Immortal Muse

by Stephen Leigh

  For Camille, it was like being enveloped in a bath of energy, luxuriating in a vibrant spirit that flashed and sparked around them from the glowing emerald of their soul-hearts. She consumed it, taking the radiance into herself. She could already feel the tingling deep within her, as if she’d spent the last hour downing shots of espresso. But as much as this sustained her, the collective energy of the group still wasn’t truly satisfying. She kept herself at a distance from them, spreading herself out among the group rather than choosing a single one of them. From each of them, she took what she could, but it wasn’t the same as being with someone. They nourished her, but she was left with an eternal sense of hunger and not-quite-emptiness. It was enough to keep her from falling into depression and ill health, but the group couldn’t give her all that she wanted.

  They couldn’t give her what she needed, but what she needed would also, inevitably, bring him back to destroy it.

  She hugged Mercedes. She could nearly taste the pleasure in Mercedes’ mind, the tendrils of her green heart embracing Camille. “I’m so happy to hear that,” she said. “Of course I’ll read it, dear. E-mail a PDF to me, why don’t you, or send me an epub file, and I’ll take a look at it over the next few days …”

  She felt David’s presence in the Bent Calliope as Mercedes gave her a hug and a soft kiss, and saw him a moment later. He altered the flow of energy around her, tugging at her even as his presence caused the other tendrils to slide away. David evidently saw her as well, hesitating at the edge of the crowd as if uncertain of his welcome. “David!” she said. “Come on, sit down. You wanted to meet the Bent Calliope Group? Well, let me introduce you around.”

  She went around the table, giving David their names. “Hey,” David said to Morris. “I caught your show at the gallery over on Delancey last month. Nice stuff.”

  Morris grinned. “Thank you. Trust Camille to grab someone with excellent taste. A photographer, eh? Did you notice the litho prints I had mounted in the little room in the back—the subject look familiar?” He nodded his head toward Camille. “She’s a lovely model.”

  David glanced at Camille, at Mercedes’ arm still draped possessively around her. “That’s something I’d like to know for myself,” he said.

  “Ah, so you’ve noticed too. A wonderful face, and her body’s not half bad, either.” Morris blew Camille a kiss across the table; Camille gave him the finger in return.

  Camille saw David’s eyes widen with the remark, and widen further with her response. Kevin laughed—whether at David’s discomfiture or at her gesture, Camille couldn’t tell. “Morris, you’re hopeless,” Kevin said. “Camille, tell him—you’re actually a musician at heart.”

  “Nah,” Rashawn interjected. “It’s dance—now there’s the perfect expression of all of the arts. In dance, you have everything: music, a moving sculpture with the dancers, an animated painting, and the beauty of the figure.”

  Then they were all talking at once, each defending their own medium: a laughing, furious babble. Camille glanced up at David and smiled. “Artists,” she said, leaning close to him. “Once they start talking about their work, you can’t shut them up.”

  *

  She’d expected David to plead that he had to be elsewhere and leave early, but he remained deep into the night. He said very little during the evening—he answered when spoken to, laughed at the jokes, bought a round for the group, but otherwise mostly watched and listened. At one point in the evening, he pulled a small digital camera from his pocket and asked if they’d mind him taking a few candid shots; no one objected, and he would lift the camera at times to snap a shot: no flash, always using only the ambient light.

  Camille felt him staring at her much of the time; whenever she glanced his way, their gazes seemed to meet and hold for a breath or two. She drank much more than usual: because she was nervous and uncertain; because she was, she would admit later, stupid.

  She wondered if he could feel what she felt, if he noticed how—inside—she responded to his presence so much more than the others, if he saw how she was nearly always within an arm’s reach of him. The others had realized the dynamic, she was afraid. She could see it in the group, in the way they chattered and their body language: they all wondered whether David was going to become another one of her confidants. Perhaps they worried he might become more—because each of them, to some degree, considered Camille to be their own special friend, who was interested more in them than in any of the others.

