The Muse

by Lauren Blakely

  Lucy takes a loud breath like a sob and declares, “I’m having the worst time. The absolute worst, most awful time of my life.”

  Covering her face, she breaks into tears. The genuine shock and dismay on Remy’s face is classic. He only manages a distraught stammer before Lucy takes pity on him.

  “Gotcha!” She flashes him a grin.

  Remy wags a finger at Simon’s new girl. “You are trouble, I can tell. But well done, well done.” He steps to the side and gestures toward the festivities. “Your reward should be some hot chocolate in the kitchen. It’s Rafe’s own recipe, spiked with cayenne. Sweet with a kick—perfect for lovebirds.”

  Simon glances at me, brows raised to ask if I’m good with that, and I tell him, “Have fun, Romeo.”

  Remy watches with an indulgent smile as the pair goes by, then he turns back to me, head cocked, eyes smiling like we share a secret. “The voices are lovely, aren’t they?”

  I blank my expression the best I can, trying to look unsurprised. He must mean something up here, something I should know about. He can’t mean the cellar voices.

  “Like a poem,” he adds.

  I’m still not sure how I should react. If he’s heard them too, does that mean I’m not hearing things, or are we suffering from the same delusion?

  But I have to know, and denial won’t help. “What are they?”

  The question pleases him, judging by his grin, like I’ve passed a test. “They’re Muses.”

  “Muses?” I echo. I don’t know what I expected, but not that.

  Remy nods, enjoying my reaction. “Inspiration personified.”

  I know what the Muses are—they appear in Classical art from Greek statues to the Romantic period, where they’re more allegorical. But he isn’t exactly reassuring me on the non-delusional front. “There are Muses in your cellar?”

  “Of course,” he says. His casual certainty catches me off guard. Somehow makes things seem more plausible.

  “How did you come to have mythic creatures in your basement?” Not “if” but “how.” That’s how far gone I am.

  “Julien,” Remy chides, “they aren’t mythic. They’re real. And they’ve always been there. Though, technically, we have a door to the Muses. They don’t live down there.”

  “Right. Because that would be ridiculous.”

  “It would,” he agrees, then continues. “I don’t know which came first—the Bonheur patronage of the arts or our connection to the Muses. Family lore says the connection goes back at least to the Middle Ages.”

  “You don’t mean Muses metaphorically?”

  “I am not given to metaphor at the moment. Not as it relates to the Muses.”

  I’m not sure how long this candid Remy will stick around before charming, quirky, and unhelpfully enigmatic Remy returns. So I don’t waste time.

  “Here’s where I admit I wasn’t paying attention when Rafe and Adaline talked about provenance of Woman Wandering in the Irises the other day. How did the portrait come to be in your family?”

  His eyes flick toward the media room door then back to me. “You seemed familiar with the artist Suzanne Valadon?”

  “First woman admitted to art school in Paris? Contemporary of Renoir, Monet, and other Impressionists during their heyday?” I give him an “I see what you did there” stare, picturing the drawing on the trapdoor. “Model for some of Renoir’s paintings, like Dance at Bougival?”

  Remy grins. “She’s the one. She’s my great-times-whatever grandmother. She and Renoir were collegial at one point, but they fell out over ideology, hers being an artistically egalitarian one and his being an elitist exclusionary one.”

  “Right. Like the five-legged cow thing.”

  “But she loved Woman Wandering in the Irises. It has been passed down through the family, along with the duty of keeping it safe.”

  I realize I’m staring at the white door at the end of the hall. Remy follows my gaze and smiles slyly. “Would you like to see it again?”

  Good sense says I shouldn’t. This goes over the line from eccentric to delusional. I know that the deeper I go, the stranger my life is going to get. The most rational part of me says get out while I can.

  But something else whispers, Stay.

  It’s the same thing that drew me to follow the sound of dancers on the parquet floor in the museum to see what was there. To find out how much reality there was in my imaginings.

  “What do you mean ‘keeping it safe’?” I ask.

