She stood transfixed in front of the canvas, with its playful interweaving of lines, stars, moons, red and blue circles: she loved it all.
Her father looked around, perplexed. He was not familiar with abstract painting.
A Kachina statue took his fancy. The weird thing, with its painted blues, stood on a small shelf, glowing.
Miró gave her such a joy.
Her father was a child on an adventure trip.
He sat in front of the pictures, turned his head, and watched from different angles to decide if he liked what he saw.
The Chiostro was a Renaissance jewel, just beside the Church Santa Maria della Pace. They wandered in the inner yard, flavouring paintings from Miró' s years in Majorca and listened to classical music. The cafeteria was refined. They sat at a table and ordered coffee and cake.
Her father read a satirical book. She only pretended to read her poetry: she loved watching her father's neat hands, as he leafed through the book, amused.
The waitress was affable and open. She smiled and chatted to them in a natural way.
Every single detail was part of a silent agreement between her and her father.
It had been months, maybe a whole year, since their last outing.
"Do you like your cake? Try mine too," he said. "It's chestnut jam. "
"I'd rather stick to my blueberry tart," she said.
A tall, slim woman in a blue sleeveless dress sat close by, sipping cappuccino, while toying
with her smartphone.
A man in his thirties came in with two young women, who spoke in a Spanish accent.
"You know, " he said, "doing the job l love is like being on holiday all the time." He was a film production assistant and travelled a lot.
Bits and pieces, stringless words floated in the air. She captured just a few and let the others slip away.
Raphael's Sibyls were visible from the big bay window in the cafe loft.
Fluid and lyrical, the four Sibyls had their place on the arch, above the second Cappella Chigi in Santa Maria della Pace. They were a bridge between Pagan and Christian times, their colours soft and ethereal like clouds.
