A Two-Dimensional Love affair

George Hayes rushed through the Paris streets under a torrent of rain, skidding to a halt at the entrance of the De Cluny Museum. Rain-soaked and breathless he was confronted at the door by a security guard.

“I'm sorry sir,” the guard said. “We're closing in five minutes I suggest you come back tomorrow.”

“Please, I'm flying out of Paris tonight, and I need one last look at a painting. It's an image of a lady in red, I can't get her out of my mind. I must take a picture of her image before I leave.”

The guard hesitated, then held the door open … “Alright come in. You know you're not supposed to take pictures, so make it fast.”

George took in a deep breath and said, “Thank you,” and folded his black umbrella and rushed past the glass-plated doors. The tracks of his wet shoes followed him through the museum, leading up to the painting, hanging on a dark paneled wall. He stood breathless, staring at the lady in the sheer red dress, reclined on a lounge chair in an orchard of peach trees. Brush strokes of her radiant dark hair cascaded down to her waist. Lips painted a shade of ripe pomegranate.

As he stood before the painting, he felt as though her smoky blue eyes followed his every gesture. He wondered, “Is it my imagination, or am I somehow feeling there's another world beyond the canvas? He shook off the idea, and raised his camera, poised to take a picture, when an old lady in a flowery print dress, smelling of mothballs, stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the painting.

“Excuse me,” he said. Could you stand aside for a moment?”

She glared up at him through squinted eyes, “Wait your turn.” She drew her nose up to the painting and sniffed, then stepped back and said, “Yup, I smell peaches in this painting.” She turned to George, “Do you smell it?” He decided to accommodate her and sniffed the canvas. To his surprise, he picked up the alluring scent of a woman.

The old lady waited for his response. “Well, do you smell it?”

“Uh … yes, it smells of peaches.” But thought to himself, “How strange it is, that I picked up the scent of a woman instead of peaches.”

The old lady turned and hobbled out the door, mumbling, “I knew I smelled peaches.” After she left, George snapped some quick photos of the painting from various angles. However, he didn't recall her dress being depicted as fluttering in the wind and exposing her thighs. He felt a strong allure, drawing him to the painting. A love-sick pain came over him. He pressed his hand on the textured canvas, getting the feeling he was being drawn into an unforeseen world, by a mischievous muse—a goddess of passion. He breathed out and brushed his hand across her thighs, then down her exquisitely shaped bare legs, to her petite feet. She seemed to be blushing, her cheeks tinted a hot crimson.

As he stepped back to take more photos, he bumped backward into an old man. “Oh, sorry sir, I apologize.”

“Quite alright, young man,” as he adjusted his hat on his head. “My name is Mr Dumas, I see you're in love with the countess Marianne.”

“Ah, yes, I'm captivated by her. By the way, my name is George. I thought I was the only one left in the museum.”

“In Paris, no one ever knows where they'll find true love ... whether in a cafe' or within a painting.” Mr. Dumas smiled and went on, “How would you like to be with her for a lifetime.”

George's eyebrows rose up. “What? That's impossible. She's in a painting.”

“Ahhh, but if I could make that happen—would you?”

“What are you a magician? Are you going to create her out of thin air?”

Mr. Dumas rubbed his mustache and said, “Not exactly, but I promise you, you'll have what you wish for. Meet me at the Eiffel Tower, on the top floor, in one hour.”

George smirked. “You know the painting of the Countess Marianne is two hundred years old.”

Dumas nodded.

“All right,” said George, “I'll entertain the idea. It sounds mysterious and intriguing. “I'll meet you in an hour at the Eiffel Tower, top floor.”

After an hour had passed, George arrived at the tower. He was surprised to see Mr. Dumas waiting for him, but after seeing the painting tucked under his arm, he took a step back. “What did you do, steal the painting?”

“I have my ways.”

An angry George raised his hands in the air. “What have you done old man? How could you place me in a position for theft—” He glanced around, expecting the police to rush up to them at any moment.

“Listen to me,” insisted Mr. Dumas, in panting breaths, “I'm giving you what you wished for. You'll find her, she's in the painting, trust me, if you stare at it long enough, she'll pull you in. Here take it and pay me what you can. They're coming for me.”

