The Muse

by Lauren Blakely

  I laugh softly. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “I’m free.” Her voice breaks a little, as if her throat is tight with tears. She sighs and stretches her arms overhead. “And it feels spectacular.” She leans her head back as if she’s on a beach letting the sun warm her face. “Ah, you have no idea what all those years inside a painting will do to a body.”

  Eyes closed, she shifts her neck from side to side, and I want to offer to rub the kinks out of her muscles, if only for an excuse to touch her. She turns to me, her wild blue eyes lit up like she’s ready to misbehave. Whatever she’s about to suggest, I’m down for it.

  “Would you like to show me this museum, Julien?”

  I can’t help my grin. The suggestion isn’t improper, but it’s the way she says it. Like nothing could be better than the two of us, nearly alone, in the Musée d’Orsay.

  Standing, I offer her my hand. “I would love nothing better than to show you this museum.”

  She looks tickled by the gesture. It goes with her dress and her era, but she doesn’t seem as prim as I thought women were a hundred and thirty-five years ago. Still, she takes my hand, and as her fingers touch my palm, a tremble sweeps through me—up my arm and through my whole being.

  I don’t move for long seconds that contain lifetimes.

  The painted woman is real. Is holding my hand. Is touching me. Her fingers wrap delicately around mine as she stands in front of me, alive and in the world.

  And it feels spectacular.

  Flesh and bone, warmth and sparks.

  So many sparks race across my skin at the simple clasping of our hands.

  If holding hands is a gateway drug, I’m already addicted.

  We wander through the galleries of my home away from home, past the paintings that are almost like family. She trails her hand along the canvases, brushing pastel bathers on beaches, bowls of peaches, and moonlit stars. She traces her fingers over vases of flowers, Tahitian women on islands, and cabarets in Montmartre.

  I would tell anyone else to stop. But there is reverence in her touch, something loving and tender.

  When she reaches a painting of Monet’s Rouen Cathedral, she stops to consider it.

  “I want to go there,” she announces, with some of the same longing as when she said she was awfully hungry. “I want to see the real cathedral. Have you been?”

  “Yes. I’m studying art history, and I’ve visited a lot of the places the artists here painted. Rouen, Arles . . .” I watch her for a reaction. “Even Monet’s garden.”

  Her eyes widen. “You’ve been to Monet’s garden? The real one?”

  I laugh once. “Is there another one?”

  “What is it like now? Tell me everything.”

  There it is again. Everything is good. Bring me one of everything. She’s as hungry for the world as she was for my sandwich.

  I search for words that are up to that hunger. “It’s a paradise of colors and scents and sounds. Like art made real. Walking through it is like strolling through a field of inspiration, where you can reach out and pluck an idea as easily as a flower.”

  Then I hear myself, and stop with a grimace of embarrassment and chagrin. “That sounds unbelievably pretentious, doesn’t it?”

  “No. It doesn’t. It sounds . . .” She looks again at the Monet, laying her hand against it to frame the doorway of the church. “It sounds like something I’d want.”

  The way she says “want” is wistful and pained. It’s a wish from a woman shut away for too long.

  Are the other people in the paintings trapped too? The idea never occurred to me. There’s something different about Clio, a vivacity I haven’t seen in the others. They seem content to do what they do, in or out of their frames. At the risk of a terrible pun, they strike me as rather two-dimensional.

  Clio is something else.

  I have so many questions. I want to ask who she is, where she’s from, but the moment is delicate, and I don’t want to break it.

  “Do you want to see my favorite Van Gogh?” I ask, changing the mood and the subject.

  “Yes!” She’s smiling again, sparkling again. “I definitely want to see your favorite Van Gogh, Julien.”

  The sound of my name on her lips makes me want to touch her arm, to take her hand. I don’t do either of those things, or anything else my mind suggests. She’d been desperate to come out of her frame. I’d hoped—all right, assumed—her reasons were the same as mine. That we both wanted to see each other. Touch each other. Do other things with each other that I wasn’t going to admit to fantasizing about doing with a woman in a painting.

  But now I don’t know if she wanted to come out for me or to be free of her painted chains, so I keep my hands to myself.

  I take her to the wing on the second floor and show her Van Gogh’s Starry Night. In it, a couple walks along the River Rhône under a sky full of sparkling stars while sailboats bob in the water. Clio gazes at it for a moment, a hand pressed over her heart, then she closes her eyes. When she opens them again, she reaches for the painting, her touch as soft and light as a murmur on the waves.

  “Is this one of the places you’ve been?”

  “Yes. Van Gogh painted this by the Rhône in Arles. That was a family trip, though, and I was too young to remember it.”

  We lapse into silence side by side as we admire the painting. She shifts her body closer to me. This near, she’s intoxicating. “Then we’ll go together someday,” she says, surprising me again.

  I glance at her and find her looking back at me. That word, “together,” does a number on me, especially combined with “someday,” which implies a future date. A future together.

  “Anytime, any day,” I promise. I don’t examine how or when. I just pretend it would be possible and then enjoy the heady, swooping feeling that maybe she likes me too.

