“Oh, how fantastic.” She sounds genuinely interested. “What was it like? Good production?”
This time, I consider before I speak, and when I do, I smile at a joke as private as the performance had been. “It looked just like a Degas painting.”
She nods pseudo-seriously. “You can never go wrong with a Degas vibe.” Then she breaks into a grin that suddenly makes it easy to picture her onstage.
We talk more about dance, then segue to music, downloading each other’s recommendations, and after that, she feels less like a stranger and more like a friend.
The reverse must be true too, because she leans closer and whispers, “Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course.”
“I’m auditioning for the ballet next week.” Emilie pushes a hand through her black hair, which is straight as a blade.
“The Paris Opera Ballet?”
“The one and only.”
I am beyond impressed. “Emilie, that’s amazing! Why are you keeping that a secret?”
“Because there’s no way I’m getting in.” She waves a hand, dismissing the very idea. “Which is fine, but I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me.”
I catch a strain of music—not the techno-pop we exchanged earlier, and not the a cappella group. It’s familiar and orchestral.
Funny, because it sounds like a ballet I’ve seen, and here we are talking about ballet.
“I seriously doubt the Paris Opera Ballet gives auditions to dancers who are anything less than outstanding,” I tell her.
“I know! I’m sure it was totally a mistake.” Her laugh is self-deprecating, and the music crescendos, and I finally recognize it as the ballet Giselle. “Hopefully I’ll have an early slot, before they realize I’m not supposed to be there.”
The notes swirl around Emilie, wrapping her in a cocoon of sweet sound. I don’t let it distract me, since it doesn’t seem to distract her.
“I’m pretty sure the Paris Opera Ballet double-checks stuff like that. I’m also pretty sure that means you’re fantastic.” She has to be. I’m surprised at how certain I am.
The violins from Giselle keep playing, and I have to ask, “Is your phone still streaming?”
She frowns and shows me her screen. “See? Off. Why?”
Terrific. Now I’m hearing things.
Art comes alive, music plays of its own accord – welcome to your new reality, Julien Garnier.
“I hear music,” I say. After all, I might not be imagining it entirely. “Funny thing is, it’s ballet music. Giselle.”
Her eyes widen. “You heard Giselle?”
I nod, unsure how to interpret her reaction. It seems less about how I’m hearing music and more about what I’m hearing.
She blinks up at me with those wide eyes and whispers, “That’s my audition piece.”
As she says that, I picture Emilie on the stage of the Palais Garnier in front of thousands of people in their red upholstered chairs underneath the six-ton candelabra. The rising sounds of the ballet build toward a gorgeous finale as Emilie pirouettes, her head tipped back, giving in to the dance, giving in with abandon.
“You’re going to blow them away.” I feel compelled to tell her. “I have no doubt you will be the newest member of the Paris Opera Ballet next week.”
Emilie beams, the warmest smile I’ve ever seen.
And the music stops.
So . . .
What the hell just happened?
Simon and Lucy join us, and she models a skirt with cheeseburger drawings on it.
“Just bought it. Isn’t this the best?” Lucy gives a flamboyant twirl, then settles into a chair. Funny that the nondancer is the one bold enough to execute a 360 in a public square. Lucy seems to possess a natural showmanship, from the twirl to the skirt to the emerald streaks in her long brown hair.
“I think I should get a shirt with French fries to go with it,” Simon says as the waiter brings our espressos.
“So, what’s with the cheeseburgers, Lucy?” I ask.
“I lived in Chicago for a year and decided to make it my mission to try one in every diner in the city.”
“Did you complete your mission?”
“No, but it only whetted my appetite for the United States.”
“And where else would you want to go in the U.S?” Simon asks.
The conversation turns to which American cities we most want to visit, from New York to Miami to Seattle to Austin, and while we finish our drinks, I notice Emilie watching the singing group in the square. Her foot taps in time to the music, and her eyes are keen and intense, her shoulders tight, as if she’s ready to leap after something she’s spotted.
