The Muse

by Lauren Blakely

  “All better. See?” She balances on one leg and rotates the other ankle.

  “Glad to hear it.” I sense Clio watching the exchange with avid interest, but my vibe with the dancer is unquestionably platonic. “I didn’t introduce myself the other night. I’m Julien, and this is Clio.”

  The dancer curtsies with a giggle. “Hello, Julien and Clio. I’m Emmanuelle.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Emmanuelle.” Clio nods, and her smile is as warm as ever—at least while she’s out of her frame. The contrast between her manners and the little ballerina’s strikes me—a dynamic from another era. Clio is forthright, and I love that about her, but from her clothes and manners, she’s definitely a lady, no matter what social status she might have been born into. She also blends seamlessly into this time, picking up mannerisms, ways of speaking, things like that. It’s fascinating to watch her soak up the world around her like a sponge, to assimilate it.

  Her ability to adapt lights the flame under my curiosity, and I’m going to get distracted if I don’t bank the fire and stick to my plan.

  Emmanuelle motions for her friend from the painting to join her, which she does, in a flutter of white tulle. Another moment and there are ballerinas everywhere, wriggling out of frames, stretching, and greeting each other with kisses on cheeks, and then a voice calls, “Places, places!”

  I steer Clio to a bench where we watch as the Degas girls begin the finale of Swan Lake. Dancers in pale shades of pink and blue and white become graceful birds as the drama plays out with Emmanuelle and her friend dancing the parts of Odette and the prince confronting the evil sorcerer. There’s no music but the tapping of their toe shoes on the parquet floor, but it’s easy to imagine an orchestra, maybe Tchaikovsky himself directing. Why not? Art crosses all mediums.

  Some things can’t be confined to one time or mode. Music. Movement.

  Moments where the universe slows, narrows down to the sliver of space between two bodies.

  As the painted women dance, Clio’s soft, slender fingers inch across the bench toward mine. I catch the motion out of the corner of my eye, her edging closer to me, and it sets off a rush of heat from my chest outward.

  She sparks a thrill in me that zips along my nerves all the way to the fingertips almost brushing hers.

  For the longest time, I admired her from afar. Falling for her without knowing a thing about her.

  What could that be but a silly infatuation?

  But now, two nights in, nothing about this seems foolish at all. It feels like she wants to hold hands because we have talked, we have wandered, and we have watched art together.

  I finish the thought, reaching for her hand, sliding my fingers through hers.

  At her soft gasp, I smile privately. I squeeze her hand a little harder, and she squeezes back.

  When I turn my head slightly to glance at her, Clio is watching the performance, but I sense her attention sliding my way as she nibbles on the corner of her lips. All I want is to lean in and kiss that corner then the rest of that pretty mouth.

  But that would be rude to the dancers.

  The finale is enthusiastic, and when they’re finished, we break our handhold to clap. Clio shouts “Brava!” as the corps take their swanlike bows then leap back into their frames.

  The stillness is jarring after the gallery had been a pastel whirl of arms and arabesques a moment ago. Knowing how Clio felt while trapped in her frame at the house in Montmartre, I watch an immobile Emmanuelle and wonder what happens to her during the day. Is she a spirit yearning to escape a bizarre eternity of paint, or is she simply a shadow—a representation of the girl she once was?

  I’m still mulling over the question as Clio and I resume our walk through the galleries. She is so vastly different from them, but I still don’t understand how or why.

  "Clio,” I begin, uncertain how to ask this or if I even should. “When we held hands just now, you felt real to me. You’ve never felt anything but completely real to me. Hell, you are real.”

  “Well, thank you,” she says drolly. “I can’t argue against that.”

  I drag a hand through my hair. That was not the best start. Maybe this will ruin the mood—no, it will definitely ruin the mood—but I have to wrap my head around what I’m dealing with. I want her to help me so that I can better care for the paintings—in the general sense, and in light of the plague of art anomalies at the Louvre. I don’t know if I can do anything about the art there, but I want to protect what is here.

