by M. J. Rose
I’d known that the potential for disaster existed. I’d had two warnings. First when I drew Mathieu’s portrait and then when I received a letter from a woman named Thérèse Bruis, who had sat for me weeks before. I’d already decided to leave Paris by then—to save Mathieu’s life—when her plea to remove her painting from Sebastian’s gallery arrived. I had never received such a missive before and was ashamed and appalled that I’d contributed to this poor, lovely woman’s sorrow. But it was her unhappiness that gave me the excuse I needed to explain my departure to Sebastian, who assured me that he would take care of the situation. He was my beloved twin, my savior, and as shocked and disappointed as he was at my leaving, I knew he would follow through on his promise.
Once I arrived in New York, why hadn’t I stuck to my resolution to give up drawing secrets? Why couldn’t I instead just paint what I saw with my eyes, not my mind, as my contemporaries did? Didn’t I have proof that my ability was not always a source of good and light but could be a dark and dangerous thing?
Why had I allowed Sebastian to cajole me, via his letters and visits, into taking on more shadow commissions? Mathieu had disapproved of Sebastian selling my gift. But even the thought of his disappointment wasn’t enough to dissuade me.
Had I succumbed because I desired success and notoriety and knew it would be easier to attain through magick? Had I agreed to please my twin? Sebastian basked in being my manager. He was so proud of my success. Had I continued to paint for his gratification and squelched my own concerns?
Or was it that while I had fled to New York in anguish, the move gave me a surprising dose of freedom? As much as I missed my family and the ease with which I had entrusted all aspects of my career to Sebastian back in Paris, I experienced an independence in New York that I’d never thought possible, especially for a woman. While our roles had evolved during the war, once it ended and men returned to the head of the table, women all over the world were soon enough sent back to the kitchen, literally and figuratively.
While Sebastian visited twice a year, an ocean’s distance kept him from insinuating too much. I was getting more and more of my own commissions, and I destroyed any paintings that my clients didn’t want made public—not that this happened very often. I thought I was becoming liberated from Sebastian’s protection—and I reveled in it—until the Monty and Clara incident.
For the next three days, I kept the curtains drawn. I draped a black chenille throw over my beautiful couch, stripped the coral silk off the rickety table, and hid all the pillows under the bed. I shrouded the studio in darkness and sat in front of my easels staring at the work I’d done before the accident.
A month earlier, the owner of the Saperstein Gallery had expressed interest in a surrealistic shadow portrait I’d done of a woman turned into a flower—or a flower turned into a woman. He’d said that if I could bring in a series, he’d consider including me in a group show. For years, my work had been shown in my brother’s gallery in Cannes, but I’d never had a New York or Paris exhibition. Since January, the dream of the show had kept me up night after night working on the Petal Mystique paintings, as I had named them.
But after the accident and Tommy’s departure, I couldn’t pick up where I’d left off with the series. I didn’t know if I could paint at all or if I should even be allowed to paint. I had done irreparable damage with my talent. Didn’t I have to pay a penance? Serve my time?
Whenever I reached for the blindfold, it burned my fingers as if it were on fire. I worried that if I put it on, the heat might hurt my eyesight. My worst fear was returning to a sightless state. I still had a recurring and troubling nightmare of swimming in the sea, alone, no longer tethered to my brother, not knowing if I was swimming out farther or toward shore. I’d wake up in a sweat, filled with panic.
It wasn’t just a bad dream. During the year when I was blind, Sebastian was my eyes. Because we both loved to swim and spent our summers by the shore, he’d devised a way that I could still enjoy the water. He’d tie a rope around his waist and then around mine. Long enough to give me the freedom to swim, it also gave me security.
One afternoon, in seas that were a little rougher than usual, the rope broke. At first, I didn’t realize that I was no longer tethered to Sebastian. When I did, I panicked. Just as I screamed for my twin, a large wave crashed over me. I took in a huge mouthful of water. Twisting and turning in the surf, I didn’t know what to do. Terrorized, I struggled, fought the waves. Feared they were winning.
