Short Story - Bread with Rodin (Titanic)

Short Story

He had been up all night but still felt energetic and alive, not wanting to waste a moment of this magical experience of being in this magical city.

Paris had a way of creating such wonder, which is why so many tend to fall in love with it, the ambiance it exudes filling a person with vigor and little need for sleep.

Every scene before Jack’s eyes he wanted to draw, to capture and save, to later share and captivate, for most of the world, including those in his little hometown of Chippewa Falls could only imagine such a mesmerizing place. But like a photographer with only one roll of film Jack’s sketch book only had so many blank pages left, and so he took in the beautiful sunrise with only his eyes and heart.

Laid out on a patch of grass along the road with his head resting on his travelling bag he was actually in wait for someone. Sure he had come to the city of love to have a taste of its fine wine and dishes, its history and grandeur and maybe even its beautiful women, but the main purpose for Jack’s visit was to meet the great sculptor, Auguste Rodin.

Having been told the aging artist liked to take early morning walks along the quiet peaceful road leading to his home Jack thought it a good idea to try and catch Rodin during such a time, as it seemed more appropriate than just showing up on his doorstep. He was excited to show the master creator his humble works, and even dared to think what it might be like to have the honor of having him sit for a portrait.

Feeling the cool chilly morning air against his skin and how the rising sun was beginning to bask him in warmth, Jack wondered if Rodin was like most artists, like himself, in that they found their most creative hours to be their waking hours, whatever time of day that might actually be.

It was in this state of daydreaming that Jack nearly missed the opportunity he had travelled so far to find, for an older gentleman wearing a hat and wrapped in full beard and a long black coat began to pass by, tilting a friendly nod as he did so.

Jack shot up to his feet.

“Excuse me, Monsieur Rodin?”

The old famous artist stopped but did not turn around, as if to conserve his energy and allow the young man to be the one to come forward, which is precisely what Jack did.

“Monsieur Rodin, if you don’t mind can I have a moment of your time? My name is Jack Dawson, and I’ve come a long way to meet you.”

Jack instinctively put out a hand, only realizing the full impact of his action when Rodin obliged and put out his own, that large genius hand responsible for such amazing works as The Thinker now embracing his own humble one.

“Mr. Dawson, American I presume?”

“Yes sir, but you can just call me Jack.”

“Jack, and I am just Auguste. Tell me Jack, why come so far only for a simple stone cutter like myself? When most vibrant young men come for the beautiful women of Pah-ree?”

“Ah yes, Monsieur- I mean, Auguste, the beautiful women alone are reason enough to travel half the world to get here, but my heart really beats for art, and I find your work so inspiring.”

“Thank you, Jack. You say your heart beats for art, spoken like a true artist. What is it you create?” 

“I like to draw. Mostly portraits, but anything really. If you don’t mind, I’d be honored if you had a look,” Jack said as he offered Rodin his sketch book.

“The honor is mine, Jack. Please, have a seat,” Rodin replied, gesturing to the grass as if this whole area was his front yard.

The master took his time looking through the pages, not saying a word, only using vocals like “Mmm… Hmm… Awww…” to convey his thoughts. That is until he lifted his head and closed the book.

“Jack, you have a talented eye and hand. I believe I will never look at one-legged prostitutes the same way again.

“A sign of a great artist, one who can change another’s perspective.

“Tell me, have you eaten yet? My dear Rose can prepare us a simple yet delicious breakfast. Then perhaps I can show you around my studio.”

“That would be amazing-”

Rodin was already walking away, Jack having to catch up to the man who was over four times his age.

“You know Jack, I too was quite the traveller for art’s sake during my younger years. My journey to study Michelangelo for instance…”

The villa was a work of art itself in Jack’s eyes, the house both quaint yet grand, the garden as inviting and tranquil as any he had ever seen. And the studio, the master’s space surrounded by so many windows so as to let in the light, the light which fell down upon so many masterpieces. Jack had never felt more inspired.

Rose joined them in the studio followed by a young servant girl who was around Jack’s age, carrying with her a tray of buttered bread, some sliced peaches and coffee.  

Rose. A sweet old woman laced in an aura of sadness, one that seemed to come from a lifetime of dedication to a man who had had a thirst for other muses in addition to her, yet she being the only one who’s nectar remained so sweet.

Being the guest he was Jack was the first to be offered breakfast, thankfully taking a slice of buttered bread and peach and toasting to all before taking a bite. Rodin then took a slice for himself, the rather large piece disappearing quite fast into the hole of his beard, Jack only half done with his own as the old artist smacked his buttered lips and went for one more.

Another big bite, his large hands then beginning to sculpt the other half. “Ahhh, what is bread if not the common bridge between all men? Rich and poor alike, taking great pleasure in its simple yet complex form. Such a staple of life.”

In the master’s hands the bread was already a work of beauty, the contour of a woman’s bare figure taking shape.

‘My earliest memory is one where