Reprise: A Story of Reincarnated Love

REPRISE: Sean Intro., Part 1
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Paris, France
4 October 2006 1855/6:55 p.m.

The October falling of rust- and gilt-hued leaves blanketed the
cobbled sidewalk of the Rue Ste Croix la Bretonnerie. The perennial
pre-winter death of tree foliage all over the city brought with it an
abundance of life for the senses: the wild canvas of colors in the
streets and parks; the crackling and crunching of dry leaves
underfoot; the pungent, earthy aromas of leafy decay; the brittle,
mildly acrid bite of the chill seasonal air on the tongue.

Illuminated by the staunch tree lamps lining the street, the bright
carpet of colors on the ground tempered night's fall over the city.
The very center and founding spot of Paris – the Ile de la Cite, a
small island afloat the River Seine – lay some four blocks to the
south. The flying-buttresses and tall spires of Cathedral Notre Dam
dominating the island loomed over the central district like an all-
knowing seer, visible for blocks and blocks above the foot lights
that bathed it in the night. The air was thinly perfumed with the
fresh promise, or threat, of late night rain.

The street took a slight crook near an intersecting street corner,
and the rich brick façade of Galerie des Oeuvres Contemporaires –
Gallery of Contemporary Works – nestled into the small set-back bay.
Through the large iron-paned picture window dominating the gallery
front, the outlines of two seated men refracted through the heavily
beveled glass.

"I believe this selection is optimal for your needs," gallery owner
Sean LeBeque told his client, Henri Brun. Sean shifted in his deep
maroon-dyed leather executive chair as he leaned across the long,
concave-arced mahogany desk top and pushed the contract and invoice
toward his client. Henri's chair was drawn deeply into the vortex of
the arc, just across from his art broker.

Sean was in his prime as a rising force in the Parisian arts
community. Born and bred within one of Paris's most well-known
families of wealth, influence, and history, he was at 34 considered a
wunderkind of arts patronization, acquisitions, and supply. He held
an undergraduate and three advanced arts history and related degrees
from the Sorbonne and the Acadame des Arts Francasise.

His forte was the discovery and promotion of new talent across the
full range and forms of fine arts. As a patron of new, undiscovered
talent, he toured the Continent extensively on the hunt for fresh
artists to bankroll, promote, and sell. His virtually endless mine of
old money assets made him L'Homme – The Man – to contend with in
acquiring art works from private individuals or at auction. He simply
would not be outbid or thwarted when he determined to acquire a
piece. As a procurer and supplier for clients, his service and
delivery records were unmatched among Parisian brokers of art.

Henri gathered the papers and went through the obligatory signing
rituals. His payment would be made by automatic electronic funds
transfer between financial institutions. The age of computers and
electronics had eradicated the often clumsy exchange of francs
between brokers and clients.

"These pieces will be the center of attention at our reception,"
Henri was saying. "And, as permanent fixtures at the foundation
center, they will be perfect. You've done it once again, Sean!"

Leaning back in his chair, Sean fixed his deep blue eyes on Henri.
Handsome to a degree considered breath-taking by the youthful
unmarried sisterhood of Parisian elite society, he was himself
unattached and, thus, a prime target of "acquisition" unto himself.
He tossed his long, elegant dark hair asunder with a quick tilt of
his head and scratched his closely cropped, well manicured beard,
worn just past the stubble stage. "Why, thank you, Henri. Always a
pleasure. You know that. I am pleased that you took my advice and
have passed on the Andre Ronon sculptures. Andre has much promise,
but these new pieces of his are yet a bit gauche, and far too garish
for the foundation. Our selection of the Metoir pieces was far
better."

Their business concluded, both men rose. Tall, lean, and just within
the barrier separating the robust look from the hungry look, Sean was
arrestingly attractive. He wore his fine silk weave trousers, lambs'
wool powder blue turtleneck, and dark navy blazer with as much
natural ease as he would a pair of low-slung Offender brand jeans and
athletic cut tee.

"Sean," Henri asked, "that charcoal piece there, I have admired it
many times. Who is it? Who did it? I would love to buy it. Whoever
that is, she haunts me."

As he spoke, Sean felt the wave again. It was coming with more
frequency these days: the sudden feeling of deflating and becoming
small and invaginated, the foggy dizziness in his head, and the
inevitable vision that was all too real. He turned and looked at the
object of Henri's query – a small, simply framed charcoal of a
woman's head and shoulders that hung in a wall recess over the
credenza behind him. Sean spoke rapidly and scurried to see Henri out
of the door quickly. "Ah, Henri, mon ami, she is not for sale I am
afraid. The artist's wishes. I have no choice."

They shook hands and Henri left by the front door. Sean closed and
locked the thick oaken door and drew down the front window blinds. He
turned, now humid with perspiration, and walked behind the desk to
within arm's reach of the charcoal.