Chapter Text
I’m pretty sure that I am seeing things.
Granted, I haven’t gotten much sleep last night; I was (and perhaps still am) way too anxious that, during my boss’s holiday leave which started today, I am left in charge of the art gallery – in charge of all three floors, with five rooms each, full of expensive, rare, and irreplaceable paintings, sculptures, and photographs. So naturally, I haven’t been able to drift off to dreamland even for a short while, but I’m certain that I must be dreaming now.
Or I’m so sleep-deprived that I have become delusional.
Because the man I am gawking at seems to have stepped straight out of a Renaissance painting of the Greek gods. Either that, or one of the life-size Italian sculptures from the second floor must have come to live; the high, prominent cheekbones, sharp but rounded jawline, and long, straight nose sure look like they could be chiselled out of marble.
As if my troubled nerves don’t already have enough to deal with on this stressful day (two guards called in sick, the payment system malfunctioned this morning, and the shipment of the Rembrandt painting, which was supposed to happen at the end of the week, has been moved to tomorrow), the man slash living sculpture has put away the floor plan he was frowning his beautiful eyebrows at, and is now coming my way, presumably to ask me for directions, as I can’t be mistaken for a visitor with my name tag so obviously on display.
Oh lord, please let me be able to speak in full sentences and preferably without stuttering when I answer his question...
I’m sure I must be radiating panic right now, but the beautiful man doesn’t seem to notice when he asks in a pleasant voice: “Hello, would you be so kind to tell me where I might find the gallery of the Dutch Masters?”
“Of course,” I manage, barely. I feel a blush creep up my cheeks as I clear my throat and try again: “You are currently in the middle gallery of the second floor. The Dutch Masters can be found in the middle gallery on the third floor.”
“Ah!” His brown eyes light up, and he blinds me with his smile. “My mistake. Thank you very much, miss.”
He bows his head slightly, his white-blond, shoulder-length hair falling in front of his eyes, before he turns around, his long black coat twirling around him elegantly, and leaves for the stairs that lead to the upper floor. I can’t help but stare at him as he gracefully walks away.
I’m thinking this might be my lucky day, because the living sculpture is not the only handsome man I meet.
When I had finally retired for a late lunch around three o’clock, longing for a moment of rest from the screams of excited school children mingled with the multilingual chatter of tourists from all over the world, I stumbled upon a pretty young man who had gotten completely lost and somehow ended up in the restricted, personnel-only area on the third floor. He seemed quite upset that he had trespassed unintendedly, as he kept apologising to me when I delivered him back to the gallery. But when I assured him that he shouldn’t worry, as it was of course nothing more than an unfortunate accident, his full lips broke into the loveliest smile I had ever seen, and his eyes twinkled as if there were stars captured inside of them. I’m not sure if I managed to properly say goodbye to him when he thanked me and disappeared into the crowd, as I was utterly and completely caught off guard by his charms.
About an hour later, another good-looking man caught my eye when I was making my round on the third floor. He had this kind of raw and manly beauty, with an angular face, slanted eyes, and a pronounced cupid bow that made it seem like he was pouting. At first I thought it was his unique physique that had captured my attention, but then I realised what made him stand out from the crowd: he wasn’t looking at the artworks, he was looking at the room itself. The floor, the walls, the large windows in the ceiling; he was squinting his eyes and taking it all up, almost as if the room was the art, not the paintings on the wall. When I mustered up my courage and walked up to him to ask about it, he explained with blushing cheeks and a dimply smile that he was an architecture student and actually came for the building, not the artwork. He apologised for it, but I waved it off; I just found him very cute.
Now it’s almost closing time, and I was ready to grab an early dinner in hopes of starting a bit sooner with the Rembrandt shipment so I wouldn’t have to spend my entire evening on it, when I find a late visitor admiring the exact painting that will be send away tomorrow morning.
It’s quite entertaining to watch people who are marvelling at the beauty of art. I find it amazing how it manages to swallow up all of their attention, how it makes them completely unaware of their surroundings; and of course it’s also very amusing when they startle as you make an unexpected remark and snap them out of their trance.
I was about to do the same to this young man, who is exquisitely dressed in a dark blue, expensive-looking three piece suit and a long, dark grey coat which hangs fashionably from his shoulders, but something about the look in his extraordinary large and round eyes makes me wonder. There’s a hint of regret in them; maybe he is aware that the painting has been sold to another gallery at the other end of the globe, and is enjoying it one last time before it’s gone.
“It’s stunning, isn’t it?” I say anyway as I walk up to him. He turns around, unshaken by my remark as if he had already seen me coming, and smiles a charming gummy smile at me.
“Absolutely,” he agrees. “Mister Van Rijn was an absolute maestro, magnificently executing the clair-obscur technique in this piece. He truly made this scene come alive, I could practically grab that apple right off the table.” He makes a plucking gesture with his hand and giggles cutely.
I smile as well, and I must admit that I’m pleasantly surprised and impressed by his knowledge of the seventeenth-century painter. Most people don’t even know that Rembrandt is his first name, let alone what kind of techniques he uses to make his artworks. It’s weirdly attractive, to be honest, but then again, I am an art major university graduate, so I would naturally like it if a man knows his art.
“I’ll be sad to see it go,” he continues with a rueful sigh. “I would have loved such a remarkable piece gracing the walls of my own humble home.”