“Sebastian!” I shouted over and over, but every time, the crashing waves swallowed his name.
And then, finally, I felt his arms pulling me to him. Holding me. He was only eight years old, but his little-boy arms were strong enough to save me that day. Seconds later, there was sand underfoot. I hadn’t drifted far out at all but had been caught up in a rough current close to shore, where it was just deep enough that my feet hadn’t reached bottom.
That was the last time I went swimming. The last time I stepped into any body of water other than a bath. Even after my sight returned.
Lonely, melancholy, unable to work, I still hadn’t gone out on the fourth day after Monty Schiff’s funeral. Barely hungry, I was managing on what I had in the studio: black coffee, a few eggs, a half dozen apples, a wedge of cheese, and bread that became more stale with each passing day. I drank what was left of the red wine my brother had brought over from his last visit. And then started on the white.
Sleep was my only escape from the nightmares I lived during the day, as I replayed the scene at the party as if it were a film reel. Another Society Scandal but starring Clara instead of Gloria Swanson. The drawing of Clara and Monty refused to fade out of my mind; it became even more lurid and frightening.
On my fifth afternoon of isolation, I finally picked up a brush and tried to paint the scene but with changes, as if I could reverse what had happened by altering it.
After an hour, I dropped my brushes into a jar of turpentine to clean them and then stared at the hideous mess I’d made. This was nothing like my style. The quality was subpar. I couldn’t bear the sight of the blood-red, muddy brown, and gray chaos.
Running into my kitchenette, I grabbed the sharpest knife I had. Returning, I passed by the mirror and saw my image. And I froze.
Scrying is an ancient art that witches use to receive hidden information about the past, the present, or the future. Some extremely adept scryers see spirits that move as if in a film. They can speak to them and hear their responses.
The earliest scryers used bowls of water, gazing into the reflective surface until they saw images. Early mirrors, made of polished copper, silver, brass, or mercury behind glass, were more stable and became the scryer’s preference.
In ancient Rome, the young men who gazed into mirrors at an angle, avoiding their own reflections, seeing both the unknowable and the future, were known as blindfold boys.
My mother had studied scrying for years but had limited ability. She was able to see her children in the reflections but only our present, never our futures. Once, during the war, she saw such troublesome visions of my sister Opaline that she left Cannes to go to her in Paris despite the dangers of wartime travel. Opaline told me later that the night my mother arrived, Opaline had been contemplating suicide. I wondered if my mother could see me in New York, wishing she could sail across the ocean and save me.
After I lost my sight, part of the treatment required that I keep my eyes closed. For an eight-year-old, that was hard to do. So my mother made me a blindfold. Once I started wearing it, my version of scrying began. And my mother took to calling me a “blindfold girl.”
After my sight returned, we realized that my scrying powers were not limited to the blindfold. I could also see in mirrors and other reflective objects in the right light. Often without trying, I saw secrets in the shadows, lurking in the reflective depths. Usually, they were better left unseen.
The day I’d moved into the Tenth Street studio, I’d covered the ol
d tin-mercury mirror in the entranceway with a chiffon scarf to avoid any unintended visions. But sometimes a breeze from an open window blew the scarf off. As it must have done that fifth day after Monty’s death.
In the silvery mottled surface, I saw my own ghostly figure, knife in hand. A reflection of lamplight danced on the blade’s edge, mocking me with its sparkle. I’d drawn a scene like that once before and then destroyed it. As if tearing it to shreds would obliterate the prophecy.
I hacked the painting of Clara and Monty, too. I plunged the knife into the canvas and pulled it down. The tear sounded like a scream. I attacked it again. Plunge. Pull. Scream. Plunge. Pull. Scream. Ribbons of blood red, black, and gray fell to the rug.
Knock. Knock.
