.“

“Well, they still live in my hometown, a couple of hours away. I moved to the city after college to teach art history, like my dad. He was a professor, I’m a schoolteacher.” We were walking side by side, looking at the paintings as we talked.

“Where do you teach?”

“Southside. A lot of unprivileged kids go there, that’s why I chose that school to teach art. Art gives them the opportunity to glance at the beauty sometimes they lack in their lives, and to travel around the world through the paintings and sculptures. I have a few students that are pursuing art now. I would love to bring them over here on a field trip, but it’s hard to convince the powers that be... and the parents.”

I suddenly realized I was rambling on. I stopped in my tracks to find him looking at me as a groom looks at his bride on their wedding day. For someone as simple as me, having the complete attention of this specimen of a man should have been flattering. Instead, I felt self-conscious.

“Please continue.” He must have seen the conflict on my face. “It’s refreshing to know that there are still people who care for others. This world grows more cynical and selfish by the minute.”

“I prefer to believe there’s goodness in everyone.”

That’s why I chose you. I heard his words in my head, but I didn’t see his mouth move.

“What?” My voice barely came out. It was more of a gesture than a sound. He either didn’t hear me or pretended not to.

“Follow me, I want to show you something else.”

As we walked to the stairs, it dawned on me that the crowds had diminished. In fact, the two rooms we had visited were empty, even though we had to swim across a river of people to get to them.

“Hmm that’s weird,” I said out loud to myself, following him down the steps.

“What is?”

“Where has everyone gone? When I arrived, not half an hour ago, I had to walk around people. Now there’s barely anyone. Those two last exhibitions should have been packed, but they were empty, except for you and me. Don’t you find that odd?”

He stopped short halfway down the stairway and turned around to face me, the smile gone from his face. Without it, his ravishing features looked dark, menacing, as a predator about to kill its prey.

“Those exhibitions are brand new; they are still closed to the public. You’ve had the privilege to see them because you’re with me.” His pearly whites were once again on display. “And what do you mean there are no people?”

As if conjured from thin air, we were surrounded by crowds, coming and going, minding their own business. They were rushing up and down the stairs, the heat of their bodies brushing me, the sound of their conversations mingling in my ears.

My mouth went wide again. I knew what I had seen, or not seen for that matter. Maybe the interest he’d shown in me had made me oblivious to the presence of others. Maybe I had chosen to ignore them, to pretend it was just the two of us.

He took my hand and lead me down the final steps to the first floor. His hand was smooth and cool, like the skin of a snake. He walked fast, moving me through the throng like a bodyguard.

When we reached the bottom of the stairs, we turned left into the first room, near the museum entrance. We entered a chess exhibit, with boards from different places and times in history. Chess had always fascinated me. When I was a child, my dad and I would walk to the park where people of all ages and gender would go against each other in friendly, and sometimes, very loud chess battles. I always enjoyed seeing others play, seeing the faces they made trying to concentrate while their opponents jeered.

I took a few steps ahead of him to check the first display in the room. I was captivated by the intricate details of each chessboard, with their pieces made of wood, metal and marble. Some of them were standard, others were geometric figures, or little statutes of people. There was one where the pieces were Greek gods. On another, Chinese dragons.

“Talk to me about your dad. It seems you’re pretty close.” He had caught up with me.

“Yeah, my dad