Immortal Muse

by Stephen Leigh

  “That must be nice, to have that kind of freedom to pursue your avocations, to allow yourself to be a true amateur in the correct sense of the word.” He pronounced the word in the French manner. He sipped the wine again. He was staring at her. “Wait a minute. Now I know who you are. You’re the new muse David’s found, the one he’s been raving about.” His gaze drifted down from her face to her chest and back; he didn’t appear to be looking at the pendant. “Yes, that’s it. I recognize you from the new set of photos he was showing me.”

  “Interesting,” she said. She managed to keep smiling. “I haven’t seen those shots yet myself.”

  “You’ll be impressed,” he told her. “Best of his work yet. You obviously inspired him. I think they’ll sell well.”

  Her smile tightened. She made her excuses and moved away from him, staying at the edge of the crowd. She caught a glimpse of David in the kitchen; she saw that Helen was there with him and decided against going to him. Camille moved along the wall to the staircase leading to the studio and walked up, glancing at the Klimt painting as she passed it.

  The studio hadn’t changed much. It, at least, was blessedly empty of partygoers. David had placed a new array of 11 x 14 black-and-white photos on the wall: just the bare prints, unmounted and placed on the wallboard with pushpins, curling around the edges. Her face gazed back at her from the photographs. She looked at them one by one, stopping for a long time at the last of them: her figure was half in shadow, the shot taking her in from almost waist up, her breasts bare. The field of focus was narrow but incredibly sharp, each pore on her face and her skin highlighted by the oblique lighting. The tones of the picture ran from nearly white to a rich black in the background. She was looking up at the camera with a solemn, almost longing expression on her face, her lips just slightly parted as if she were about to say something.

  She could feel the hunger again that she’d been feeling at that moment—and the sense of having the hunger filled. Yes, he pulls you to him, but you could still let him go. The others at the Bent Calliope, they can still satisfy you for a while and give you time to do the hunting you need to do. Let Walters help you find Nicolas and then deal with him once and for all; if that means you lose David, then you lose him. There will be others: you know that, as many of them as you want … She nearly shook her head at the thought. As she gazed at the picture, she heard footsteps on the stairs and felt David’s approach. She didn’t look at him or say anything, but waited until she felt his warmth along her back.

  “How’d you know I was here?” she asked.

  “Jacob told me he’d talked to you, and that he’d mentioned the pictures. You weren’t downstairs, so …”

  “Jacob’s not very subtle.”

  “He goes after what he likes, and he likes my work and gives me a place to display and sell it,” David answered. He moved closer; she felt his side brush hers. “I saw you looking at that one. That’s the most striking image, I think,” he said. “The expression you have … It’s perfect. Do you agree?”

  “I’d agree that it’s the best of the ones you have up,” she answered. “I’d have to look at the others first. What does Helen think?”

  If he noticed the deliberate insertion of his wife into the conversation, he ignored it. “I showed them to her. She really didn’t say much.” His arm went around her shoulders. She hesitated, simultaneously wanting to pull away and wanting to lean her head against him. He felt right; he felt comfortable. “Thanks for coming, Camille,” David said, his voice soft. He leaned his head down; his lips brushed against her hair. “That means a lot to me. Since I’ve met you, there’s …” He stopped. She felt the surging of his soul-heart, and she wanted to take in the emerald tendrils and taste them, to let them pass through her so she could give it back to him again, reinvigorated. His head lifted again. “I’d like to be able to keep working with you, Camille.”

  She took a step sideways so that his arm dropped away. “To keep ‘working’ with me? What exactly does that word mean to you, David?”

  She didn’t get an answer. They both heard Helen’s voice calling for David, then her footsteps on the stairs. Camille moved another careful step away from him. Helen came partway up the steps, halting when she saw the two of them. “Oh,” she said. The single word contained volumes.

  “I was showing Camille some of the photos from our session,” David said.

  “So I see.” Something that might have been a smile ghosted over Helen’s lips but never quite reached her eyes as she looked at Camille. “You’re very attractive, Camille.” The name came an instant too late, as if she didn’t want to say it, as if the taste of it was like dry dust in her mouth. “As David’s pictures show. Quite amply, I might add.” Her gaze went to David. “Jacob is looking for more wine; I told him you’d open the Cabernet. Would you mind?” David looked at Camille; both women noticed. “Don’t worry. I’ll entertain your guest while you’re busy,” Helen said.

  David didn’t move. “Go on,” Camille told him. She forced a smile. “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll be right back,” David said. Camille wasn’t certain who he was addressing. They listened to David descend the stairs. Helen stood at the top of the steps, staring at Camille’s pictures, at her half-nudity.

  “Did I overreact the other day?” Helen asked. Her gaze remained fixed at the photographs.

  “No. In your position, I might have had the same reaction,” Camille answered.

  Helen nodded, her lips pursed. “That’s honest, at least. Do you like him?”

  “I think David’s extremely talented.”

  “And that’s all?” Helen did smile then. “You don’t have to answer. It really doesn’t matter; I know how David feels. I can tell; he’s not very good at hiding things. Has he talked to you about us?”

  “Not really,” Camille answered, though she was certain that Helen wouldn’t have believed her even if she’d actually been telling the truth.

  “Well, you should know that it’s not all my fault. David’s still a child. He hasn’t figured out yet that there’s a real world out there and he needs to grow up. He still thinks that all he needs is his talent and that everyone will naturally beat a path to his door. He has more than enough artistic talent; what he doesn’t have is the business and marketing sense he needs to go with it. And forgive me for my candor, but I doubt that it’s your business acumen that makes him interested in you. He still believes he can have whatever he wants if he just wants it badly enough.” She glanced back at the photos, standing between Camille and the steps. “Or whomever he wants,” she added. “You wouldn’t be the first one, dear. Or the last. I just thought I should warn you.”