  For some, a potential rival could color their soul-hearts with dark, bitter jealousy.

  She drank because then she could pretend to be enjoying herself, could pretend that this was just another evening with the Calliope Group, could pretend not to be worried. And if this turned out to be a mistake, then she could blame it on the alcohol.

  By one in the morning, most of the group was beginning to make excuses to leave. David watched as she embraced and kissed each one in turn as they left. Mercedes was the last to go—they talked for a long time with David between them, the two women’s arms around the back of his chair and their fingers occasionally intertwined. Mercedes finally yawned dramatically and pushed herself away from the table. Camille could feel David’s regard on her as they said good-bye, as Mercedes gave her a long and lingering kiss, as Camille—her arms around Mercedes— reminded her to send the chapter she’d written. Mercedes whispered in Camille’s ear, her voice hot and breathy. “Have fun, mi amor.” She glanced meaningfully at David’s left hand. “Even if he is married.”

  Mercedes released Camille, then touched David’s arm. “Good to meet you,” she said. “Be nice to her.”

  David smiled as if he understood, though he said nothing.

  Camille sat down next to David as Mercedes walked toward the door through the now-thin crowd. The movement made her a little dizzy. Their table was ringed with the ghosts of their drinks; too many of them had been Camille’s. How many Guinnesses had she had? Four? And the shots of Jameson that Kevin had bought them … “So what did you think?” she asked him.

  “Of the group? They’re a talented bunch. But I already knew that.”

  “That’s it?” She wondered if she slurred the words slightly. The room seemed to tilt; she caught herself swaying on her stool.

  He shrugged.

  “I think I know what you want to ask, David,” she told him. Without the drinks, she probably would have stopped there or never said anything at all. But the words continued to bubble out from her. “I saw you watching. You’re wondering if I’m Mercedes’ lover. Or Morris’. Or maybe we’re just terribly incestuous with everyone.” She spread her arms wide, nearly hitting him.

  “Are you?”

  “That’s my business,” Camille said. She could hear her voice slurring the words: Thass my biznuss … She rubbed her head, trying to clear away the fumes. This isn’t the way you wanted it to go, she thought. Just shut up. But she couldn’t stop the words from continuing to tumble out. “Let me tell you about the Calliope Group, David. Their creativity, their energy: it’s like food to me,” she said. “Didn’t you feel my hunger when we met? Couldn’t you feel the pull?”

  He gave a snort of laughter through his nose at that. Had he had too much to drink himself?—she couldn’t remember. “Oh, so you’re, what? An art vampire?” he asked. “Strange, you don’t really have the faux-Goth look.”

  She leaned in toward him. “Would you like it if that were true?” She snapped her teeth together and put her lips next to his ear, whispering. “Would you enjoy it if I sucked the creative energy from you? I’d do it ever so slowly, so you could feel every drop oozing from your body …”

  “Stop it, Camille,” he told her, and for the first time she heard irritation in his voice. “You’re drunk.” The rebuke cut through the buzz of the alcohol, and she answered heatedly before she could think.

  “Maybe. And you’re married.” She said the last word heavily, stretching out the syllables as if tasting them. Then contrition welled
up inside her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have said anything that I just said. I didn’t mean …” She sucked in a slow breath and let it out again. “David, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make a wreck of the night. I had a good time. I’m glad you came, glad you got to meet the group. I had a good time because you came.” He was staring at her. “I should shut up now, I think.” She closed her mouth dramatically.

  He stared for several seconds before saying anything else. “I really have to be going.” He stood up, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. “I’ll get a cab. We can share it.”

  “I’ll walk home. It’s only a block and a half.”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “It’s too late, and you’ve had too much. You stay here and I’ll get that cab for us.”

