The rays of the sun found a that hidden opening between the curtains, shining directly in Arthur’s eye. With a disturbed whine, Arthur shifted his position to his side. He was dreadfully tired and Mother Nature wasn’t letting him get any sleep. Ever since he had started to make progress in his book, he would spend all hours of the night, trying to perfect a small portion of writing. He was too tired to think, the frustration of not developing a main character yet pulling at his insides.
Unable to fall back asleep, he threw off his covers and sat up, running a hand through his wild bed head. He had hoped his trip to Paris wouldn’t be for nothing. Venturing away from his home town in London wasn’t his favourite thing to do, but for the sake of his writing, which he wanted to do so badly, he’d travel anywhere.
Though Paris wasn’t his first choice, it was the cheapest for him. It could’ve been from his grumpy attitude or antisocial lifestyle, or even his comfort with back home. Either way, he’d learn to suffer through it, since it was what he wanted to do for a living, travel and write novels based upon it.
After readying himself in the bathroom and finding something quick to eat that he brought with him, he grabbed his notebook and a pen and left the hotel room, hopes on collecting notes while people watching to create his characters.
Passing by the front desk without a ‘hello’ to the receptionist, he brought himself to the Metro to get to the Eiffel Tower, Arthur’s ideal spot for people watching.
As he walked to an area by his destination, he noticed a man holding out fliers out front of an art museum. Intrigued, Arthur went and grabbed one and examined it.
New exhibition by Francis Bonnefoy, huh? Sounds interesting enough… considering I’m reading this correctly… he thought as he looked to the building. Might as well check it out. If I get lucky, this Bonnefoy character could make a good base for my character.
Arthur checked his watch then the time on the flyer. He had until lunch time to get some other characters in, staying close to the Museum.
With noon rapidly approaching, Francis Bonnefoy was the busiest he had, perhaps, ever been in his life up to date. He had to make sure the gallery looked was just the way he wanted it to, meet with several prestigious members of the art world for an early preview, and - and put up with the director of the gallery, also his close personal friend, constantly readjusting his tie every time they touched base with one another; Francis, most likely, would have thought this endearing even after the dozenth time if pressing matters had not made him so stressed.
Five minutes to noon brought the director, a tiny woman in too-big heels and a still bigger smile, back into the main hall of the gallery, but this time with a bouquet of flowers that she had shoved quite hurriedly into Francis’ hands before embracing him. After some last minute words of encouragement and Francis returning her embrace with a free arm, she decidedly took back the flowers and disappeared in a flurry to put them somewhere where they would not wilt before the end of the showing; that way, she discussed with herself as she left, as if Francis was not meant to hear, he could put them in his flat and give it the feminine touch it needed. He ignored what he thought he should have taken as a misguided compliment, for he was sure she had neither been in his apartment nor recognized that it was quite feminine enough, and did his own rearranging of his tie before his exhibit opened to the public.
Midway through a thought of doing away with his tie altogether, he spared his work a long look and, satisfied, mentally congratulated himself and each individual piece for getting this far; the art was really to thank, he figured, because most of it just makes itself while he sweats and bleeds and cries only in the vicinity of it.
The doors flew open to let in all of Paris before he was satisfied with his tie.
Arthur sat directly across the gallery for most of the duration of his time until the doors opened. He waited a while for the crowd outside to calm down before heading in himself. Keeping his notebook close without the intention to lose it, he ventured through the crowd.
It was not too much of a bother seeing as Arthur now had the moment to examine the couple of paintings of Bonnefoy’s that were in the hall he stood in. He admired the paintings, noticing the different hues and texture and depth of each painting. Each different, yet similar in it’s style to show the Frenchman’s signature art style. Arthur quickly jotted down what he saw before standing at the start of the massive sea of people.
He tapped on the shoulder of one of the guests, “Pardon. Which is Francis Bonnefoy?” Receiving an explanation in French, Arthur followed the man’s quick point across the room in the corner by a more intricate painting. He saw multiple candidates, but one stood out in particular. His flawless wavy hair, slight stubble, and bright blue eyes screamed “Francis.” Whether that was the truth or not, Arthur had to go over and find out, which meant venturing through the crowd again.
Sighing, he continued to remind himself that it was all for his future and a potentially great story. And with the time it would take for Arthur to get from point A to point B, he could think of an excuse to get to interview Francis. As he began his thinking, he also began his polite shoving through to get by.