The Chance Meeting

Clack, clack, clack went my high heels on the polished marble floor of the Prado Museum. I wore a short skirt with a crop top, and received many 'piropos' (catcalls), on my way into the museum. It wasn’t my intention to attract attention, I just dressed the way I liked to dress.

The vibrant streets of Madrid pulsed with life, filled with people and colourful buildings. It was my first solo trip to Spain, but although Madrid is a vast city, everyone was so friendly, I never felt alone. In fact, I felt very much at home. My schoolgirl Spanish improved every day I was there and used it every chance I got.

I come from the small but picturesque town of Buxton in Derbyshire, but left university a few years before having studied Fine Art, and my long-held ambition was always to see the incredible collection of Spanish masterpieces held at the Prado Museum. My eyes were fixated on the vibrant colours and intricate brushstrokes of the world-renowned masterpieces. Having got here, it was all I could do to restrain my feet from doing a little tap dance with joy as I explored this huge and impressive well of artistic expression.

Despite spending countless hours on my portraits, I could never quite capture the raw emotion to transport viewers into my artistic world. I wanted to evoke emotions, reactions, and responses to my work, but it was tough going. I got a first from Oxford University for my Fine Art degree, but I knew I would never reach the dizzy heights of the masterpieces I saw in this wonderful place.

I looked around me as I walked into the main viewing area. This was a beautiful, neoclassical style building, with high ceilings, pale walls, and subtle lighting so as not to distract the viewer from the impact of the artist’s work. After contemplating various masterpieces for an hour, my gaze fell upon two of Francisco Goya’s renowned works: The Clothed Maja (La Maja Vestida) and The Naked Maja (La Maja Desnuda). 

I stared at both paintings with total concentration, examining their form and perspective, then heard a deep, resonant voice say to me, “They don’t know who she was, do they?” I liked the voice. It was a man’s voice, confident, assured, but with vibrancy.

Without turning round, I answered, “No, they don’t. The historians think she was someone’s mistress; I think her name was Pepita Tudo, but they are not sure.”

He continued, “Look at her form, clothed, then naked. Which do you think the more attractive? For me, naked. You can’t see the shapeliness of her legs in the clothed version. The Desnuda painting is far more sensuous, don’t you think?”

I thought, “Who is this?” but I continued to stare at the paintings. I felt my heart beat a little faster, and was I sweating? What a primal response to a complete stranger’s voice. All my senses were heightened, and I was tingling.

I coughed. “Well, I guess Goya was aiming for a natural beauty approach since it was the height of Romanticism when he painted this.”

“Emotion and the senses were important to romantic artists. Goya wanted to evoke a raw and intense emotional response to seeing the woman clothed then naked.” 

He was talking my type of artistic language. That’s what I wanted to do when I painted a portrait. I wanted to capture every intricate detail. I didn’t paint nudes, but still wanted the viewer to appreciate the depth of emotional feeling I put into my artwork. This stranger understood.

I felt my senses heighten further as I listened to this man’s deep, rather sexy voice discussing romanticism and how to view Goya’s paintings. He was turning me on. Was that Goya’s intention too? To turn people on when studying his artwork? 

I longed to turn round and see the stranger’s face, but something told me it was better to stay looking at the paintings. Did he just touch my hair? I wasn’t sure. It felt like a soft stroking movement, from the top of my head down my back, but so gentle, so soft, I just couldn’t be certain. Perhaps I imagined it.

I didn’t want to turn the conversation to ordinary matters, such as the weather, or how busy the museum was, or even the fact my stomach was rumbling as it approached lunchtime. I was now riding on a wave of romanticism, imagining a dark-eyed, handsome stranger to match the seductive voice.

There was no-one else nearby. No-one else to destroy these magical moments, these unimagined sensual feelings which were being aroused deep within me. I wanted more. I needed more.

He continued in his sensuous, sexy voice. Was that a slight accent I could detect? It wasn’t English, nor Spanish either, perhaps Italian with its sing song cadence? Whatever it was, it was having a serious physical effect on my body. I realised I was panting and trembling in equal measure. “Pull yourself together, Layla.” But his silky voice was like a physical caress.

“Did you know there were rumours that Goya and the Duchess of Alba had a long and passionate affair after she asked him to paint her portrait? I believe it was the Duchess and not Pepita Tudo in these paintings.”

I felt him close behind me now. He wasn’t touching me with his body, but his presence was so powerful, it felt as if he was hugging me from top to toe.