  “It’s not like other paintings, Julien. It’s quite special, and it needs protection from harm. So we are charged with its care.”

  Protective outrage pushes aside confusion. “Why? Who would want to hurt that painting?”

  Remy shrugs in that “it just is” way of his. “Why does anyone want to ruin beautiful things?”

  I consider the stories that Adaline dismissed. Two artists in love with the subject of the portrait. Maybe her family wanted to hide or destroy the portrait to protect her reputation. Maybe there is some other shadowy reason I can’t speculate.

  Who is she, this woman who inspired love, aroused jealousy, and needed protection?

  “Then why let it go now?” I ask Remy.

  “It’s time. And I think you’ll keep it safe at the museum.”

  “Of course.” It’s a vow, even though I’m only an intern. Even though I don’t know where my career will take me.

  We’ve been moving toward the room as we’ve talked, and Remy unlocks the door and guides me inside without following.

  “Sit. Take your time.” He might be grinning, but I only have eyes for the painting. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

  The door clicks shut, and I walk over, hypnotized, to Woman Wandering in the Irises.

  Warmth seems to radiate from the canvas, reaching across the short distance between us as if the sun that lights the garden doesn’t stop at the frame. As if the woman has body heat, a heart pumping blood through her skin. As I study her, she looks back, her lips parted ever so slightly, looking impossibly kissable.

  I want to trace a finger across those red lips. What was she saying to the artist? What was she thinking? Was she raising a hand to greet a lover?

  She stays still and silent, but the room feels expectant, like the hushed anticipation between the dimming of theater lights and the rising of the curtain. I watch for something, roaming my eyes over her, and when I do, I see the faintest of outlines.

  A shimmer of silver.

  The canvas buckles near her hand. I hold my breath, afraid to hope for more but pleading for it at the same time. This has to be real. Please let this be more than an illusion. There’s a rustling sound, and then one slender feminine finger pokes out. My heart stops then restarts; I have to breathe, but I don’t want to risk breaking a moment that feels as fragile as a cobweb.

  I lick my lips and wait, not sure what I’ll do if enough of her hand appears that I can grasp it and pull her free.

  “Come out,” I whisper. “Come out.”

  I move closer, inches away now, so close that my words would stir the wisps of her hair. That sunny warmth spreads over my chest, as if I could wrap my arms around her and hold her against me.

  I stare, full of anticipation. “Who are you?”

  There’s the gentlest swish of a skirt from behind the frame.

  “What is your name?”

  Then a distant sound, like a far-off bell.

  “What are your favorite things?”

  There’s the sound of merriment, but it’s not coming from the party. It’s as if the canvas is echoing a sweet, inviting laugh.

  I put my hands on the frame. This is as close as I have come to touching her. “What are you like, woman behind the paint?” I ask, and for a moment, I can hear soft breath and the beating of a heart, and I’m sure neither one is coming from me.

  The canvas is quiet the rest of the night, and the woman doesn’t emerge from the painting any farther. I stay until the party noise dies down,
and I’m one of the last to leave. I say goodbye to Rafe, injecting gratitude even though I feel disconnected, as if I’m waking from a too-long nap.

  Remy walks me to the courtyard door, where he presses the pink polka-dotted calf into my hands and tells me I earned it.

  “I want to see her again,” I tell him. “Before she comes to the museum.”

  He gives me an arch “I thought so” look. It’s the look of a successful matchmaker, and I don’t care. He asks for my phone and programs his number into it. “I will be your go-between. Like the priest in Romeo and Juliet.”

  He might be joking, but I’m too distracted to interpret sarcasm. “Things didn’t end well for that pair. Maybe you could just be my friend.”

  As serious as I’ve yet seen him, he nods decisively. “That I will do for you. And for her.”

  We’re no longer calling it Woman Wandering in the Irises. It’s a she. She’s a woman. I want her to step from her painting so I can learn the texture of her dress and the smell of her hair.