  She was too tired to argue. In the cab, she leaned her head on his shoulder, and—cautiously—his arm went around her. Neither of them spoke. The closeness relaxed her. She snuggled against his side for the brief ride, luxuriating in the feel of his warmth. She felt his fingertips sliding down her arm, stroking her skin softly until the cab came to a stop at the curb in front of her apartment. David told the cabbie to wait, and walked her up to the door of the brownstone. She plucked the key from its pocket in her purse and turned it in the lock. With the door halfway open, she turned to him.

  “I’m not going to ask you in,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t come in if you did.”

  She nodded. He was very close to her. She could have reached up and pulled his face down to hers. She yearned to do exactly that. She shivered, as if the night had suddenly turned cold, but the heat of his soul-heart drew her, and made her want to lean into him. You shouldn’t. You can’t. “Your cab’s waiting, David,” she told him. “I’ll call you?” At the last moment, the sentence lifted upward into a question.

  He nodded. “Do that,” he said.

  She stepped inside and closed the door. It was very nearly the hardest thing she’d done in ages.

  *

  Her sleep that night was restless and disturbed. When she did fall asleep, her dreams were haunted by a man chasing her with a sword through a bewildering city landscape—both modern and ancient, all at once. Though she couldn’t see the face of her attacker, she knew who it was, and the knowledge made her try to run faster, but in nightmare slowness, her legs refused to respond and he was nearly upon her as she fell, as she heard him laugh, as she heard the snick of the blade through the air and felt it pierce her neck.

  She could see the blood spurting, felt her head separate from her body, and the world rolled crazily as her head went careening away.

  She screamed and woke suddenly in her bed, the echo of the scream already fading in her ears, with her bed sheets wound around her and her head pounding. The sun was up, splashing light against the far wall; the clock by her bed said 7:32. The taste of old Guinness was in her mouth. “Christ, it’s too early,” she muttered. Her cat Verdette—a gray-furred French Chartreux—stared at her in annoyance from the bottom of the bed. Camille lay back, trying to find sleep again and knowing it was already hopeless. With a sigh, she swept aside the covers and sat on the side of the bed, stroking the cat, which began to purr.

  “If only everyone were that easy to satisfy,” she told her, “it’d be a much better world.” She sat there a long time, with Verdette curled contentedly on her lap. Finally, she realized that she’d made a decision.

  She called David later that morning, when she figured he might reasonably be awake. The sound of his low voice in her ear made her smile. “Camille? I didn’t expect …” His voice trailed off.

  “I’m really sorry about the end of last night,” she said. “I hardly ever drink like that, not that I expect you to believe me. And judging by the way my head’s pounding this morning, that’s a damned good thing. I just wanted you to know that I appreciate, well, everything.” She took a sip of the strong coffee she’d brewed—she was on her third mug now—and hurried into the words she’d prepared. “David, I never gave you the answer I intended to last night. I’ve been thinking about your offer. The answer’s ‘yes.’ If you’re still interested in photographing me, you can.”

  Over the phone, she heard the soft clatter of keys, as if he were typing on a laptop. “You’re sure?” he asked

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then … Do you want to come to my studio later this afternoon? I’m free today if you are. Maybe around 3:00?”

  “I’ll be there.” The silence between them stretched too long. She could hear his breathing. Her gaze went around her apartment: the three paintings on their easels, unfinished and (to her mind) unsatisfactory; the equally unsatisfactory ones she’d actually put on the walls; the violin propped in one corner, the case pale with dust; the neatly-labeled jars at the rear of the kitchen table, with their brightly-colored powders and crystals; the Tarot deck wrapped in silk to one side.

  Her life in a few quiet images.

  You’re sure you want to do this, so soon? After what happened the last time? Without having found Nicolas yet?

  “I’ll see you in a bit, then,” she said finally. As she ended the call she looked at Verdette, and touched, softly, the pendant around her neck. “I know it’s a mistake,” she told the cat. “But it’s mine to make, isn’t it?”