I can’t stop myself from chuckling at the thought of a world famous painting worth millions casually hanging on the wall above someone’s kitchen table. It’s absolutely ridiculous, and the serious tone in the young man’s softspoken voice makes it even more hilarious.
“Wouldn’t we all?” I jokingly agree with him, and he smiles absentmindedly as well. Then we both just admire the painting in an amicable silence. When the final call is made, requesting visitors to leave the gallery as it is about to close, the young man sighs again, but a confident smile breaks through on his face.
“I sure hope to lay eyes on it again, someday,” he remarks wishfully, and with a courteous bow in my direction he swiftly walks toward the stairs leading to the exit.
I turn my attention back to the painting, and sigh ruefully as well, only realising after my conversation with the young man that I’m also sad to see it go.
It’s close to midnight when I’m finally done with all the paperwork; unfortunately, I highly underestimated the mountain of forms I had to fill out. I rub my tired eyes and stretch my painful back when I get up from my ergonomically disastrous sitting position.
“Time to get the stupid thing and be done with it,” I mumble.
I quickly cover my mouth with my hand. I can’t believe I just called a Rembrandt painting “stupid". My teachers would have burnt me at the stake.
I leave the office and open the door to the gallery. The lights are off, of course, and my hand is already hovering near the light switch when something compels me to stop. The gallery is lit by the full moon shining through the windows, making the varnish on the paintings glisten mysteriously and giving the marble statues an otherworldly glow.
It is beautiful.
Maybe we should open the gallery at night sometimes too, I wonder as I walk through the room, the moonlight bright enough for me to easily find my way. It’s a completely different experience.
Slightly creepy too, though… Perhaps a “haunted gallery” Halloween edition will do well with the public. I chuckle, but my smile disappears when I hear a loud thumping noise, as if something heavy just dropped onto the floor.
What was that?
I’m frozen solid for a moment, wishing I hadn’t thought of a haunted gallery, because now I can’t get the image out of my head. Goosebumps rise on my skin when I hear the sound of muffled voices.
No one should be here right now... except me.
I sent everyone home when I found out that the paperwork was going to take a long time, not wanting to waste everyone else’s evening too. On top of that, I asked the guards to turn off the alarms on the third floor so I wouldn’t get a visit from half the city’s police force when I take the Rembrandt off the wall…
... Which means I basically created a thief’s paradise.
I tiptoe towards the sound, and as I get closer I realise, to my great dismay, that it is coming from the middle gallery. Where the Rembrandt is hanging. That has been sold for an astronomic amount of money. And should be shipped towards its rightful owner barely a few hours from now.
A sudden shiver slithers down my spine when I remember.
There was another buyer for that painting.
I recall clearly how the entire staff was baffled by some anonymous party at the auction that kept raising the price further and further to shocking heights, so keen on obtaining the piece that it felt almost as if they were obsessed by it. But eventually they lost it to the foreign gallery, who played some “legally binding agreement between countries that art should be accessible to the public”-card, and as soon as the anonymous buyer was told, they hung up the phone without saying another word.
It was such a strange occurrence, but I had kind of forgotten about it.
Until now.
What if… what if that anonymous buyer has come to get it after all?
I shake my head, trying to expel the tiredness causing these ridiculous thoughts. I’m still sleep-deprived of course, that must be it. Probably it’s just the guards that came back because they forgot to lock a door or something. No way that there are actual thieves in the gallery at the exact night that the alarms are off and I’m here all alone.
No way.
I carefully peek around the corner, and can barely keep myself from gasping.
Two men of about the same height, dressed in fully black clothes from head to toe with their faces hidden behind masks, are connected to two sturdy-looking ropes lowered from the windows in the ceiling. They are standing in front of the Rembrandt painting and their leather-gloved hands are currently busy taking it off the wall.
Oh my god. This is a theft. They are stealing our property, right in front of my nose!
I turn around the corner and press my back into the wall, trying my utmost best to breathe normally while a wave of overwhelming panic washes over me.
What the hell should I do?!
With trembling hands and a heartbeat of about a thousand beats per minute, I pull my phone out of my pocket to call security – but I hesitate. By the time the guards are here, the thieves will sure be gone. I mean, they already got their hands on the painting, they only have to pull themselves up and the job is done; nice and simple.
No, I can’t stand by and do nothing. I do press the call button anyway, because I’ll be needing back-up for sure, and, pulling courage from the adrenaline coursing through my veins, I rush into the room yelling: “Stop right there!”
The thieves freeze for a moment, obviously surprised at my sudden appearance, but then everything happens in a flash.
“Pull us up!” they shout in unison, and I hear other people shout above our heads. In a split second, I realise that one man is too far away from me to reach him and tackle him down, but the other guy is close enough to try, so I lunge and grab his legs just as he was about to be pulled up. The unexpected addition of my weight must have startled the person that was trying to reel him in like some oversized fish because the rope suddenly goes slack, and as a result the thief, the painting, and I all tumble to the ground in a painful crash, while the other person disappears in the night sky.
By the sound of the loud thud, and by the remarkably creative curse that follows, I understand that the thief has hurt his head badly, giving me a momentary advantage. I quickly kick the painting far out of reach, praying I do not accidently damage it while doing so, and then I pin the thief down with my legs on his stomach. Wanting to remember his face so I can identify the blasphemous bastard who tried to steal this masterpiece in case he gets away before security arrives, I angrily pull his mask away.
When the moonlight hits his face, my heart stops for a moment, and I forget how to breath. I can’t believe my eyes.
He is absolutely gorgeous.