We have lunch by the beach. Salad Nicoise, fresh pasta with pesto, and hollowed out fruit and vegetables stuffed with meat. We are both ravenous after the parasailing, and we polish our plates off in quick time.

‘What’s next on the itinerary?’ I ask, putting my fork and knife down.

‘You choose. Henri Matisse or Marc Chagall museum,’ he says, wiping his mouth.

‘Marc Chagall,’ I say immediately, beaming at him. ‘He’s actually my favorite artist.’

‘How patriotic of you.’

I shake my head earnestly. ‘The fact that he was Russian has got nothing to do with it. He was a genius. I totally agree with Picasso who said, “The man must have an angel in his head.”’

He smiles at my enthusiasm.

‘Don’t you like him?’ I ask curiously.

One of his shoulders lifts and falls. ‘I’ve never really studied fine art appreciation, or had a chance to know much about it. My life took me on a different path. Tattoos are the closest I’ve come to art.’

‘You introduced me to parasailing. I’ll introduce you to Chagall,’ I say excitedly. ‘Looking at his paintings is like gazing into a magical world. He makes you want to believe in unicorns.’

‘Well then, to Chagall’s world we go.’ A masculine grin that I usually associate with tanned, devil-may-care cowboys plays on his lips.

I lean my chin on my hand. ‘Noah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Thank you for bringing me on this trip. I’ve really enjoyed it. I can’t think of a time I’ve been happier in my life.’

Something flashes in his eyes, then it is gone. It is so quick I can’t tell whether he is embarrassed, amused, or something else completely different.

The museum is on a hill in a very quiet area compared to the hustle and bustle of the city we have come from. We pay our ten euros and enter. The walls of the hexagon shaped spaces are stark white, making the large paintings pop.

While we sit on the wooden benches and gaze at Chagall’s masterpieces, all at once generous, naive, shrewd, secretive, sad, vulnerable and full of love and joy, I tell Noah little interesting tit bits I have gleaned about the painter over the years.

‘Do you know he was so poor he used to eat the head of a mackerel one day and save the tail for another? Then when he met the woman he would marry she would knock on his window to bring him cakes and milk. Later he said of her, “I only had to open the window of my room and blue air, love and flowers entered with her.”’ I pause to look at Noah. ‘Isn’t that the most romantic thing you ever heard?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘The most romantic thing I ever heard of was when a beautiful blonde came into my office for a night of lust wearing a pink cardigan.’

I giggle softly. ‘It was that or the see-through dress with the plunging neckline.’

‘I’m glad the pink cardigan won the day.’

‘Why? Wouldn’t you have preferred me in the see-through?’

‘No. I wouldn’t change a thing from that night.’

When we stand in front of a photograph of Chagall with his mischievous faun-like face and strange, almond-shaped eyes, I turn to Noah and ask, ‘Do you know he prepared his charcoal pencils, holding them in his hand like a little bouquet?’

Noah gazes at me as if he is looking at something he has always wanted, but never thought he could have.

‘Holding them so he would sit in front of a blank canvas and wait for an idea to come. When it came, he raised the charcoal and very quickly started tracing straight lines, ovals, lozenges. Out of those shapes, as if by magic, a clown would appear, then a unicorn, a violinist, a pilgrim, an angel. Once the outline was done he would step back and sit down again, as exhausted as a boxer after a round. Imagine how his mind must have been. The whole picture was clear to him in one flash of inspiration.’

‘That’s an amazing talent to have,’ Noah says slowly.

‘Yes, it must be wonderful to have such a unique ability. He once confessed that all he wanted to do was to stay wild and untamed … to shout, weep, pray.’