The dark-haired one from the first night dances past me on the way back to her frame but stops before she goes, turns back to grin at me wildly, then launches into a set of pirouettes. She spins en pointe, around and around, a bravura encore to tonight’s performance.
She’s stunning, and as she whips through the turns, she takes my breath away.
Not from desire though. From appreciation for the way she moves.
Then, at the last moment, she wobbles, and just like a top, she goes over, crashing to the floor.
My heart spikes in alarm, and I rush over to her, kneeling beside her, tense with worry. “Are you okay?”
She nods bravely as she cradles her foot.
“Let me help you,” I say gently. She seems too delicate for full volume.
She nods and leans against me, small and lithe. I loop my arm underneath her, and through my concern, I’m curious how she’ll feel. I’ve never touched one of the dancers. I’ve never touched any of the painted people.
She feels real. Warm skin, beating heart. Like me. Like life. Why that should surprise me, considering I’m surrounded by paintings that leave their frames to traipse through the gallery, nice as you please, I don’t know.
I support her as she rises and gets her feet under her. She’s a bit unsteady at first, then sturdy again.
A loose tendril of her hair brushes my arm. It’s the unexpected evidence that shakes me, knocks home the realization of how lifelike she is.
Beautiful, talented, and fully alive.
But only at night.
The dancer tucks the stray hair into its proper place and murmurs, “Merci.” Then, I help her into her frame, the canvas wrapping gently around her as if being careful of her injury.
The museum is still again.
I’m amazed I don’t have more doubts than I do. After all, the dancers don’t twirl for the visitors during the day or for my sister when she works well into the evening. And once the dancers take their figurative bow, the galleries will stay quiet for the rest of the night. That’s just how it goes.
Whatever the reason, my life has become a Dalí landscape. This has become my version of normal.
On my way out, I stop at the spot where we will hang a new painting soon. Woman Wandering in the Irises. I concentrate for a moment, picturing it there, knowing how stunning it will look. The coveted Renoir would look magnificent anywhere.
Displaying Woman Wandering in the Irises is a major achievement, and it would be even if it was hideous—which it definitely is not. Lost for more than one hundred years, it’s the stuff that art collectors and historians around the world dream about. Now and then, people would claim to have seen it—spotted it in an antique shop, glimpsed it at a flea market. Finally, just weeks ago, the piece was found and authenticated. Now, Woman Wandering in the Irises is coming here. When I give my tours, it’ll be one of the final paintings I show. The best for last.
There.
Right there.
That’s where it’ll be.
My blood rushes faster when I imagine that beauty on the walls.
All the times I’ve gazed at a copy of that beautiful woman in the irises, and now to think of her here, becoming flesh at night . . .
I can only imagine what that would be like.
How much more I might feel.
How much more intense it would be than the moments with the dancers.
I catch myself getting uncomfortably lost in my imagination, and I grimace and give myself a good, hard mental slap.
Pull yourself together, Julien.
I’m a guy with a crush on a painting.
There it is, in all its embarrassing honesty.
I shake it off, laughing a little at myself. I’ve just built a little bit of a fantasy to fill the gap left by the breakup with Jenny. Transference or something. It’s not vastly different than an image of a model or movie star.
Except . . . it’s a painting.
And I have to face facts—it’s not the strangest thing these days. Or nights, rather.
I head out, saying goodbye to the security guards. Charles isn’t at the desk tonight. The gray-haired one, Gustave, is there and gives me a curt nod. He’s fiddling with a piece of copper wire and teardrop crystals that he bends and twists into a miniature sculpture. He’s an artist too.
Aspiring, I should say. Just like me.
“That piece is coming together,” I say, giving him a smile.
“Thanks.”
“See you tomorrow, Gustave.”
As the door closes behind me, I bring my palm to my nose. My hand smells like a peach. I’m sure of it.
I’m not sure, though, if it means I’ve gone mad, or the world has.
2
After an evening lecture the next day, I walk home along the inky quiet of the Seine, earbuds in, streaming pop music on Spotify. It works to disrupt the loop of my thoughts about girls and paintings, but in its place is an obnoxiously catchy refrain about infatuation and longing. I’m searching for something to replace that as I turn away from the water and wind through the streets back to my neighborhood.
Running feet pound the uneven pavement behind me.
“Julien! Wait up, mate!”
I pull out one earbud and whirl around. Simon slows to a jog, coming closer. Smart man, because when he gets close enough, I can tell he’s had a few drinks. Simon came to Paris four years ago for university and he’s stuck to a rigorous training regimen of living life to the fullest all four years.
“Congratulate me, my friend, because I return triumphant from the battlefield of love—also known as the bar around the corner—with the spoils of war.” He claps a hand on my shoulder and grins maniacally. I raise a doubtful eyebrow, and my Scottish friend admits, “Okay, right. I have to ask a favor.” Then, with a frown, he adds, “And also, it’s not the spoils of war. Spoils of the bar? That sounds naff.”
I manage to get two things out of that ramble—it must be a big favor, and there is likely a female involved. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say your amorous efforts were well rewarded.”
