I felt like the people gathered around Vermeer’s 'The Rendezvous' somehow violated my privacy as I stepped before it. I had imagined that I would be alone when I first saw it. Standing before the painting, I marveled at the detail in the reclining figure; the white angelic skin, the wide 17th century hips, the now familiar black tattoo. The artist had captured everything in the opulent room; the red velvet curtains, gilded statutes, even the other paintings on the walls of Samas' Amsterdam home. I stood in front of 'The Rendezvous' until the familiar feelings of cold, businesslike loneliness, those feelings that had served me in this situation so many times before, returned to me. It came over me slowly as I swayed in front of the image of my contractor. And though unseen, it was unmistakable. Want drifted into the portrait like a phantom, supplanting cold reason and eclipsing fear. I pictured myself in the same opulent surroundings as those in the painting and knew then that I stood there no longer out of obligation, but out of anticipation. I narrowed my focus to Samas, the form might have been different but that sly knowing smile was no doubt the same. Imagining him in this voluptuous form made me smile. I moved closer and listened carefully to his barely audible whispers of promise and pride.

"It's lovely isn't it?" asked a large English woman behind me.

"Yes," I said, turning around to survey the lay of the exits. I looked down at my watch and smiled again. The four green arms remained motionless. "What time is it?" I asked her.

"A quarter till six. My word, they'll be closing shortly. Jules dear, it's almost time to go," she shouted after her missing husband.

'Until tomorrow,' I thought as I moved away from the Vermeer.

One guard stood at the front desk, his back to me, the other milled around the front door looking out at the bustling street. I slipped unobserved past the open archway of the foyer where they stood and walked back down to the twin bathroom doors. Looking around for eyes looking at me, I ignored the silent protests of the skirted silhouette on the door and entered the women's bathroom.

The simple stalls had brown curtains in place of western doors. The harsh fluorescent tubes flickered with a low hum. Small one inch square blue, red, and yellow tiles formed a random collage of color on the floor. I had just put my hand on the water faucet when I heard the creak of the men's room door. My heart in my throat, I picked up the case and the cane and eased the women's door off its jam enough to see out.

"Where have you been Jules?" the squat Brit asked of her husband.