  Most of all, I want to know how to protect her. And I can’t do that if I don’t understand her.

  “What I’m trying to grasp is whether you are the woman Renoir painted? Or are you—I don’t know—a version of her that lives on in the art?”

  “Am I like the other paintings? Paint coming to life at night?”

  I grimace at her tone—not chilly, but definitely . . . tepid. A sharp contrast to how she was when we were holding hands. That moment already seems like forever ago. “You make the question seem rude when you say it like that.”

  Her mouth pinches, and she doesn’t meet my eyes. “It’s complicated.” Then her nose wrinkles, as if she can’t help but let me see her feelings. Tepid isn’t in her design. “The essential nature of one’s being doesn’t seem like a topic for a second date.”

  She’s right, and my steps stutter as that sinks in. We haven’t known each other as long as it feels like we have.

  Perhaps I’ve assumed too much from the moment we shared while watching Swan Lake. Taken too many liberties.

  Then again, what is the right number of dates before you can say to someone, “I think you’re real, but I need to understand how that can be”?

  Thing is, I never questioned her personhood, even when she was at Remy’s home. Maybe that’s my answer and I should trust my instincts.

  “I can tell it’s complicated, and that’s why I ask. You seem different than the rest of the art here, and it’s the paintings that I’m wondering about. They don’t seem trapped or unhappy—or anything, really—and they hardly talk. I think Emmanuelle has said more to me than the whole of the other artworks combined. They don’t notice me at all, mostly. They go about their patterns like spirits reliving an event. So, I have to wonder . . . are they?”

  “Are they what?” she asks, confused.

  I force a laugh. “Ghosts.”

  She doesn’t laugh at me, so that’s good, and she shakes her head solemnly in answer. “But I have heard that the ghosts of great artists tend to haunt cafés.”

  “Really?” I can’t tell if she’s joking.

  Her straight face breaks into a teasing grin. “Since that’s where so many writers, artists, and poets hang out.”

  I chuckle at the joke, but also in relief that I haven’t ruined things with us, either tonight or altogether.

  Clio continues her thought, glancing around the grand gallery. “Though you’d think they might frequent museums too. To see if they approve of how their masterpieces are being treated.”

  I wince. “That is a terrifying thought. Please don’t tell me to expect a visit from a displeased ghost with an artistic temperament.”

  Her laughter chimes like a bell in the vaulted ceiling of the hall. “Then I won’t tell you that.”

  I don’t pursue an answer I don’t want. We walk a little farther and then she stops to face me, her expression serious. “When the paintings come alive for you, you see what some people sense when they say that art is immortal. The artist lives on in their work, and a bit of what they paint lives on too. But only as art. You could say that the painter catches a moment as much as a person. The subjects don’t spend their days wandering beyond the frame. They aren’t alive on the other side.”

  But she is.

  “You exist as more than a moment though,” I say, and her eyes flash and then widen. Have I stunned her with my insight, or is she just pissed that I’ve brought the question back to her? I don’t know, but I hold her gaze as I push my lu
ck. “You are more than a moment, Clio.”

  She swallows and nods. Her nose turns red as if she’s about to cry. It’s adorable, but I don’t want her to be sad, so I reach out and put my hands on her shoulders, rubbing her arms. “Hey. I’ve always felt that you were a person—a real woman in the irises. That’s why I said you feel real. Not just to me, but real in and of yourself. And that’s what I can’t make heads nor tails of.”

  Her breath catches in a humorless laugh. “You don’t know the half of it. That’s why I asked about Monet’s garden the other night.” She lets out a long, heavy breath, like this is hard for her. “Because I live in the painted one—all the time.”

  I flinch from surprise. How is that possible? “You . . . you . . . you live in Monet’s garden?” It’s hard to form a coherent sentence when I’m struggling to wrap my head around the idea.