Leaning over to her, I say with a smile, “You’re thinking about how much you want to be dancing right now.”
She smiles ruefully, speaks quietly. “Is it that obvious? I just feel like I should be better prepared for next week.”
“So go dance,” I tell her, keeping my voice down too.
“Really?” The suggestion surprises her, but her shoulders relax. “I could still squeeze in a class tonight. Practice some more.”
“Do it,” I urge. I don’t want to be rid of her, but she should go where her heart is, and that’s not here. I think we’ll be friends, but I can tell she’s already in love. She’s in love with dancing.
“I need to go,” Emilie says to the table. “Sorry, Lucy. But I want to take a class.”
“Emilie,” Lucy says. “C’mon. You’re always taking ballet classes. Let’s go to a party.”
“Sometimes inspiration strikes. And I’m inspired to go dance.” Before she leaves, she kisses me on the cheek and whispers in my ear, “Thank you.”
Before I can ask what for, she’s walking away.
And I’m one step closer to the party. To the painting, and to the staircase and wherever it leads.
5
A sheep grazes above on Remy’s spacious balcony, nibbling on a patch of grass.
The sheep keeps company with a goat. The sheep baas and the goat bleats and Simon gleefully rubs his hands together. “A party with farm animals. This is exactly what I needed for my Thursday night.”
We ring the buzzer on the green door with the iron gate. Remy opens it and ushers us in grandly. He wears a plain black polo shirt and jeans. A contrast for the fashionable man.
“What a surprising outfit,” I remark, and Remy grins in delight that I remembered the theme of his party. Surprise. “I’m shocked how much you look like…not you.”
“Sometimes I feel like…not me,” he says with a grin.
There’s a girl with him, and her perky brown ponytail swishes as she eyes the three of us with interest. She looks like the underclassmen at university—no, that’s not right. She looks like an underclassman at an American school, because I’m not sure a French girl would wear jeans and a faded orange T-shirt with a unicorn leaping over a rainbow.
“This is my little sister, Sophie,” Remy says. “She’s supposed to be upstairs working on a term paper.”
Sophie doesn’t look bothered by the comment. “My surprise was escaping the campus to come to his birthday party.”
“I’m pretending to be surprised she would flee the dormitory on the least excuse,” he says.
“Nice to meet you, Sophie,” I tell her. She shares her brother’s insouciance, the kind that makes her likable straight away.
“Happy birthday,” Lucy says to Remy after I make the introductions, and then to Sophie, “I’m loving the shirt.”
“Merci.” They exchange grins. “Your skirt is magnificent.”
Remy guides us through the courtyard, and Simon comes right out and asks, “What’s the story with the goat and sheep?”
“They ward away bad spirits,” Remy answers, entirely serious.
Lucy asks with an intrigued hum, “What sort of bad spirits?”
Remy throws open the door from the courtyard to the house, and I’m glad to be heading closer to my goals for the party. �
��Anything that threatens to ruin a good party,” he says.
Sophie slips inside first, walking backward toward the stairs leading to the balcony. “In fact, it’s my job to tend to the flock,” she says as she excuses herself. “But I wanted to meet you first. I didn’t believe Remy when he said there would be guests younger than middle-aged.”
He moves like he was going to poke her in the ribs if she didn’t dodge. “I will make you eat those words when you turn twenty-nine.”
She dances away with a laugh. “I’m not worried. You’ll be nearly forty then and too old and decrepit to catch me.”
Remy shakes his head as she disappears. “I don’t know where she gets such cheek.”
I turn a laugh into a cough.
He grins then waves the whole matter away as he closes the door. “Enough of that. Come and enjoy the party.”
He escorts us farther in, and Simon and Lucy marvel at the decor. I find my gaze drawn to the end of the hallway and force my focus onto the living room, a vivid swirl of party guests honoring Remy’s dress code of bright colors, save himself. His friends are decked out in swirling pinks and deep scarlets and swaths of blues and greens that mirror the sea. There’s no phonograph playing carnival music tonight; instead, a high-tech sound system plays upbeat songs from pop superstars in America and England.