  *

  David’s studio was on the third floor of what had once been an industrial building now turned into residential apartments; he and his wife Helen lived on the second floor below the studio. Camille thought the lower floor of the apartment was more Helen than David. It smelled of her, a faint sharp perfume, and the interior decorating was too perfect, too mannered and too Architectural Digest to be David, she thought. Helen didn’t appear to be home; at least she made no appearance as David let her wander around, and David didn’t mention her.

  But she was there, in spirit if not in fact.

  None of David’s prints were on the walls of the living area. There were, instead, framed reproductions of paintings—expensive prints on textured canvas. “Monet, Degas, Sisley, Renoir, Mary Cassatt,” Camille said, glancing at them one by one. “Someone really likes the Impressionists.” Camille stopped in front of another one set near the stairway leading to the upstairs. “Gustav Klimt,” she said. “Portrait of Emilie.” She nearly whispered the name, then took a long breath. “Interesting. She was his true muse. The painting’s out of period with the rest, though.”

  “That one’s my choice, I’m afraid—the painting just really struck me when I saw it. You obviously know your art.”

  “I’m a bit of an art history buff,” she said. “You know that Gustav slept with most of his models, don’t you? He had children by some of them as well, but never with Emilie. Poor, dear Emilie.” She stared at the Klimt for several seconds more before turning back to David with a smile. His eyes had widened, but he said nothing.

  She’d worn a simple white tank top over her bra, an old, comfortable pair of jeans, and the sardonyx pendant on its golden chain over the tank top: casual clothing that said she didn’t consider this a special occasion. Minimal makeup. Just another day. She could sense him watching her as she peered around the apartment. “Nice place,” she said. “I’m glad you didn’t come in last night. My apartment’s a complete wreck. This … It’s very nice, David.”

  “I can’t take credit for it,” he told her. He pointed to the ceiling. “I’m only responsible for what’s up there.”

  “And the Klimt.”

  “And the Klimt,” he agreed.

  They walked up the open metal staircase to the cluttered studio above. Here, little had been touched. The walls were unpainted, gouged drywall, with exposed brick in the corners. The wooden floor was stained and scratched, the ceiling high with exposed beams and ancient fluorescent fixtures dangling from wires. Long black extension cords writhed over the floor like motionless constrictors. There were two still life studies set up with flood lighting arran
ged around them, several stands with rolls of backdrop paper, tripods and studio lights with the black wings of shutters attached to them. She wandered around while David watched her. Barber’s Adagio for Strings was playing on a stereo system attached to an iPod.

  “Classical?” she asked. “Really?”

  “My tastes are eclectic,” he answered. “The next song could be anything from Celtic to metal. I like being surprised.”

  “Good,” she told him.

  David had several of his prints arrayed along one wall, the line of them uneven, some in frames, some matted but unframed, a few simply dry-mounted on poster board—yes, the artwork on the walls downstairs was definitely Helen’s, Camille decided. She walked slowly along the line of photos, looking carefully at each one. A few of them were nudes—not Helen, but other women. Camille could feel David watching her, heard a camera lens snap onto a camera body.

  Here, in his studio, in this place that was full of him, she felt David’s pull intensely. His green heart swelled and the aura of it surrounded him.

  “Like them?” he asked.

  “Wonderful compositions, gorgeous lighting, and truly appalling presentation,” she said. “But I see why your clients like you, anyway.”

  “I wish Helen felt that way,” he said it quickly, then seemed to regret the statement. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just …”

  “Just what?”

  She thought for a moment that he wasn’t going to answer. He pointed the camera in Camille’s direction and snapped a shot. “She thinks I should be looking at another career. Sometimes I can believe her. Those clients you mentioned have been scarce recently. I’m not that up-and-coming young guy anymore; I’m becoming the guy who almost made it and didn’t.” Camille nodded, ignoring the camera. “You know,” he said, “I really should have you sign the release form.”