  “That’s where I was when Renoir painted me, so that’s where I am in the frame—a painted version. That’s where I sleep.” The way she says it, it sounds like a prison sentence. “That’s where I’ve been for all this time.”

  “That sounds beautiful and awful at the same time.”

  Her eyes are full of sadness. “It is. It’s gorgeous, but it’s lonely.”

  I can’t even imagine what she’s feeling. I’m in awe that she hasn’t gone mad, alone in a painted garden for a hundred and thirty-five years. But how? Was it an accident?

  Maybe the story is true. Perhaps Renoir was in love with her, but she didn’t feel the same, so he locked her away in a painted cage.

  “Did he trap you?” I ask, my mind racing. “Renoir?”

  She sighs and shakes her head. “There were things we didn’t agree on, certainly. But no.”

  I begin to ask another question, but she places her hand on mine, and I wait.

  “Julien . . .”

  Everything stops—breathing, heartbeat, brain function. The universe narrows to only her as she says, “I don’t actually want to talk about Renoir right now.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Ask me what I do want to talk about,” she says.

  “What do you want to talk about?” I oblige, matching her lighter tone.

  “I don’t want to talk at all right now.”

  She reaches for my hand and slides her fingers into mine.

  I let go of all my questions. They fall from my mind like marbles scattering, and I smile at her, weaving my fingers through hers. “Funny, I don’t want to talk either.”

  Her grin is delicious.

  With a gentle tug, I bring her close. She slides against me, fitting perfectly. I lift my free hand, brush the soft tendrils of hair from her face, then ask her softly, as if anything louder would shatter the moment, “May I?”

  “You may.”

  I thread my fingers through her soft hair, shut my eyes, brush my lips over hers, and kiss this woman who was a painting and who will become one again.

  Now, though, in my arms, she’s the most vibrantly real thing in my world.

  She tastes like a song, like a perfect summer day. She shivers as I touch her. It’s so sweet and so sexy at the same time. She’s warm and lush, her breath shuddery as I slide my lips across hers. A tiny gasp is the first sound she makes, then a soft, enticing ohhh.

  I don’t stop.

  I don’t want to.

  Nor does she.

  I hold her face in my hands, exploring her lips like it’s all I’ve wanted to do all day, all night, all year.

  Perhaps it is.

  Because this kiss feels like it was always destined to happen.

  Like our lips were meant to touch.

  Soon, she’s snuggling closer, exploring too, her tongue skating over mine.

  My head goes hazy, and my heart is beating so damn loudly, she must be able to hear it. The guards on their rounds and the stars above the city can probably hear it too.

  And in these delirious kiss-drunk moments with Clio, I don’t care about anything at all but the taste of her, the feel of her—the sound of her as we lose ourselves in an intoxicating kiss after midnight, surrounded by nothing but vaulted, echoing halls of endless, ageless beauty.

  But even the best things must end.

  After a time, we break the kiss, and she simply smiles at me with bee-stung lips then gestures to her home.

  “See you tomorrow?”

  “Yes, you will.”

  “What will you do during the day?”

  I don’t have to wonder.

  I’ll spend it waiting for the night.

  10

  And the nights are worth the wait.

  For the next few days, my life seems to pass by in a dream state. A trance of fantastic first, second, third, and fourth dates.

  Sunlit hours pass molasses slow, and evening hours race by like they have somewhere to be. One moment follows another too quickly as Clio and I wander through the Musée d’Orsay enjoying each other’s company.

  We eat, dining on sandwiches, bread, and croissants.

  We talk, discussing art and music and ballet.

  And we ramble too, chatting about little things, the smell of flowers, what color would have been better on that bridge Monet painted, and if the Moulin Rouge is as fun as the paintings make it appear.

  And we kiss. I lose track of time in our kisses, stolen in alcoves, stairwells, quiet corners far away from the prying eyes of Van Goghs and Toulouse-Lautrecs, those Peeping Toms.

  We kiss like it’s the only thing we’ve wanted to do all day.

