Free Capturing Paris by Katharine Davis

children playing on a merry-go-round, the old-fashioned kind, with benches set around a circular frame. Two of the children sat and held the center bar as the third, a boy with knee socks puddled around his ankles, held the wooden frame and ran beside it to keep it in motion. His legs looked airborne. The playground was tucked in a small park behind Notre-Dame Cathedral. Annie knew this park; she had taken Sophie there when she was a little girl. Again, the light was astounding. The picture was both intimate and grand, balancing the sweetness of children at play against the majesty of the cathedral.
    â€œThe light—there’s such a tangible softness,” she said.
    He stood back from the table. “It makes me think of the Italian word sfumato . François achieves that same smoky edge in his photographs. Leonardo da Vinci was the first painter to create that effect.”
    Annie met his intense gaze. “Yes, that’s it exactly,” she said.
    â€œHere’s the one of Saint-Eustache. When I read your poem I thought immediately of François’s photo. Your words and his image are in”—he hesitated—“harmony, yes, perfect harmony.” He didn’t pronounce the h . This made her smile.
    His deep voice seemed gentler than when he’d telephoned. His accented English reminded her of the typical seductive Frenchmen in American movies, but his serious demeanor quickly dismantled this impression. “Please, take some time and study the others.” He motioned to the portfolio. I’ll go and see if François has arrived.”
    â€œThank you,” she said. “I’ve been anxious to look at them.”
    Annie was glad to have a few minutes alone to gather her thoughts. She hoped that over time he would become easier to talk to. Was it her own reserve or his formal nature that colored their conversation? He’d called her Madame when he telephoned to set up their appointment, but today she asked him to call her Annie. She liked the way he pronounced her name. It fell easily from his lips. He told her to call him Paul.
    She had been struck by their difference in height when he stood next to her looking at the photographs—he was shorter by several inches. His upper body appeared strong and well muscled, but his legs looked thin under his heavy corduroy trousers. She noticed the hint of a limp when he left the office to look for the photographer. Annie wondered if he was recovering from an injury. Maybe it was the result of polio or some childhood illness.
    She looked back at the pictures, turning them over one by one. They captured Paris in all her shades of beauty, all her moods, the traditional Paris along with the modern city that throbbed to a contemporary beat. They also had an introspective quality. On one level, the images told a story, but they held something back as well. Annie found herself trying to see beyond the edges of the photographs, as if there was something more the photographer was keeping from view. While not exactly secretive, they had a suggestive quality.
    She stopped at the last two pictures, pulling in her breath. They were nudes, and while the previous scenes of the people and places of Paris had a sensual energy, they had not prepared her for these. The picturesworked as a pair and depicted a female torso from both sides. More abstract than the photographs of the city, they were still breathtakingly lifelike, and the breasts, rounded and petal soft, made Annie think of her own breasts, untouched for so long. The woman’s back was long and serpentine, a fluid line. She felt flushed and imagined Valmont whispering sfumato . What was she thinking? She inserted the final sheet of vellum and closed the portfolio.
    Annie could hear muffled voices beyond the closed door. Something about this man captured her imagination. She looked around his office again, hoping to discover more about him. She went behind the desk and studied