“Reward. Yes, that’s good.” He waggles his phone at me, grinning again. “Nothing less than the digits of one long-haired, long-legged beauty who may have been custom-made for me.”
“Do tell.”
“Her name is Lucy, and she is tall, hot, and totally witty. She’s from London. She was there with a friend, who’s French. Her friend I’ll save for you.”
“Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not generous,” I say dryly. The nationalities have little to do with his choices – both Simon and I speak English, of course, and French.
Simon waves his hand as if to erase any negative impression. “No, no. The other one, Emilie, she’s just kind of shy. But she’s a dancer. Very limber, you know. So if you’re not game, I’m sure I can manage them both,” he says with an exaggerated leer.
“Have fun with that,” I tell him, taking it as seriously as he meant it, which is not at all. “I’m headed home. I have catching up to do on this term’s independent study.”
“Wait,” Simon says, and I stop because he looks a bit green with . . . are those nerves? “I have a date with her Thursday night. With Lucy. I need something interesting to do. Not the same old thing.”
I keep a stern face. “What am I? Your social director? Date planner?”
“It’s because you’re the creative one, idiot,” Simon says.
“That’s no way to talk to someone you want to plan your date,” I say, drawing out the torture. “I could give you a list of lame ideas to choose from, but with your taste, how would you know which were good?”
“Come on, Julien,” he wheedles. “Be a pal. We can make it a foursome. I’ll see if her friend can come along. The dancer, remember?”
“I remember.” But the only dancers I’m interested in roam the halls of a museum at night.
God, what am I thinking? I can’t be honestly comparing some kind of hallucination with reality.
And yet . . .
“Please?” Simon asks, and I don’t want to let my friend down. Not when he’s done so much for me.
Besides, maybe this is a stroke of serendipity. His friend is a dancer. The first painting that shimmied out of its frame was Degas’s dark-haired dancer. And last night, we talked. Or at least, I imagined we talked. Maybe it’s best I zero in on reality. “I think I can suffer through a date with two attractive people plus you.”
“And you’ll come up with a plan? A fun plan?” He sounds excited but like he’s trying not to show it. He must really like this Lucy.
“I will.”
“You’re a champ.” He moves as if he aims to give my shoulder an oafish punch then pulls it back at the last moment, laughing. We part ways with plans to make plans—Simon off to catch the Metro and me headed down the quiet, lamplit street leading to my flat.
The one I share with my sister. She has a doctorate in art history, and at age thirty-five, she’s young to run someplace like the Musée d’Orsay, but she’s built a reputation as a curator working in New York and London. I’m proud of her, and lucky too. Intern or not, I wouldn’t have as much free run of the museum as I do if I wasn’t Adaline’s brother.
“Julien!”
That’s her voice. When I turn, she’s seated at a café, enjoying the evening with a glass of red wine and reading an article on her tablet.
“We need to stop meeting like this, sis,” I say as I park myself at her table, pulling my messenger bag over my head and setting it down. “First, you follow me to Paris . . .”
She rolls her eyes. “Right, of course. That’s why I invited you to share a flat in one of the nicest areas of the city. Because it takes so much work out of stalking you.”
The flat belongs to the family, and it’s a nicer place in a better neighborhood than I could ever afford on my own. But there’s also the fact that I like my sister. Convenient.
“Anything interesting?” I ask, nodding to the article from The Guardian on her tablet, pretending I don’t see the words “art forger” in headline-size type.
“Oh, it’s just background on that father and daughter with the fake Gauguin last year. Kind of a ‘Where Are They Now’ piece.”
“So . . . where are they now?”
She grins. “Still under the radar. Maybe coming so close to being convicted made them rethink their life choices.”
I snort. “Maybe they made enough money to buy a small island.”
“Somewhere without an extradition arrangement with the UK.”
The waiter swings by and asks if I want a glass of wine too.
“Just coffee,” I say, and when he leaves, my sister grins at me like she’s got a big secret. It’s not that different than Simon’s grin, actually.
She closes her tablet and sets her laced hands on top of it, eyes dancing. “Do you want to know why I was so excited to see you?”
“Because I’m an utter delight?”
She rolls her eyes, waves a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, and because we have a meeting.” She leans in and lowers her voice to a hushed whisper. “It’s about the Renoir.”
I go absolutely still, afraid some motion, some expression will give away how much those words thrill me.
She looks vibrant, almost aglow. Art has never been simply her field of study. She lives and breathes it. It’s her passion. I recognize it because I feel the same way. “Do you want to see Woman Wandering in the Irises? Like, say, tomorrow?”
I’m wary this is too good to be true, that she’s putting me on. “I thought it wasn’t coming to the museum for a few weeks.”
“It won’t move yet,” Adaline answers. “But I need to meet with the owners to review some final documents, and I thought you might like to come. I want to be able to talk about it with you.” She places her palm against her chest, as if the memory of the painting is too much. “It’s the most beautiful Renoir I’ve ever seen. You will be in love. I know you. You’re just like me. You fall hard.”