“But what evidence is there to support that viewpoint?” I brushed my hair out of my eyes, and a delicious fresh fragrance of men’s aftershave wafted over me. It wasn’t overpowering, in fact, it was light, subtle, but altogether consuming. I inhaled deeply, breathing it in as fully as I could. I knew it came from him.

“Goya wrote letters to her saying ‘Now I know how it feels to live’.”

My insides turned to jelly. I loved combining talking to this stranger without seeing him, but feeling him, from top to toe, smelling him, and loving his smell. I was so absorbed and captivated by his spell. What was he thinking about me? Was he feeling the same, or was this all my romantic imagination running away with me? God knows Spain possessed its own seductive powers, with exotic street smells and food, lively rhythmic music, and warm and friendly people. I challenged anyone not to feel the romanticism in the streets of Madrid. 

I willed him to say more. I needed to hear more of that deep, warm, honeyed voice. My body was swaying. “Control yourself,” I admonished myself. What would people think if they knew what was happening? That I was at a point of losing my self-control.

“There was another portrait of her painted by Goya. In the portrait she wore two rings, one had Goya’s name on it, the other Alba. Her hand pointed to a hidden inscription at her feet, which read, ‘Only Goya’. I believe she gave her heart and soul over to him.”

“I believe you.”

Oh God, what a weak and silly response. ‘I believe you’. Say something clever, Layla, say something spellbinding, say something which will capture his heart forever and etch an indelible mark upon his soul.

In my mind’s eye, I was already with this man. He was my future, my all. My forever. My existence depended on him.

I began to turn around.

“No.” He said. “Don’t turn around yet. Don’t spoil it.” Anticipation filled the air.

Oh God, was he was imagining himself as Goya and imagining me as the Duchess of Alba, immersing himself in these moments? My heart leapt with joy. This was too much. I loved it. I loved his desire to be enveloped in the romanticism of our meeting.

Softly I responded with a breathless, “Yes.”

I felt his hand now. It was stroking all the way down the length of my long brown hair, to my back. He moved closer and leaned his head against my neck. He felt warm. It was a warm day, but heat radiated from his body. His body was pressing against me now from behind. It wasn’t aggressive, and I didn’t feel violated. I wanted it. I wanted to feel him.

He slid his hands around my body and put them over my hands. He whispered in my right ear. “I will give you two rings. You can wear them. Mine will say Luca, and yours?” 

He left the question hanging in the air. I said, “Layla.” 

Gosh, even our names sounded good together. Luca and Layla. It was perfect!

If I relayed this story to my family or my friends, they would tell me what a creepy guy he was and question his motives. The fact he touched me, a complete stranger, should have put up red flags. I was a young woman, vulnerable. I could have shouted out in the museum, called him a pervert, or asked for help, but there was none of that.

We were in our own bubble, a private moment, even amongst the throng of people surrounding us and the paintings. If they looked at us, they would think we were a loving couple, enjoying the artwork together, in our own secluded world, shielded from everyone else.

I leaned back slightly, my head now resting against his. I could feel his hair. It felt silky, but curly. Oh God, please let him be how I imagined him to be. What if I turned right round, and he was a horror, or he thought I was ugly? I didn’t believe it; I couldn’t believe it. This was supposed to happen, I was sure of it.

There are only a few times in life that there is true romantic chemistry between two people, and this was one of those moments. I knew it; I felt it. He was my destiny.

“Layla,” he whispered in my ear. “Such a lovely name. Luca and Layla. We are like Goya and Alba, aren’t we?”

I felt weak at the knees. He was saying all the right things, doing all the right things. I was putty in his hands. A cliché, but absolutely true. I knew I would do absolutely anything he wanted from that moment on, completely in his power.

Just then, a fire alarm went off. I couldn’t believe it. The spell was broken. I was desperate to turn around, to see this man. He was no longer holding my hands. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I turned slowly. What I didn’t expect was the emptiness of the space, no-one there, nothing at all. The room stretched before me. I looked from left to right. There were people milling around, but no-one at all nearby. The alarm stopped. A security guard shouted out in Spanish, then English “Sorry, everyone. False alarm. As you were.”

But I couldn’t be as I was. I was confused, upset, disorientated. Doubt clouded my mind as I questioned the reality of the entire episode. Was I losing my mind? I needed to sit down and think. 

“You stupid woman, Layla.” I thought to myself. I smacked my forehead in frustration with my right hand.

“He’s a figment of your imagination. You wanted to feel those emotions so much, the very emotions you cannot evoke in your own artwork. You invented him instead. You are a sad woman.” 