In a daze, I heard the thuds. Looked around. Found myself sitting on the floor, surrounded by the shredded painting. The empty frame, sans canvas, had fallen off the easel and lay crookedly beside me.
Knock. Knock.
“Delphine? Delphine? What is going on in there?”
Disoriented, I was too confused to get up.
“Delphine? I swear, if you don’t answer, I’m going to get the police.”
“I’m coming!” I called out, no idea if my voice even carried.
“Delphine?”
I stood, staggered to the front door, and opened it.
Clifford B. Clayton, my neighbor and “American uncle,” as my family called him, caught me before I collapsed.
“There, there, darling. What’s gotten into you? It sounded like someone was being murdered in here.” He surveyed the scene as he held me up.
“Yes, yes. I was just painting, and …” I didn’t know how to explain.
“It looks like you were painting but something went very wrong.” He guided me to the couch. “You just sit down. I’m making us tea laced with something strong. You’ll drink it and feel better, and then we’ll talk this out.”
We’d spent so much time together over the years that we knew where everything was in each other’s studio. Obediently, I sat and waited, trying to answer his questions as he boiled the water and fixed a tray.
At fifty-five, Clifford was a colorful character on New York’s art scene. His Art Deco paintings of stylish interiors and the people who inhabited them were highly sought after, and he was enjoying one of the most productive periods of his career. His charming manner endeared him to many hostesses, and as a result, he’d been divorced twice and claimed he’d never marry again.
When he was in his twenties, he’d fled his Midwestern hometown to study in Paris, where he and my mother met while attending L’École des Beaux-Arts. They had remained friends ever since. Whenever he visited France, he would stay with us for a few weeks in Cannes. When I told my parents I wanted to move to New York, they asked Clifford to help me get settled. He did more than that. He took me under his wing.
The timing had been perfect. Robert Stanislaw’s studio, situated down the hall from Clifford’s, had been empty for more than a month, and Clifford secured it for me immediately. With him nearby, I was less nervous about New York and being on my own for the first time, and he soon introduced me to other artists, writers, and intellectuals living in the neighborhood.
Often, we popped out to get lunch together to break up the hours of painting. In the evenings, we’d taken to sharing some wine before we went our separate ways. On Sunday nights, which he said was family night, I joined him at a neighborhood restaurant on Minetta Lane for spaghetti.
“Here we go.” Now Clifford brought over the tray. “Tea without anything stronger. I saw the empty bottle of wine on the counter and am guessing you’ve had enough.” He handed me a cup. “Now, tell me. What is this mess, child? What have you done?”
He’d been away for more than a week, painting the home of a wealthy Hudson Valley society matron, and had only returned that afternoon, so he’d missed the stories about the Steward party.
“But you were no more responsible for that poor man dying than I am,” he said, after I’d explained. “Don’t you dare let yourself believe that. They were lovers, sweetheart. They were tempting fate every time they were together.”
“But lovers get found out. They don’t die.”
“You know, sometimes they do.”
“And you know, most of the time they don’t.”
“So that’s what all this is about?” he asked, gesturing to the shredded canvas on the floor. “And this?” He pointed to the curtains and the mess on my bed. “It looks like you haven’t stepped out of this place in days.”
“Five days,” I said, and told him the rest. About the funeral and Tommy and holing myself up in the studio and trying to repaint the past to change it.
When I was done, he took my hands and held them in his. “You have been through hell, haven’t you?”
There was nothing to say. I nodded.
“I’m just going to my studio to get something. I’ll be right back in a jiffy. You stay put, all right?”
Less than a minute later, he returned with an amber bottle in hand. He went into the kitchen and returned with a glass of cloudy water.
“I want you to drink this down, and then I’m going to put you to bed and come back later after you’ve gotten some sleep and then take you out for dinner. No more crying. No more slashing paintings, all right?”
It felt good to have someone tell me what to do. I took the glass from him. Whatever he’d put in it tasted bitter, but I drank it. And then I let him tuck me into bed. Before he had even left the room, I was asleep.