As Simon goes to grab drinks for us, Lucy takes the chance to pull me aside and ask, “What happened with Emilie? Did you not like her?”
Talk about straightforward. My eyebrows climb. For as long as I’ve lived in Paris, I’m still rather English sometimes. “She’s lovely. I liked her just fine.”
Lucy narrows her eyes, obviously unsatisfied with my answer. “From Simon’s description of you, I thought you and she would be perfect for each other. You’re very cultured, he said. You know—ballet, art, and such.”
“Right.” I draw out the word as I imagine how Simon might have said that.
“So maybe we can all go out again?”
“Of course. But you know, Emilie’s pretty focused on that whole ballet thing.” I’d like to go out again as a group—a friend group—but I don’t want to lead anyone on. I lighten it up with a teasing. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”
Lucy rolls her eyes, but with affection. “That’s where you come in. I want her to have a life too. Get out of the studio sometimes. Have fun!”
“Sure. But maybe dancing is her life.” Immediately, I want to take that back or amend it to something less cliched and . . . cheesy. But it’s the truth—and I can understand it. Art requires sacrifice, whether it’s comfort or riches or a social life.
Simon rejoins us at the same time as a woman in dark eyeliner and slinky jeans brings around a tray of what look like pillowy pastel shish kebabs. I look from the candy to the woman and raise a brow. “Rafe has been busy in the kitchen, I take it?”
“Who else would he allow in there?” she asks with a smile.
I take a soft raspberry-colored cube and pop it into my mouth, and as it melts, each individual sugar crystal seems to sparkle on my tongue.
Rafe appears from the kitchen and greets me warmly, as he and Remy make the rounds, pointing out the spread of confections laid out on the table. I spot Sophie by the beverages, making sure everyone has a drink. The hosts are busy, the party is getting lively, and I may not get a better chance to satisfy my twin curiosities.
I tug Simon and Lucy around the corner into the hallway. “I need your help,” I whisper as I make my way to the room with the painting, but as I suspected the door doesn’t budge when I turn the handle.
“Breaking and entering? You are an excellent social coordinator,” Simon says approvingly.
“Indeed. And now can you two coordinate lookout for me?”
Lucy’s smile takes on epic proportions. “Yes. What do you need?”
Quietly I pad back to the door to the media room. I turn that handle, and breathe a sigh of relief when it gives.
“I have some recon to do. Keep watch, OK?”
Simon shrugs a yes. “Should we have a secret knock in case someone comes this way?”
“If they do, they’re probably looking for the loo.” I point across the hall. “Just send them that way.”
Lucy tries to get a glimpse into the room as I open the door the rest of the way. “What is it you’ll be doing in there? Can’t you tell us?”
“Research. Art research,” I say, quietly closing the door. “Tell Simon about your favorite cheeseburgers.”
She laughs, pointing at me. “I like him.”
Through the door, I hear Simon say, “Me too. Which is why I put up with his crazy.”
I don’t waste the window of opportunity, and take a quick look around the room. Nothing has changed since the day I was here, including the drawing on the trapdoor. I slide back the latch and pull it open as soundlessly as before. Below, the stairs corkscrew down into the bedrock of the hill where the house perches. In the dark, there’s no telling how far down they go.
I take out my phone and use the flashlight as I descend the spiraling steps. After six or seven rounds, the air feels mustier, heavier. Even with the light, I can only see one stair below, and I seem to circle forever.
I’m dizzy by the time I finally reach the bottom. I step away from the security of the stairs, and my footfalls on the stone echo back to me, giving me a sense of the enclosed space. I point the light on the floor until I reach a wall, then sweep it up over the featureless stone. The other walls are bare too.
