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into to the promenade, passing the bartender I met earlier. A crowd that looks
like a family cheers him on as he juggles a bottle and glass. Then, they clap
heartily when he pours a kid’s soda with a flourish.
    As I follow Rose
down the center of the promenade, I realize just how much larger it seems
standing smack inside the middle of it. Live trees line tower over the walkway
and frame the colorful shop entrances on either side. The centerpiece is a
beautiful fountain of metal and multicolored glass.
    At the far end, we
veer, following a sign marked “Elevators” to the right. Rose apparently knows
where she is going, because instead of continuing to follow the signs through
the congested main route, she cuts around a pillar into what appears to be some
sort of art gallery.
    It is quiet in the
gallery, and I can see on the far side there is a door that will spit us out
right by the elevators. Through the picture display window my left, I see a
little boy who has a finger deep inside his nostril in the hall just outside.
Gross. His mother is right there. Why doesn’t she say anything or hand him a
tissue?
    “Beautiful, isn’t
it? I am thinking of bidding on it later this week.”
    “Huh?”
    Oh. Rose thinks
I’m admiring the painting just off my shoulder. She didn’t notice the boy, who
has, by now, moved on with his mother.
    I focus on the art
for the first time. The painting is hideous. It is smallish, mostly dark blue
and totally depressing. The only thing recognizable is a lion with wads of
swirling golden mane that is wearing a pale yellow dress. It is fishing in what
appears to be a stream. Or, maybe it’s a fluffy bear
fishing, not a lion. I can’t tell.
    “Um,
yeah. It’s great!” For a fourth grader , I add silently.
    “It’s from DuPorte’s blue period,” says a voice behind us. It’s a man
in a crisp, dark suit with a sharp, brass name plate that says: Art Curator,
Charles Willoughby. He greets Rose warmly, as if they are old friends.
    “Ah,” I say,
unsure of what to say. Rose notices my discomfort.
    “Maxwell DuPorte was a master with color and had a very unique way
of applying his paint,” she explains. “Willoughby here has been teaching me a
lot.”
    “Alright.” The painter certainly mastered the globs of blue in this one. Did he apply
them with a spackle knife? Stop thinking snarkily , I
reprimand myself.
    She can still see
that I don’t get it, and they both fail to register that I don’t care. My face
is radiating heat from the sunburn now. I really just want a pain killer and an
ice pack.
    “In his last
decade, he only produced four types of paintings,” the curator continues. “Each
type has a specific color, and represents a season. The seasons are a metaphor
of a person’s life.
    “This
painting, Blue , represents winter, or the final season of life. He created several pieces depicting the other phases, but this is his lone
representation of winter. In fact, it was his final gift to the world. He died
just one week after completing it. We are very privileged to have it as the
centerpiece of this trip’s auction, which will be held on the final morning at
sunrise. Of course, we hope to see you both there.”
    “I hear there are
several bidders excited about this one, because it will complete their Seasons collections,” said Rose. “Bidding should be ferocious.”
    “Yes,
madam. We have several serious collectors sailing with us this week
specifically for a chance at acquiring it.”
    I snap a quick
camera phone picture of the piece. I am supposed to be a light-hearted tourist,
after all. I better show some interest in the highlight of this cruise.
    “How do you keep
it protected, then?” I ask. “You know, from thieves or vandalism. Since it’s so valuable.”
    “We have 24-hour
personnel surveillance,” he answers. “Also, we have cameras monitoring each
exit, so it would be very difficult to walk out with something like that.
Besides, even if it did