  So I can look into her eyes. Talk to her. Learn all about her.

  Perhaps this is madness, but I’m terribly certain she doesn’t exist only in my mind.

  6

  The following week I have a video conference with my academic advisor for my individual studies class, where he goes over the proposal for my term project, stroking his beard and nodding and muttering as I talk in my living room. Since the proposal is on his screen just below his camera, it gives the impression he’s staring right into my psyche.

  Finally, he nods. “You seem to have a feel for the subject. Woman Wandering in the Irises, with its storied history, is bound to be intellectually engaging, but you bring a personal insight to the topic.”

  “Thank you, Professor.”

  “It should make for a compelling read.”

  “I hope so. I really want to bring the subject to life.” If he only knew.

  “Hmm,” says my advisor, stroking his beard again. “It almost seems as though you’ve seen the painting in person. I didn’t think it arrives at the Musée d’Orsay for another month.”

  “It’s not on public display until then, no, sir.”

  “Ah. You have seen it, then? Through your internship?”

  There is nothing odd about his interest—art is meant to be seen in person, and the lost Renoir is a sensation. But my previews have been a secret, and I want to keep it that way, like a clandestine affair.

  I say truthfully, “No one is allowed to see the painting until the debut. But I do have access to reproductions that you can hardly tell apart from the real thing.”

  “That should suffice for this stage of your project. We’ll meet again next week to talk about your research.”

  We wrap up our call, and as soon as I disconnect, I grab my bag, making sure I have everything I need for my afternoon at the museum. Adaline is long gone already—our schedules, between work and school, mean that we run into each other more often at the Musée than at the flat.

  I’m almost at the Metro when my phone rings—there are only a few people who would call rather than text, and my sister is one of them, especially for anything to do with work, so I never let it go to voicemail during opening hours.

  “Oh, excellent,” she says when I answer. “I caught you. You haven’t left for work yet, have you?”

  “I’m on my way now,” I reply, hanging back from the entrance to the train so the noise doesn’t drown out her voice.

  “Would you mind terribly making a detour to meet Claire at the Louvre and have a look at the painting on loan there? It’s the Renoir piano girls, the one with the sun damage. It’s back from restoration and has already been shipped to the Louvre, but I would feel better if you could give it one final look now that it’s been installed.”

  I’m already detouring to a different Metro stop. “Happy to. But is there a problem?”

  “No problem,” she answers. But I picture her frowning. “This restorer is the best. I simply want your sharp eyes on it in its new setting. If there’s anything we’ve missed, I’d rather you find it than their people.”

  “In other words, you’re fussing.”

  She scoffs. “I’m double-checking. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course I would. It’s the Louvre.”

  “Thank you, Julien. Claire is aware the painting has had minor restoration, but not the specifics. If it’s been repaired properly, the fix will be undetectable.”

  “Of course.” Sun damage, and its repair, are somewhat routine, but I know what she’s saying. Don’t draw Claire’s attention to something otherwise unnoticeable.

  On my way to the Metro stop, I see the usual assortment of street artists who’ve set up shop along the river to draw caricatures of tourists. I spot Max, one of the regulars, and swing past to say hello. He’s one of the best here, and at the moment he’s sketching a gangly English boy, who’d clearly rather be anywhere else, as the parents look on, oblivious to his fidgeting. Does it even need saying that this was their idea?

  The boy’s too-long limbs remind me of a baby horse, and I say this to Max in French as I watch over his shoulder.

  “You better hope they don’t know ‘poulain,’ or I’ve lost ten euros,” he says, but he’s laughing.

  I laugh too, and go on my way with a parting promise: “I’ll cover you if they turn out to be bilingual equestrians.”

  Wild horses couldn’t drag me into the Louvre after dark.

  At the Musée d’Orsay, we only have art painted after 1848—relatively modern in artistic terms. But our sister museum is full of medieval and Renaissance works, from periods that mainly drew from the Bible or other Classical sources. I don’t want to run into Salome walking around with John the Baptist’s head on a tray, or Prometheus with his liver half-eaten by crows.