I hung my head in shame. It was true. I worked endlessly, never giving myself a proper rest. My eyes had dark circles from countless sleepless nights. Such was my frustration at not attaining success with my painting. Maybe I felt overwhelmed, stressed, and needed a break. I felt humiliated, disappointed, and angry, all at the same time.

Time to leave the museum, time to face reality, time to leave the romantic bubble. It was well and truly burst now.

I took one more glance back at the museum, and as the large glass doors closed behind me and I exited, I heard a pleading voice say, “Layla, Layla, don’t go. I went to get you something when the alarm went off.” 

This time, I turned round quickly. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I saw a tall man just a foot away from me. He was about 6 feet tall, with dark, sultry eyes, a light brown tan, curly brown hair, and a wide smile holding a red rose.

I gulped. He was my dream man. In fact, I couldn’t have dreamed of a better one, surpassing my wildest imagination. 

“Luca?” I stuttered in disbelief. He smiled, and said, “Yes, of course, Layla. It’s your Luca.”

As he handed me the red rose, I knew we would always be together. I believe in love at first sight, but we fell in love from the first contact. Just his voice, and his presence. I didn’t even need to see him to know it was the truth.

He was Italian indeed, from Venice. A place I loved. His father was an artist who painted beautiful landscapes and the waterways of Venice. Luca’s family were artists for generations. He himself was an Art Teacher, drawn to the Prado Museum to see the range of Italian paintings contained there, as well as the Spanish masterpieces. He was 35; I was 28. 

I met all of his family and over the dining table, laughter, and conversation filled the air with childhood stories about Luca growing up. They were adorable and welcomed me with open arms. They joked that for a long time his mother wanted him to find a special woman, but he never did, until now. He lived a full life and taught in the local school. He was part of the community in Venice, and knew all the gondola families, whose history went a long way back.

We each wore a ring, one with Layla and the other with Luca delicately engraved on them, a symbol of our love and commitment. We wanted to echo the love and passion Goya displayed for Alba, it was thanks to them we found each other. 

“I always wanted to meet a woman that understood the importance of love. Love for me is affection, tenderness, and devotion towards a person. It’s about being happy in their presence and being sensitive to each other’s feelings.” 

I looked at him and took his hand, squeezing it with mine. I nodded.

He continued. “It is true, Layla; as an Italian man I have been out with many women, but none of them, not one, evoked the emotional response in me the way you did, when we met as strangers in the Prado Museum. They were always interested in what car I drove, how much money I earned, or how I looked. Not one of them had an authentic, genuine, and honest response to me, but you did. For me, the fact you didn’t even know what I looked like, but just felt me, meant everything.”

I also went out with a number of men. Obviously, University was a time of exploration with the opposite sex, but no-one was particularly special or even memorable. 

“I understand Luca. I felt you, as you felt me too. Our chemistry was instant.”

I was so happy. Luca fulfilled my dreams. I introduced him to my family. His charm and looks overwhelmed my mother and my sister. Typically, my sister told me I was punching way above, but I didn’t care. I knew I was attractive, but not in model proportions, and probably less attractive than his previous girlfriends. Looks were irrelevant to us both, our feelings were everything.

We settled in Venice. It was such a wonderful environment. It is a city that is so different from any other. The streets of water weave their spell of romance as you glide along to elegant palazzos and ancient bridges. I loved how the water in the canals lapped gently against the old stone walls and steps. The Grand Canal buzzed with motorboats, gondolas, water taxis, but everywhere we looked, we saw architectural wonders of buildings covered in intricate carvings and incredible frescoes.

There was a maze of narrow passageways leading to hidden churches or artisan workshops, of course Venetian masks being a highlight of any shopping trip. I loved Italian food. Luca turned out to be a superb cook, and I spent many happy days enjoying Pino Grigio wine, fresh pasta, or pizza at home with him or at a huge get together with his extended family.

Although a tourist attraction, I often persuaded Luca to take me on a gondola, because it is only when you glide under the Rialto Bridge with your loved one, on a heady summer’s balmy evening, Venice comes fully alive with romance.

Together with Luca’s father, we opened an art studio in the heart of Venice. I painted with inspiration from that moment on, infused with feelings of love. It shone through my artwork. I may not be a Master of Art, but I could finally show the world the depth of feeling I put into my work and was able to make a living out of the paintings I sold. 

So, the next time you meet an unexpected stranger, in an unexpected place, see what happens, suspend your disbelief. You may just find the one! I hope that one day, everyone may find their true inspiration for life, love, and happiness.

The end.