“I see.” Rafael swallowed. He did understand it. He’d just returned to Spain, and he knew what it meant to be drawn to the idea of home.
Christian barked his big laugh again, and Rafael couldn’t help but smile. “Well,” Rafael sighed, “tomorrow we go to Sacromonte.”
Christian clapped his hands. “Don’t despair, my friend. Sacromonte may be just what we’re looking for.”
Sacromonte was just whatChristianwas looking for, but Rafael couldn’t see it. Usually, these things appeared in his brain as fully formed visions—the layout, the table settings, all the details that made his events truly unparalleled. But when they walked into the cave house in Sacromonte, Rafael had no idea how it would be done.
Christian was like a schoolboy, running around and clapping with gleeful squeaks as they toured the property. Of course, the older man would be delighted by the culture and history of the place. Rafael barely knew him, but he could already tell this was just the kind of thing he would go for.
The cave houses in Sacromonte had a rich history indeed. They’d been around since the 16thcentury when they were literally carved out of the hillside. Historically, Romani families had lived there, and people still referred to it as the “Gypsy Neighborhood” for that very reason. The cave houses provided shelter from persecution and were often a haven for groups that had been cast out from the city. An intriguing history, and there was already a historic museum in the caves to tell it, but Rafael could see that Christian was thrilled with the prospect of the cave houses hosting his little artistic endeavor as well. It was still home to a vibrant community that embraced art and the Flamenco.
It was off the beaten path, certainly, since you had to climb a hill or drive up a cliff to get there, and the potential site of Christian’s museum was tucked into the side of the white-washed hill, with a little door in the rocky cave that almost seemed to appear out of nowhere.
But that was just the thing. How were you supposed to hang paintings on the rocky curved walls of a cave?
Christian didn’t seem to think this was a problem, and after half an hour of bouncing around the rooms of the cave house, he returned to Rafael’s side and clapped his hands together, the sound echoing from the arched walls. “This is it!”
“Some of the paintings are quite large, though, aren’t they? I don’t understand how we’ll display them.” Admittedly, the space was larger than Rafael had expected, but he still wasn’t sure how it would work. He knew plenty of people lived in these houses, and there were Airbnb rentals available for curious tourists. Therewasa sense of coziness, a homey feel that was unique for the type of exhibit they were trying to create. It was interesting, to say the least. However, filling it with priceless art was another matter.
“You’ll figure out something.” Christian clapped him on the back with enthusiasm. “I’ve been to one of your events. I know your work. I’m sure you can make this happen, and just look at this place. It’s secluded and different, tucked away into a cave. I don’t think there could be anything better.”
Rafael nodded as he looked around the space again. Was it a cool setting? Sure, it was all the things Christian said, but for an art exhibit? Even for a party? It would certainly have to be small and intimate. And Rafael didn’t know anything about art, much less how to curate a museum’s worth of paintings and hang them on a cave wall. He was in over his head, and there was no way around it. But for his reputation, for his career, for his own sense of pride that wouldn’t allow him to go to Christian with his tail between his legs to admit there was no way in hell he could make this work, he needed to figure something out quickly. Christian was already talking about a moving truck to get the paintings here as soon as humanly possible, but thankfully Rafael knew it would take some time. The paintings had to be carefully packed in specially designed boxes filled with foam and packing materials, and even if Christian was eager to get things going, Rafael knew he wouldn’t risk rushing the process.
An unbidden image of Grace materialized in his brain. He wasn’t sure why he had the vague notion that Grace would know just what to do. She would know the paintings, she would know where to put them, she would be able to make this work somehow, if only she didn’t despise the entire idea to begin with.
“Come, Rafael,” Christian called, and he realized he’d been standing as still as a statue for several minutes. “Let’s go see the view.”
CHAPTERFIVE
Grace was trying really hard notto puke. Obviously, she was used to the feeling. She’d had many first-day-of-class days in many had-no-idea-where-she-was-going places, but no matter what, she always wanted to puke. Especially now that she was going to be teaching students from all over the world. Cosmopolitan students who spoke several languages and probably grew up with baby books full of post-impressionist artwork. They’d analyzed Gauguin and Carr while they sucked on their pacifiers. They probably had rattles printed with Munch paintings.
Okay, maybe that was unlikely, but it didn’t lessen the need to hurl.
Grace had been so confident while she’d planned her lectures, so sure that even if she had used Alma’s connections to get the job, she was qualified. Professor Medina had even confirmed she was the best candidate. She’d already taught loads of classes on twentieth century art and female artists. She’d done plenty of surveys in art history, from the renaissance to modernity. It was what she loved to do. However, first day jitters were real, and it appeared that first day jitters in a new country where you barely spoke the language were very real indeed.
Wasn’t it strange that the very things that were often best when they were solitary—studying artwork or painting or writing—often required encounters with the public? How odd that those members of the community who were wrapped up in their own thoughts and ideas and would be content studying and researching in isolation were required to go out to the masses and make themselves known if they wanted to make a living. And a modest living at that.
Not that Grace didn’t enjoy talking with her students about art. She loved sharing her passion with them, watching their faces the first time she showed themThe Large BathersorFrom the Lake. She loved to observe them as looks of admiration and appreciation and awe settled in, and she loved to talk about their questions and interests.
It was just that all of this involved standing in front of a big group of people and commanding their attention, when Grace would have liked to fade into the background. It required a place in the front and center, when Grace would have preferred to be a shadow on the wall that no one gave much thought, even though it completed the picture and gave the work a new dimension.
Even though some of the buildings on campus were intimidating Renaissance church-like structures, Grace was pleased to find that her classroom looked similar to almost every small, wood-paneled auditorium that was designed in the 1970s. That was comforting, at least. The projector and the little podium and the weird lighting. Those were the things that made her feel a sense of familiarity that might allow her to keep her breakfast down.
She cleared her throat as she watched the clock. Students drifted in and took their seats, and she smiled at them when she made eye contact, but she tried to busy herself with her notes, shuffling her stack of syllabi just to pretend she had a reason not to look up.
But eventually, she had to look up. Class was meant to begin. She was meant to teach it if she could figure out how to speak.
“Good morning, everyone,” she said too softly. She cleared her throat, pushed her shoulders back, and tried to project. “I’m supposed to remind you that this course will be taught in English, though you may have guessed that immediately.”
There were a few smiles throughout the room. “The first thing I like to do,” Grace continued, “is to have everyone introduce themselves, so we can start to get acquainted and feel comfortable with each other. And then we can start talking about art.”
The students were actually eager to introduce themselves, and they already showed way more confidence than Grace, unafraid to ensure that she understood why they took the class—because they needed a cultural studies credit or because they had to fulfill something in fine arts or because this was their major, and maybe they had no idea what they would ever do with it, but they loved art, just like she did, and they wanted her to know that.
Grace listened and nodded, making notes on her attendance sheet about preferred names and tricks to try to remember all of them.Armandwith the big glasses andZhou Xiwith the pink lip gloss.Elysewith dark, haunting eyes andMarcowith the bleach blonde hair.
She started going through the syllabus, talking about assignments and the different units and time periods they would cover. Before she was even five minutes in, one of the students raised a hand.
“Umm, yes?” She glanced at her notes. Very Blonde. “Marco?”