  The piece I’m studying is a seventeenth-century Georges de La Tour depicting Joseph in his workshop with a young Jesus. It’s pleasantly domestic, but they can stay in their frame, thank you very much.

  “It’s an ironic inclusion as an interior scene, don’t you think?”

  The slightly smug question tells me Claire picked it for the exhibit—Interiors through the Ages—herself. The assistant curator has the carefully manicured look of a news anchor—sharp skirt, heels, proper blouse, and straight brown hair that falls just so—and she’s giving me a preview of the exhibit before we get to the task at hand. When Claire offered to let me take a peek, I couldn’t resist.

  “It definitely makes me think,” I say, though it’s more like I’m hoping this painting doesn’t come alive, since I’d rather avoid a religious experience in the museum.

  In the La Tour, Jesus holds a lit candle for his earthly father, and I peer at it closely, as if the painting could reveal its nighttime secrets to me.

  “Well, what does it make you think about?” Claire asks, as if quizzing me.

  Before I can form a reply, a sharp, hot pain sears my hand. I gasp and look at my palm, expecting . . . I don’t know what I’m expecting, but it’s not this.

  There, dancing in my cupped hand, is a single flame. A candle flame, like in the painting, as if the fire has jumped from the canvas to . . . me.

  My chest seizes tight. Nothing like this has ever happened during daylight hours.

  I’ve just wrapped my head around art coming to life at night and now it can ambush me anytime?

  I’d wondered whether something from a painted world could harm me.

  Well, now I know—it can hurt like a son of a bitch.

  I close my fist around the flame, snuffing it out. Then I slowly uncurl my fingers again, and find my palm is the reddish pink of a bad sunburn.

  Claire’s gaze drops to my turned-up palm. “Oh, dear. Did you burn yourself?”

  Surprise rocks me back a step. “You can see that?”

  Her perfectly arched eyebrows knit in a frown. “Your burned hand. What happened? What do you mean?”

  Those are both excellent questions. I raise my
gaze to the painting, and a fist of shock hits me in the gut. On the canvas, the candle in Joseph’s workshop is almost burned out. The flame is now only a guttering spark in the well of wax.

  Is that because I put out the flame? Should I have returned it to the canvas like I do with Cézanne’s peaches and Olympia’s cat?

  Did I cause permanent damage to a work of art?

  I point to the painting. “The candle flame in the La Tour. It’s gone.”

  Claire glances from the canvas back to me. “Is that a joke? The painting looks the same as ever.”

  So, Claire can’t see the blackened spot, even though she saw the effect of the flame on my hand.

  But what the hell does that mean?

  I recover the best I can, considering my upside-down world has made another spin. “My apologies, Claire,” I say more formally. “I must have confused this with another painting for a moment. How embarrassing.”

  Humbling myself a little was the right call—she thaws from blast freezer to merely subarctic. “Well, things happen.”

  “They do. I’ll just have a look at the Young Girls at the Piano and then be out of your way.”

  She leads me to the Renoir of two girls sitting at a piano, featured on another wall of the gallery. “I think it looks amazing here.”

  I smile politely and agree it does. The repairs are seamless and undetectable. Except . . . when I peer closer, I see one of the piano keys is already fading again.

  Adaline is not going to be happy. I glance warily at Claire, ready to assure her the piece had been in pristine condition when we packed it up for transport. But she smiles dreamily as she gazes at the scene. “I love this one. Perfectly on theme. Do tell your sister I’m so grateful for the loan.”

  Merde.

  Claire can’t see this new sun damage, just like she couldn’t see the extinguished flame on the La Tour. Which leads me to think the damage to both paintings must be related somehow. Or am I the only one seeing this new damage?

  When I take my leave of Claire, I double back through the museum, keeping an eye out for any other anomalies as I walk the galleries. Impressionists, Romantics, Neoclassicists . . . No signs of trouble until I get to the Dutch masters.