  After a long, sweet moment in front of Van Gogh’s Starry Night, she grabs my hand and says, “Show me more.”

  I do, and we don’t stop until she has seen haystacks and operas, mirrors and pheasants, doctors and patients. When we come back to her gallery, it’s nearly midnight. I hate that I have to go home, and I’m dragging my feet to draw out the night.

  We pause outside her gallery as if I’m walking her home from a date. She studies me, head tilted in speculation.

  “You love them all,” she says—not asking, but confirming—and I nod.

  “Yes. I do.”

  Her head tilts the other way as she asks, “You’ve been coming to see me, haven’t you?”

  I’m not surprised she knows, but I have so many questions.

  “Could you see me? Hear me?” I ask.

  “You’re the first thing I’ve been able to see or hear on the other side of the frame,” she says. I can’t tell if that’s frustration or relief in her voice. Maybe both. “I saw you in that room. You heard me, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I say, remembering every encounter with her at Remy’s house.

  “I wanted to come out sooner.” There’s so much longing in her voice now. Is it longing for what could have been? For the years she missed?

  She moves a step closer, until we’re inches apart. “As soon as I saw you, I tried to get out. It was the closest I’ve ever come to managing it.” She gestures to our surroundings. “Until now, obviously.”

  “I’m glad you’re able to come out now.”

  “Me too. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met. You asked questions about me. You talked to me and made everything better while you were there.”

  I smile slightly. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

  For a moment, the question flashes through my head like a neon sign—what are you thinking?

  It’s a valid question—how can I be so attracted to a painting?

  But perhaps the answer is in front of me. She’s not a painting. She’s a person.

  And that’s really all that matters, I suppose.

  “‘What are you like, woman behind the
paint?’ That’s what you asked me.”

  “You remember,” I say. I’m sure she’s some sort of enchantress, and she has put me completely under her spell. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Clio. I’m just an ordinary young woman.”

  “No . . .” I reach up and brush a wayward chestnut curl behind her ear. “Who are you?”

  Her gaze dances away and then back, and then she grins. “Julien . . .” she tsks, and it’s the sexiest thing ever, her chiding me in that shy but bold, joking but not kind of way. “I have to keep some secrets. You don’t want to learn everything about me on the first . . .” She seems at a loss for the word she wants. “What do you call it these days?”

  “Date?” Hoping she feels the same way, I trail the back of my hand down the silken skin of her arm and say, “First date?”

  “First date,” she echoes as if trying on the words. “Yes, that’s what I mean. I quite like the sound of that.” She tilts her head the other way. “How does this compare? Was touring the museum a good first date?”

  “The best ever,” I tell her.

  She nods decisively. “And for me as well.”

  The admission makes my head spin, and I look at her, feeling helpless and wobbly and really, terribly happy. I save some questions for later, and shake my head, bemused. “Where have you been for the last century?”

  She points to the gallery where her gilded frame rests. “On the other side of that painting.”

  We’re back to her frame now, and I regard it with curiosity. “What’s on the other side?”

  “Tulips and hollyhocks, pansies and irises.” Her voice is pure, her French is impeccable, but she doesn’t have the accent of a native. She doesn’t have any accent.

  “You don’t sound like you’re from here.”

  “You doubt my French?” She places a palm against her chest as if mortally offended.

  I hold up my thumb and forefinger a scant inch apart. “Maybe a little.”

  “Do you think I’m French?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know what you are. Or who you are. At least tell me where you’re from.”

  She shakes her head. “You’ll come back tomorrow?”

  “For our second date? I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Promise me?”

  I pause, considering her pinched brows and the shift in her tone, and my nod is weighty, a vow in itself. “I promise.”

  She places her hand on my cheek, just where I’d held it that day at Remy’s, and trails it along my jaw as she steps away. “Then I will see you tomorrow, Julien.”

  “Tomorrow,” I echo. She walks back to her painting but stops and turns with her hand on the frame as if remembering something. Before she can speak, I say, “And I’ll bring food. One of everything.”

  “Julien, no!” she exclaims. “I didn’t mean everything all on the same day!”

  I tease, “You should say what you mean, Clio. Now I will have to eat all the sweets myself.”

  She shakes her head with a little roll of her eyes. “Then I promise to taste one of whatever you bring.” So much is conveyed in the flick of her gaze, the saucy hint of a smile on her lips as she steps into the frame. “In which case, I am eager to see how you plan to indulge me.”

  Her demeanor changes slightly as she settles into place, softens to something sweeter and terribly earnest. “Also, thank you, Julien.”

  She says it with such appreciation, as if I’ve accomplished some tremendous deed for her. Anything I’ve done seems inconsequential next to what she’s done for me.

  I don’t simply mean the wild beating in my heart, or the sizzling of my skin. But what she’s done for my mind—she’s proven I’m not mad.

  Not in the sense that I can’t tell reality from fantasy.

  But maybe I’m mad in another way.

  Because one date, one night, one stroll through the museum by her side and I’m absolutely mad for more of her.

  “Good night, Clio.”

  She blows me a kiss then pulls up the gauzy hem of her skirt, the lace edges brushing against the painted irises, until she is immobile once more, leaving me dizzy with want.