  We kiss good night like it’s all we’ll want to do tomorrow.

  And it never gets easier to say goodbye to Clio at the edge of her frame.

  Despite the impatience that runs like white noise through my day, there are still things that need doing. I’m not merely a guy infatuated with a beautiful, lively mystery of a woman in a painted garden. I’m also a university student and a museum intern.

  So I put some effort into being more present at school and work. Of course, since my independent study project and my duties as docent and guide at the Musée d’Orsay both center around Woman Wandering in the Irises, I can’t totally leave her behind. Which is a good thing, since I don’t want to.

  On the fifth day since I met Clio—because that’s how I tell time now—I drag myself to an early lecture on campus and then a meeting with my faculty advisor. Ironically, he cautions me not to rely too much on indirect sources for my research—I’m not sure I can get any more direct than to be dating the subject of the painting itself.

  With that done, I head to the museum for a full schedule of tours. Along the familiar route, I pass an art gallery where a Jack Russell terrier snoozes in the front window, stretched out between the clawed feet of an antique chair. He’s fast asleep, so I don’t slow to greet him, but I do spot my friend Zola coming from the opposite direction. She’s the spitting image of Zoe Saldana, so much so that I’ve seen tourists do double-takes in the street, which always makes me chuckle.

  Zola owns the gallery along with her wife, who is a renowned art authenticator. She’s done work for the Musée d’Orsay as well as museums around the world.

  I wave, and Zola grins when she spots me. “You caught me coming back from my coffee break,” she says, a gleam in her eyes.

  “What’s today’s verdict?” I ask.

  She shows me her phone and her latest blog post, featuring an image of two tiny pink-and-blue espresso cups from Ladurée, turned upside down.

  I cringe in exaggerated horror. “Not the vicious two cups down.” It’s not the worst rating on Zola’s coffee blog, where she reviews espressos at cafés all over the city, but it’s pretty bad.

  “Ladurée’s espresso was simply awful.”

  Shaking my head sadly, I put a hand on her shoulder. “Zola, how many times do I have to tell you? All the coffee in France is wretched.”

  She gazes heavenward. “I dream of a day when our espresso is as good as our chocolate.”

  “Keep dreaming.”


  I gesture to the shop, where I saw no sign of Zola’s wife when I looked in on the snoozing pup in the window. “Where’s Celeste today?”

  She waves airily. “She got called to consult on a suspicious painting. All very hush-hush,” she adds, leaning in like a conspirator.

  “I hope that means you’ll tell me when you can.”

  “Naturellement.” She winks. “And speaking of paintings, how is your Renoir doing?”

  No need to ask which one she means—Celeste verified Woman Wandering in the Irises for us. It makes me feel related to her and Zola somehow. Two more people tied to Clio’s painting.

  “She’s amazing.” And that feels amazing to say, as if I have a wonderful secret.

  Which I do.

  We exchange bonjours, and Zola heads into the store while I continue to the corner and turn onto the museum’s block. Greeting some of the staff taking their lunchtime smoke breaks, I dart into a side door to the offices and snag my name tag.

  Adaline pops her head out of her office door as if she’s been waiting on me. “Hey, Julien. Got a minute?”

  She looks worried. There’s tension between her brows that matches the tightness in her voice.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  Gesturing for me to follow, she ducks back into her office and closes the door before she speaks. “The Boy with the Cat has sun damage now too.”

  “It never even sees the sun.” That’s another one of our Renoirs here, and like the Young Girls at the Piano at the Louvre it’s always protected from damaging UV light.

  “I saw it today when I was out on the floor. And the restorers are coming right after they visit the Louvre.” Adaline falls into her desk chair and rubs her hands over her face “Claire called me today. The sun damage is back on the Young Girls at the Piano too.”

  Back.

  I sort through the timeline in my head. The damage had been repaired before the painting went to the Louvre, but when I’d seen it there, the fading had returned, but Claire hadn’t been able to see the damage.

  And now, a few weeks later, she can.