Cellars are always a bit creepy somehow, but the emptiness of this one, added to the long trek down and the mystery of its existence, makes it almost unnerving. “Cellar” might not even be the right word, since the space doesn’t seem to have any purpose that I can see. It’s impractical for storing anything, except perhaps a vampire or maybe the man in the iron mask.
I regret the thought immediately, but it’s too late. Now I’m remembering that the door latches from the outside and that all this stone makes the place utterly soundproof. Even with the trapdoor open, I can hear nothing from the world upstairs.
At least, I don’t think I do.
I stand still and listen again.
There it is—the faint sound of voices. The quality is too soft and the cadence too melodic to be noise from the party. And it’s not coming from above.
The sound rises from below.
From where there’s nothing but stone and earth and bedrock.
It’s illogical, and I feel ridiculous even as I do it, but still I kneel and press my ear to the floor. Impossible, irrational, whatever you want to call it—I definitely make out women’s voices.
Their words are indistinct, but there’s a lilt to them, like poetry, like someone’s speaking in sonnets. Or maybe it’s that the sound makes me feel the way a sonnet does. I want to lie on the floor, one ear pressed against the cold stone, and listen all night to this siren song.
I want that with a yearning that makes little sense. A nostalgia for something I’ve never experienced before.
This is impossible. Even if the sounds could travel through stone, the way the house is built on the hill, there can be nothing under this floor but dirt and bedrock. I cannot be hearing people speaking below.
And yet there they are—soft, gliding words. It’s the sound of snowflakes drifting from a gaslit sky. Then comes laughter, like a bell, pure and bright.
I jump up, rejecting the madness. I pace as far as I can until the wall stops me, and then I turn and stare searchingly into the empty space.
Am I going mad? From the cat stepping out from its painting, to ballerinas turned loose in the Musée d’Orsay, to orchestra music playing in the square . . . and now these impossible voices. It doesn’t seem possible that hallucinations could feel so real.
I catch my runaway thoughts and surprise myself with a laugh. Too real to be all in my mind—that’s just what a madman would say, isn’t it?
All right. I’m here and the voices aren’t going awa
y, so it seems like a chance to find a possible explanation. Maybe I’ve misjudged the house’s position on the hill. Maybe there’s a crack in the stone, or some trick of acoustics.
I’m staring at the floor from an angle, which is how I see it—a rectangular outline in some kind of silver dust. I’ve seen something like it recently. Then I remember—it was in the calf Remy gave me.
Crouching for a closer look, I see the dust fills a crevice, and I blow on it, trying to clear a space and see if there’s a slot of some kind. A latch, maybe, or a keyhole?
All I manage to do, though, is blow the outline out of existence and fill the beam from the flashlight on my phone with a dancing cloud of sparkles—pretty, but useless for my mission.
It seems like a sign that I’ve done all I can, and a glance at my phone’s screen says I’ve been here longer than I intended. I drag myself from the mystery and the voices, and sprint up the stairs two at a time, like if I don’t go fast, I won’t be able to pull myself away at all.
It seems to take less time to go up the spiral than down. The trapdoor above is a square of light and reality, and I climb out into the TV room, safe and undiscovered.
The hallway door is still closed, and I yank it open. Simon and Lucy topple into the room, a tangle of limbs and lips.
Simon catches himself and Lucy both before they hit the floor. She giggles as he grabs her waist and sets her upright.
“Whoa! PDA much?”
“Nothing to see here,” Simon says casually. “Just blocking the doorway. Make it too awkward for anyone to ask to get by.”
“That’s very ingenious of you,” I say dryly.
“It was a chore,” he says with a grave face, “but sometimes you have to suffer to help out a mate.”
I look solemnly at Lucy. “Thank you for your sacrifice.”
She points at me and wiggles her finger. “You owe me now. Don’t think I’ll forget.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” I say, enjoying how quickly Lucy gets on with anyone. She’s perfect for Simon.
We step into the hall, and as I close the door behind me, Remy rounds the corner.
“Are you having the time of your life?” he asks sunnily.
The Muse Page 4