Her choice of words is a coincidence, but I can’t stop a grimace. Fortunately, she’s rooting around in her purse and misses it. But it’s not a bad way to describe how it feels to be smitten with a piece of art.
Adaline finds what she’s looking for and pulls it out. “This is for you. I almost forgot.” She slides a small white ceramic creature with brown spots across the table. It’s a calf, but it has an extra leg growing from its back. Renoir once said the idea of women painters was as ridiculous as five-legged calves. I sort of wish I didn’t know that about him. Such an amazing artist but not, apparently, what you’d call an equal opportunist. “From the couple who are giving us the painting. It’s a gift for you.”
I frown at the calf in confusion as I pick it up from the table. “For me? Why? Do they know me from somewhere?”
My sister shrugs as she takes out her wallet. “No clue. But when I asked them if I could bring you to see the painting, they agreed and asked me to give this to you first. But I need to get to bed. It’s nearly ten, and my first meeting is painfully early. The restoration people are coming to look at that sun-damaged portrait. I need to get it fixed before it goes to the joint exhibit at the Louvre,” she says.
That painting is another Renoir, a picture of two young girls playing a piano. It had started to fade a few weeks ago, and I’d alerted her when I noticed the damage, and catching the damage before it spread went a long way toward proving I was at the museum on my own merit and not because of my sister.
Adaline pays for her wine and my coffee. “I’ll see you tomorrow—I’ll probably have turned in when you get home.”
I say good night and thank her for the coffee, enjoying a leisurely sip as I examine the calf curiously. The fifth leg—a shrunken baby leg hanging from its back—has a small cap for a hoof. When I take the cap off, a bit of silvery powder with the consistency of confectionary sugar sprinkles loose.
Huh. I shake the calf more, but it’s empty now.
Strange. As far as I know, I’ve never met these people. Why would they want me to have a ceramic five-legged calf? It would be more logical to give it to Adaline, as she’s the curator of the museum, as well as the one working on the transfer.
I replace the cap and tuck the calf into my bag, nestled in the sweater I’ve been carrying around since yesterday. Then I take out my notebook, laying it on the table.
As I finish my coffee, I flick through my sketches, stopping at the one of Olympia’s cat from a few nights ago. I’d hoped my drawing of the peach was an anomaly, but seeing the cat, I know it’s not. My sketch is technical and precise, like an illustration for a guidebook. Veterinarians might appreciate its lifelike contours and shapes. But it still leaves me feeling . . . flat.
I study it to see if I could maybe have drawn it a different way, a subtler way, to make the cat seem more . . . I don’t know . . . enchanting. I run my index finger across the cat’s head, but no ideas come to me.
With a sigh, I close the notebook, slide it into my messenger bag, and head to the flat.
But as I unlock the door, strands of black hair shine on my hand, and I raise it to the light filtering in from the street. Sleek hair from a sleek cat.
3
There’s a distinct aroma at the top of the stairs. I look around for the source, and my best guess begs the question: “Is there a petting zoo on that balcony?”
Adaline shushes me, then whispers, “Yes, there is. Well, a sheep.”
“Who keeps a sheep on their balcony?”
“Some people are eccentric,” she says as we arrive at the door of the couple who is donating the Renoir to the museum. They live on the curving corner of a twisting, hilly street in Montmartre. Many artists have walked the cobblestone streets of this neighborhood over the last hundred or more years. Notre Dame might be point zero in Paris, but Montmartre is the epicenter for painters.
“They sent me a five-legged cow,” I say under my breath. “Their eccentricity is not in question.”
My sister chuckles. “Touché.”
As she smooths her hands over her suit, I realize she’s . . . not nervous exactly. More like she’s feeling the weight of this career-making achievement. I know she’s pinned so many hopes on the deal going smoothly. Art may be her personal passion, but she still has to prove the museum made the right decision in trusting her with its greatest pieces.
She presses the buzzer.
“I truly appreciate this, Adaline. The timing is perfect,” I say. “Did I tell you that my professor approved my proposal to do my independent study on this painting?”
I get a sharp sisterly elbow in the side. “You did not tell me that. But I can’t imagine he would disapprove, considering the piece has such a history, plus there’s your personal connection to it.”
The words startle me. Have my thoughts become audible? Or am I just that transparent? Hoping she doesn’t notice my flush, I ask casually, “What do you mean?”
Adaline gives me a curious glance. “You work for the museum that’s going to display it. What did you think I meant?”
I tell an almost truth, shrugging with my hands in my pockets. “Oh, you know. I’ve gotten really interested in the story behind it.”
She glances at the door and smooths her suit jacket again. “Don’t bring up the painting’s background unless they do, all right?”
I nod. I’ve pored over every fact and rumor I could find about Woman Wandering in the Irises. The garden in question was Monet’s—Renoir had painted the portrait during a visit—and the work was exhibited only once, at a gallery show in 1885, then it went missing. The subject of the painting was and is a complete mystery. The rest is hearsay—that there was a whiff of scandal about the woman and the two married artists, and after the single showing, her family hid the painting away to protect her reputation.
The Muse Page 2