Chapter 6
During the walk to John’s on East Twelfth Street, Clifford said he was forbidding any serious conversation over dinner. “You need to stop thinking for a while, darling.”
And I did. We drank bootleg wine—but he stopped me after two glasses—and ate plates of spaghetti with red sauce and big, fat meatballs, while Clifford told me all the latest gossip, including a salacious story about a seduction scene he’d witnessed between his Hudson Valley hostess’s husband and one of their dinner guests.
The wine, scandalous tales, rumors of outrageous sales, and stories about critics who’d gone too far preoccupied me, and my mood lifted.
Back outside on the sidewalk after dinner, we found it had started to snow. There’s a special kind of quiet on city streets during a snowfall. A lonely but lovely silence, as if everyone has stopped—stopped loving, hating, walking, talking, cleaning, working—just to watch the crystal flakes fly out of the sky and shroud the world in pure, exquisite white.
We walked back in the peaceful cold. Snow fell in my hair and caught in my eyelashes and settled on top of Clifford’s ever-present homburg.
When we reached the studio, my self-appointed parent in absentia announced that he was coming in with me.
“We’ll clean up a little and have some more tea.”
“Brandy? And I don’t need a minder.”
“Tea. And actually, I think you do.”
Once inside, he went to the kitchenette and made us both tea. Handing me a cup, he asked, “Where’s the broom? You’re going to sit and drink your tea, and I’m going to clean up some of this mess.”
I tried to argue, but he wouldn’t have it, so I finally pointed out the broom and dustbin and settled myself back on the couch.
“I think you should come and paint in my studio for the next few days,” Clifford said as he swept. “I’m having models in for a mural. I don’t think it’s wise for you to be alone here, brooding.”
“I won’t brood.”
“No? Then what will you do? Do you have any commissions this week?”
“I don’t.”
“And you said you canceled all the parties you were engaged to attend?”
“Yes. I can’t go back to that. Not when I can’t trust myself to censor the images.”
“Any appointments to see friends?”
“There were, but they were with Tommy.” I took a sip of the tea. The burn felt good after saying my ex-fiancé
’s name out loud.
“How about going without him?”
“I don’t want to have to explain anything.”
“You’re not embarrassed, are you?” Clifford looked at me. “That’s not like you.”
“I am—but not about being Jewish. No. And not about us no longer being an item.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’m embarrassed that I ever let it get as far as it did with Tommy. That I thought I could actually have a future with someone like him. That I introduced him to all my friends and got chummy with his.”
“When you say ‘someone like him,’ what do you mean, exactly?”
“He’s not very soulful, is he?”
Clifford stopped sweeping and raised his brows. “No, darling. Soulful is not a word anyone has ever uttered about him.”
I laughed. It sounded strange to me after so many days of crying.
“But don’t worry. None of us, the artists who are your real friends, ever thought for a moment that you’d wind up marrying Mr. Moneybags.”
“Clifford!”
“I know, I know. One should never speak ill of the dead … and so on. But Delphine, I know his type. I’m a fixture inside their homes. I’ve been painting the social set for years, darling, and they are just not like us. He was an aberration. You were flirting with New York’s blue bloods and trying them on for size. You’d never have made it to the altar with Tommy Prout.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Oh, but I do.” He started sweeping again. “You belong with someone who notices the beauty in what is strange and wonderful in this world. Who sees the magic in you and doesn’t want to tamp it down but rather fan its flames.”
I went to the window and looked out. The snow was heavier. There was already at least an inch, and it looked as if someone had dressed the trees in lace.
“I knew someone like that once,” I whispered against the glass, telling the snow, not Clifford. When Mathieu had kissed me, I hadn’t just felt passion but something deeper. When he held my face in his hands and our lips were pressed together, it seemed as if the world locked into place. As if everything made sense and fit. As if our being together was ordained and sacred. I felt bound to Mathieu in the most profound way. But it was an impossible pairing. The only way to protect him was to leave him.
