Passenger(51)
*
The Walters Art Museum is a quaint, refurbished palazzo that appears, on first glance, wholly unassuming. But on detailed inspection, it blossoms like flora, flowering with 14th Century sculptures, baroque art, and a composition of complex spiritual movements that command attention and respect. Alone, my footfalls echoing from antechamber to antechamber, I wonder if I’ve ever been here before tonight. And if so, how have I been allowed to forget such a place? (I am happy and a bit surprised to find I have an appreciation for this art.) I walk like a nonentity, nearly blending in the crowd in my worn canvas coat and jeans, my hands stuffed in the pockets. Fine stubble has seen fit to sprout in a horseshoe shape around my head. The only addition to the ensemble is a red scarf, circled just once around my neck and tucked into the partially zipped front of my coat.
It is Christmas Eve and the museum is crowded. Somewhere far off, a choir harmonizes carols. I weave in and out of the various rooms, unable to keep myself from stopping before elaborate paintings in gold-leaf frames, of tapestries embroidered with intricate Mayan designs, of ancient and timeless manuscripts in languages so foreign they may have come from Jupiter. A father holds his young son up so he can see into a glass case where there sits a ceramic statue of an African warrior copulating with a princess. A little girl shrieks in glee as someone dressed as Santa Claus comes barreling into the Ancient World chamber. Santa runs his hands over the little girl’s head. The little girl shrieks again and ditches, sobbing, behind her mother’s leg. Santa laughs his big-bellied laugh and the rest of the little children cringe.
One room hosts a traveling collection of paintings—landscapes—by someone named Courbet. I linger here the longest, not because I am overly impressed by the work, but because it is the quietest of all the rooms, which suits me at the moment. I examine the paintings with some interest, breaking a visible sweat beneath my heavy canvas coat. In fact, only one of Courbet’s paintings resonates with me, harnessing my attention for more than a few seconds. It is perhaps the simplest of his paintings, the composition uninspiring, the colors typical and anticipatory.
It is of a single-lane highway running in a straight line toward the horizon, narrowing as it goes. Great sweeping trees flank either side and dust from a distant sun peppers the leaves. This forested roadway. Like something from a dream. Or a memory. Have I been on this road before? I wonder. Is it possible that I am the painter Courbet? I linger before the painting, trying to take more from it than it is able to give, or so it seems, until I eventually turn and leave the room.
There is a second-floor balcony just outside this room that overlooks the ground floor palazzo, all white, marbled, and freshly polished, where holiday decorations now seem to sprout from the walls. As I lean over the balustrade, I look down upon three tiers of carolers, standing on risers and dressed uniformly in red velvet robes like characters from a Dickens novel. Before them, families have gathered around circular tables to listen. Across the palazzo, a Christmas tree towers in the lobby running up alongside a spiral staircase.
The carolers are chanting “Carol of the Bells.” And I never realized there were words until now—
Hark how the bells,
Sweet silver bells,
All seem to say,
Throw cares away…
A few yards away, a young mother stands beside a little boy, also looking down at the carolers. The mother watches the carolers from over the railing while the boy peers between the slats in the balustrade, his mittened hands holding the rungs, his wool-capped head squeezed halfway between the bars. Something in my chest thuds. I wonder if I know this woman and this boy from a previous life—from a life I no longer remember. I feel I do. The woman could be a friend, a sister, a wife; the boy a cousin, nephew, son.
I wait for her, the woman, to look in my direction, to catch my eye. When she does, I offer a meager smile with some hope of anticipation. She smiles back, but there is no recognition in her face. Hers is a peaceful, muted face, white as cream, framed by thick coils of dark hair and topped in a jacquard cap. Her eyes are of a softness and delicacy reserved for the acutely passionate, and they linger on me for the slightest bit. As if inquisitive of my inquisitiveness. My smile, lingering too long, must seem intrusive. When she looks away, back down at the carolers, her profile again makes something turn over in my chest.
A sister.
A wife.
When the woman turns away from the railing, taking the small child by the hand, I at first follow them only with my eyes. Then I follow them for real, deftly negotiating the crowd that has formed up on this second level. I do not rush to catch up to them but, instead, allow myself to lag behind, hoping the urgency of distance will spark some phantom memory. The boy must be three, maybe four years old. I cannot tell for sure. He wears a puffy blue and red ski jacket and snow pants. The heels of his tiny sneakers blink with red lights.
A nephew.
A son.
Hark how the bells,
Sweet silver bells,
All seem to say,
Throw cares away…
The woman and child ditch into one of the galleries to the right, moving in the opposite direction of the crowd. Briefly, they are blocked from my view by smiling, clapping people anxious to leer over the balcony down at the stand of carolers. I, too, slip into the gallery. Tremendous portraits watch me from every wall as I skirt along a lush, oriental carpet. I spy the woman’s head and shoulders behind a cut-glass case housing ceramic sculptures, the boy’s smaller frame blurry and distorted behind the glass. The center of the room is open and there is no place for me to hide. Most of the people are outside on the balcony listening to the music, so my presence feels overwhelming. I feign interest in a portrait of a white-gowned queen, every hair along my flesh standing at attention, every fiber of my being sensing the woman and child as they navigate the room.