Gauguin Connection, The by Estelle Ryan

favourite teacup filled with camomile tea appeared next to my left hand. A strong hand made the fine porcelain cup and saucer look even more fragile. A quick glance revealed muscular forearms partially hidden by the pushed-up sleeves of a black sweater. “It looked as if you drink a lot of this tea, so I hope that I assumed correctly that you might like a cup.”
    The temptation to look at the rest of the man was hard to resist, but I wanted more time to analyse my situation. The gentleness in his voice did not alert me to any violent intent, but he might just be trying to create a false sense of safety before he pounced. I almost laughed at my unprofessional analysis. Never had I used the word ‘pounce’ in any of the profiles I had created.
    According to the twenty-four sheets of music in front of me, I estimated that I had been writing for at least three hours. Questions started gnawing at me. I finished the last notes, drew the bold double bar line to indicate the end of the second movement, and stilled the nagging questions in my mind.
    I looked up from the table and found the intruder.
    The unwelcome fiend was in my reading chair, a chair no one but I had ever used. He was immersed in a newspaper. My newspaper.
    He appeared in his mid-thirties, maybe a few years older than me. Taller than average, he had the build of a gymnast. Very muscular, but not bulky. This was important to know in case I had to defend myself. His dark brown hair was just a bit too long to qualify as short. It looked finger-combed, a bit messy. Stylists needed a lot of product and time to give male models that look.
    His square jaw was darkened by stubble and his skin had the tone of someone who had just returned from a Mediterranean holiday. The fingers holding my newspaper were long, the nails neatly clipped. Everything about him stated relaxed elegance, from his quality dark clothes to his demeanour.
    His crossed ankles and relaxed torso showed that he had no concerns about his safety. Not like I did. I studied him intently for any cue that he might be a threat to me. I found none. I did, however, sense something familiar about him.
    “Who are you?”
    “Oh, hello.” He looked up from my newspaper that I now would not be able to read. He had destroyed the creases. “Glad to have you back.”
    “Who are you?” I maintained an even tone, not willing to let him see any more vulnerability than he had already witnessed.
    “You have a cool collection of artwork here.” He got out of my chair and walked to the wall behind me. I had chosen and bought the fourteen masks that took up a quarter of the wall after extensive research and consideration.
    I took the time to assess him further as he passed me. I would have to be quick and smart to get the better of him physically. He was light on his feet and moved with the kind of grace attributed to boxers, gymnasts and athletes. And thieves.
    His English was flawless with no accent to place him in any particular region. I continued watching him for possible clues to his identity or purpose in my apartment while he perused my collection.
    “I especially like this Inca funerary mask from Peru. Ah, Peru. I loved travelling there.”
    I refused to be drawn in into his reminiscing, but I was dying to know how he was able to identify that mask. It could’ve been from any South American country.
    The way he held his body while facing my favourite mask oozed self-confidence. I was looking at a man who very seldom tasted failure. It seemed not to have made him arrogant, but rather self-assured, if not overconfident. And he was trying to distract me from my question. So I waited.
    It didn’t take too long for him to turn back to me with a half-smile. “Do you really have the IQ of a genius?”
    I clenched my teeth to refrain from responding. I had watched enough interviews to know that one should never reveal too much about oneself. Nor did I think it prudent to be pulled into a conversation with someone