19. PAUL

We weren’t supposed to, but we decided to go into the office on Saturday. After a couple of good nights, Jack mentioned how he had slept poorly on the sofa bed. His voice was tinged with fatigue. Still, he didn’t complain; still he refused to swap beds.

The following morning, Sunday, arrived with a promise of a day of rest. I woke up late, finding Jack already up and dressed, looking at something on his laptop. I knew he was working.

“Rough night?” I asked as I walked toward the Nespresso machine.

He nodded.

“You could say that. I think I spent more time tossing and turning than actually sleeping. I think the sofa bed might have a knife inside it that secretly stabs me in the back when I’m sleeping.”

I gave a groan of a laugh in commiseration. He arched upright and put his hand to his side as if inspecting the imaginary wound.

“Jack, take the bed for a couple of nights. Really.”

“Nah, it’s okay.”

I was starting to grow concerned for him.

“Think about it.”

***

Sunday was finally our day of rest. We decided to head out and see what the city had to offer us. Outside, the sidewalks were teeming with people of every type. We meandered through the throngs of people around Soho, soaking in the vibrancy of the area, the cool people meeting up for a coffee before going shopping or to a museum or a movie, youngsters queuing up outside cake stores to buy incredible-looking creations, or gay men meeting for brunch.

We caught the tube to Liverpool Street station, and from there, walked to the eclectic neighborhoods of Brick Lane and Spitalfields, which had a Brooklyn vibe. Brick Lane’s vibrant street art and kaleidoscope of thrift stores and galleries gave way to a throng of Bangladeshi restaurants, a mosque and a synagogue, then pretty brick streets that looked like something out of seventeenth-century Amsterdam.

Jack’s easy humor and genuine warmth made me feel so relaxed. His infectious laughter echoed around me. He asked me lots of questions about my dream of being a painter as we checked out the huge street-art paintings that covered the sides of houses and factories in the area, and he always had something interesting to say about whatever we were looking at.

Circling back round to Liverpool Street, we caught a bus to London Bridge and from there went to Borough Market, where it felt like there was a food stall for every cuisine of the world, as well cheese and charcuterie shops, incredible fishmongers and vegetable sellers with buckets of strange-looking produce that I had no idea what they were. Checking the names did not help.

Jack picked up a large green vegetable so misshapen and covered in what looked like boils you would think it had some kind of medieval disease. He read the name.

“Karela.” He nodded to me. “Google karela.”

I read the results.

“Bitter gourd.”

He put it back.

“Sounds delicious…”

We bought enormous Ethiopian food wraps made from a bread called injera and filled with spicy beans. We ate them strolling through the winding, narrow ancient streets around the Clink, past restored Elizabethan ships in harbor, eventually coming out near what we recognized as the Tate Modern museum, London’s version of New York’s Museum of Modern Art.

“Jack, do you like modern art?” I asked.

“I guess – as much as the next ignorant person.” He laughed modestly. I remembered how he’d said he knew a little about a lot, and a lot about little. “What about you?”

I knew I was smiling, a little shyly.

“I love it.”

We were standing outside the huge, brick museum. He grabbed me by the elbow and started to march me toward it.

“Come on,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re gonna give me a lesson in modern art.”

So that was what we did: we went inside the vast museum, a converted power station, and began to wander around. The hugeness of the gallery enveloped us. Hazy sunlight streamed through the high roof windows, sweeping the polished concrete floors beneath our feet.

Together, we wandered through the galleries over several floors, traveling up and down the long, steep escalators between them. In every room were astonishing, world-famous works of contemporary art.

In the Surrealism Gallery was a trove of surrealist masterpieces, by artists such as Dalí, Magritte, and Miró. In the Abstract Expressionism Room, we found Jackson Pollocks and Mark Rothkos.

We picked up a guide to the museum at the entrance, but the scale of what was inside was almost overwhelming. Eventually, as we walked, Jack said to me, “Why don’t you choose a few pieces and take me there? Show me pieces that you love.”

I smiled at him.

“I would love that.”

We walked to Nude Woman with Necklace by Picasso.

“It’s one of his most famous works,” I said. I spoke to him about how Picasso had deconstructed the human form into abstract shapes. “You see how Picasso took the human figure apart and changed it into these angular forms? He sought to depict multiple perspectives simultaneously to show not only that this is a painting but that our own psychologies have many sides.”

His eyes ran over mine, and he smiled. I talked about how Picasso’s innovative form and composition had revolutionized the art world, paving the way for a whole new conception of painting that followed.

“Imagine having such an impact on the world,” Jack said.

“You mean like you with AI…” I teased.

“Shut up!” he said happily.

Later, we found the Seagram Murals by Mark Rothko. It was odd encountering such an American work of art in the middle of London. The sheer scale and presence of Rothko’s works never failed to take my breath away, and I could see that Jack seemed quite moved by its enigmatic mystery.

I pointed out the deep layers of color and shadow.

“You don’t automatically know it, but Rothko was a master of evoking emotion,” I said. “His paintings are not just painterly compositions; they are almost mirrors, asking us to contemplate ourselves for a moment.”

I watched him staring at it, as if he was himself at that moment contemplating his own self.

“Look at the scale,” he murmured. I was so happy he was responding to it. “I see what you mean about it being a mirror. Looking at it is almost a meditative experience, like staring at your own reflection.”

He turned back to look at me. “Paul, this is amazing.” His voice was soft, deep, surprised. “I am so glad we did this.”

I felt quite moved that he said it.