  I start home in a haze, feeling like I’m drunk or dreaming. Clio is imprinted on my skin; I feel faint traces of her. I’m so absorbed by the lingering sensation that I don’t notice the man sprawled on the museum steps until I’m almost past him. In a worn sweatshirt and jeans, he could be a vagrant or an artist—or both. Once I see that he’s lounging and not injured, I continue on my way, wrapped up again in the vision of Clio and the promise of seeing her again.

  9

  The next day takes a century.

  Classes go on like dreams I can’t wake from.

  Time taunts me.

  Every instant I resist looking at the time on my phone, I’m battling my own impatience.

  All I want is to see her again.

  And when time finally takes pity on me, and the sun mercifully dips below the horizon, I go to the museum.

  The only place I want to be becomes the only place that exists for me as I wait in the gallery, her gallery, for the last straggling patrons to leave. I keep my sketch pad out as an excuse for the security guards, but after their obligatory check, I put it away. I want to capture Clio with my mind because I’m sure my pencil isn’t up to the task.

  At last, the young woman emerges from the garden, and my heart slams against my rib cage with excitement.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” she says with a cheeky grin.

  I offer her my hand again, and she takes it. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” I tease.

  “Only all day,” she answers in the same vein.

  I laugh, she smiles, and we both look at our clasped hands then back up at each other. As our eyes catch, my smile slips away, but not my pleasure in this moment. Her mouth softens too, and mixed with the sparkle of humor in her eyes, there’s a hint of desire.

  It spurs me on, and I lean closer, dusting a soft kiss against her cheek. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” Her voice is breathy and beautiful, and I’d wait another endless day to hear it again.

  “Look! The sheet is messy on Olympia’s bed.” Clio points to Manet’s Olympia, where a small bit of white satin fabric hangs out of the canvas and over the gilded frame.

  I feign an aggravated sigh. “I tell them to clean their rooms and put their toys away, but they never listen to me.”

  “May I do it?” Clio asks.

  “Be my guest.”

  She hands me the takeout container with half of the île flottante still in it. The meringue had sunk into the caramel by the time Clio emerged, but she declared it delicious, which is all that matters.

  It’s frightening how quickly pleasing Clio has become all that matters to me.

  She gathers up the runaway sheet, and I notice I’m holding my breath, worried it won’t return to its spot, thinking of Rembrandt’s Bathsheba, bulging from the canvas. But the bedsheets behave, and Clio tucks them neatly into place.

  Over the days, I’ve kept alert for any sign that the aberrations at the Louvre might have spread to the Musée d’Orsay. But our paintings seem healthy, and they respond to my touch whenever I replace a piece of fruit or shoo the cat into her home.

  “There.” Clio brushes one palm against the other. “All done.”

  “Wonderful. It’s so hard to find good domestic help these days.”

  She laughs and reclaims the dessert container before we continue on. It’s strange to have company on my nightly amble through the galleries, but it’s wonderful that it’s her.

  “Does this happen a lot?” she asks before we’re far from Olympia.

  “Every night. The paintings are terribly lazy. They make a mess and expect me to straighten up after them.”

  Clio gauges my tone of fond exasperation and ventures, “But it’s more like they’re playing perhaps?”

  “That’s it exactly.” Their antics at night are like those of naughty children. N
o, not even naughty—just mischievous, like students restless from being cooped up all day. “They seem to be having fun.”

  “But you still pick up after them?”

  “Of course.” It never occurred to me not to. “I’ll always care for the art.”

  She nods. “You are a caretaker,” she says, like that settles it. She has another bite of the meringue then offers some to me. I take the spoon from her and eat a piece.

  Then I hand the île flottante back to her and glance at my watch. It’s almost eleven—the paintings have more of a rhythm than a schedule, but the dancers are usually timely.

  “Are you ready for our second date?” I ask, hinting that I have a plan.

  “This isn’t it?” she asks, that playful glint in her eyes. “The lovely dessert and the stroll through the museum? Because this has been a pretty good date. At least, where I come from.”

  “There’s more. I have something else in mind. I’m wondering if you would like to go to the ballet with me.”

  “The ballet?” She sounds interested, but then, disappointed, she shakes her head. “I can’t leave.”

  I quirk up my lips, having a little fun with her. “I’m thinking more of a command performance.”

  “Color me intrigued,” she says, all flirty.

  “Intrigued is a good look on you,” I toss back.

  “You look good too.”

  Sparks tear across my skin again. Flirting with a painting. This is my new world order.

  And I like it.

  “But you won’t distract me, Julien,” she admonishes me. “A command performance, you say? Show me now, or I won’t believe you.”

  “I hope you’ll believe your eyes.”

  Relishing the moment, I take the empty takeout container from her and drop it in the recycling bin on our way from one gallery to the other.

  We cross the cavernous main hall to where my dancer friends hang out. I tap twice near the frame of the Degas, then the girl in white squeezes her way out of the paint.

  “It’s you!” she exclaims. “How nice to see you.”

  “Hello there.” I’m not surprised she’s the one who answered. I saw her out on her own first, and she’s been more interactive than the other art. “How is your foot?”