“What do you mean? Who's coming for you.”

Mr. Dumas pointed to the street below at dark-suited men approaching the elevator.

George gave him a puzzled look. “I don't see anyone.”

“Of course, you don't see them, that's because they turned sideways, they're two dimensional, they're from the painting.”

George rubbed his forehead finding Mr. Dumas's explanation disconcerting if not insane. He reached into his pocket for his flask of whiskey and took a swig. And said, “Listen old man … are you writing a fantasy book and passing the story off on me, to see if I'll buy it?”

“No, never. I know it sounds inconceivable, but it's true. I can only explain how it happened to me. One day I was on assignment, taking various pictures around the museum, when I noticed the painting of the lady in red, she appeared to be tracking my every move. I had an odd feeling, a rush of emotional desire, drawing me to her. With that, I stepped up to the canvas, and she lured me into her two-dimensional world. I was sick in love with her and lived with her for a lifetime.

A flabbergasted George, asked, "What did you do there? Did time pass?”

“Yes, but only for me. As an artist myself, I painted the likeness of a three-dimensional world for her, with mountains, rivers, and cities for her to discover. And I created mansions, where she could run barefoot through the halls. But I grew old—you were to be my replacement. She opened a portal for you through the orchard. She was using her eyes to draw you in like she did me. But the old lady happened to intervene. She stood in the way, so I took the chance and sneaked out of the canvas.”

“Why? … I thought you loved her.”

You see, I didn't want to die in a two-dimensional world and become part of a painting. But she saw me and slammed the portal closed. With that, a momentary breeze passed through the opening and that's why you picked up her alluring scent and why the old lady instead, smelled peaches.”

George stumbled back. “You make no sense. You're crazy. I'm not going to buy a stolen painting.” A frantic Mr. Dumas glanced over the railing, eyeing the band of dark-suited men stepping into the elevator, on their way up the Eiffel Tower. Mr. Dumas suddenly tossed the painting over the railing.

George gasped, “How could you do that—you're insane!”

In moments a crowd below started to scream, and sirens blared through the streets toward the Eiffel Tower. George peered over the railing and saw a woman in a red flowing dress, sprawled out on the ground. He gasped, “Oh my God, is that her?” His legs gave out from under him, and he stumbled back from the railing and collapsed.

Mr. Dumas hastily took off in a run catching the elevator going down and escaped through the crowd. As for George, he was taken to the hospital, where the diagnosis was hysteria. After a week of sweats and thrashing back and forth in bed, he awakened. A nurse stood by his side. She spoke softly to him. “Your wife is here to take you home.”

His wife rushed over to the bed, and cried, “Oh George it's me,” and gripped his hand.

He gazed up at her and muttered, “I'm sorry, I … I've been disloyal to you—I've loved another woman!”

“No darling, you're suffering from hysteria. She was only in a painting.”

George sat up in bed, “How could you know?”

“An old man was here earlier, his name was Mr. Dumas, and he explained everything. How you fell in love with a lady in a painting and had to buy it. But when you held it up to show Mr. Dumas, a gale of wind ripped it out of your hands, and it flew over the railing.” You were overwhelmed and collapsed.”

With a face pale and drawn, George asked, “Please tell me what happened to the woman who lay bleeding at the foot of the Eiffel Tower.”

“Ohhh, that was sad. Mr. Dumas said she apparently was hit by the falling picture. She lay lifeless on the ground with blood pooling around her, appearing to thicken into red paint. It was odd. But the strangest thing happened afterward. The witnesses swear they saw her get up and plunge into the painting and be absorbed into the canvas. Quite ridiculous if I say so myself. But the good thing is you're in the clear for any prosecution. They can't find the lady, she vanished. Anyway, Mr. Dumas sold me a copy of The Lady in Red, I thought you would like it.” But as she proceeded to unwrap it, George fell back on his pillow, waving his hand, “I don't want to see her. I must forget her!”

“George! You almost make me feel jealous of the lady in the painting.”