  “I should leave,” Camille said. “Excuse me …”

  Helen didn’t move. She cocked her head slightly. “Perhaps you should. But let me tell you something. I know more about you than you think.”

  Fear was a cold knife in her stomach. No, that’s not possible. He can’t know, can’t have found me first. Not this time. But she had to admit that it was possible, however unlikely. Prudhomme had already seen the pictures David had taken of her, and presumably had them at his gallery for sale. Nicolas knew her preference for artists all too well, and might well have gone to the various galleries around town to see if he could find evidence of her. There she’d be, her face in stark black and white. Prudhomme would have told him who the photographer was, and it would have been like him to investigate David further, to find Helen.

  It was possible. And if it was true, it changed the game. “What is it you know?” she asked. “And who told you?”

  Helen gave a short laugh, but her gaze left Camille as she spoke. “No one has to tell me anything. I can see it for myself, and I think I’ve made myself clear.” Helen stepped aside, smiling. “Sorry to see you go so soon, Camille. Really.”

  David was starting up the stairs as she came down. He saw her face and frowned. “Camille?”

  “I have to go,” she told him.


  “Wait. What do you mean?” He reached out for her arm, but she shook him off. “Camille?”

  She didn’t answer him. The guests closest to the staircase were staring at them, the conversation quieting as they sensed the conflict. Ignoring them, she walked across the living room to the door. It wasn’t until she was outside the building in the cool night air that she allowed herself to give in to the tears.

  INTERLUDE TWO

  Perenelle & Nicolas Flamel

  1394 – 1418

  Perenelle Flamel

  1394

  “YOU CAN LEAVE HIM NOW.”

  Verdette had suggested that to her, but Perenelle never had, despite the temptation. These many years later, she still wasn’t certain why that was. One reason was simple habit; over Verdette’s time with them, Perenelle had become used to her life with Nicolas. The years pressed more in on her with each passing season, making her brittle and afraid of change. By the time her daughter had married, she’d been nearly half a century old, already an elderly woman in the eyes of society. The paths of her life were already worn deep and escaping the ruts felt too difficult a task, and the thought of establishing a new life exhausting.

  Now, another quarter of a century on, she was in her seventies: a crone and nearing the end of her road. Old, slow, stooped, her body sagging and wrinkled like a half-empty sack. There was no new start waiting for her. Not now.

  Another reason was her work. Verdette had been right about that, at least—being in her laboratory was Perenelle’s greatest and only pleasure. Her laboratory was comfortable and familiar, as was the library of reference material she’d cobbled together over the decades, intermixed with Nicolas’ manuscripts. She feared that if she left, he would not let her take the manuscripts or her chemicals and equipment. This work was what consumed her now that Verdette was gone, living with her husband and children in Avignon. Perenelle had seen Verdette only twice in those twenty-four years, had held her grandchildren only those few times, though there was a painting of Verdette’s family in the main hall of the house.

  The work was what took the place of Verdette, and took the place of the affection she had once carried for Nicolas, so long ago that the very idea of it sometimes made her cackle with self-deprecating amusement.

  Still another reason was because she knew, as Verdette had, that Nicolas also needed her, even if he was far too proud and arrogant to admit it. A few months after Verdette’s marriage, she and Nicolas had undertaken a trip to Spain in search of additional manuscripts for their library—Perenelle suspected that Nicolas had insisted on Perenelle’s going along only because of her prowess at translation: he was afraid that he’d miss something potentially valuable. They had come across an ancient, wandering Jew in Bilbao. He claimed to have a book he called the Livre d’Abraham le Mage—the book of Abraham the Mage, which the old man claimed contained ancient alchemical formulae, including (he insisted) the true recipe for the Philosopher’s Stone, which could turn base metals into precious silver and gold and impart eternal life. Perenelle, with Nicolas breathing at her back, had looked over the book, but the scrawled letters were difficult to decipher, and seemed to be written in a code borrowed from several languages. The man himself said he hadn’t been able to translate it.

  At Perenelle’s urging, Nicolas had purchased the book. On their return, Perenelle had begun to slowly break the cipher and begin translating the text; through the formulae in the book, she had been able—with great difficulty and much effort—to transform mercury into silver in small amounts, though the process was long and laborious and cost nearly as much as buying the silver outright. Still, her work brought the household a significant profit. Nicolas bought the houses to either side of them, connecting them to their house and creating their own small “estate” in Paris.

  Nicolas, for his part, was less interested in the alchemical work. Instead, he pushed her to translate the spells and incantations in the book: it was magic that interested Nicolas, not the mixing of chemicals and the purification of compounds. He also had more success than Perenelle in his pursuits: the spell which had killed Provost Marcel was a trifle compared to the spells he could now perform: spells that, had he ever shown them publicly, would have had him accused of witchcraft and devil worship. He had truly become an accomplished mage, and he laughed at the small, minor spells that Perenelle was able to work. Perenelle’s alchemy had added to the household income, but it was Nicolas’ spells that made them rich.

  The greater goals, turning lead to gold and finding the elixir for immortality, were hinted at in the book, but there were missing pages and lacunae in the book, and those goals still eluded Perenelle.

  However, their accomplishments had served the Flamels well; they were famous now, and with fame came increasing wealth and patronage as well—for Nicolas. He was hailed as an alchemical genius and scholar; his advice was sought after by the greatest minds on the continent. Perenelle was dismissed as simply the great man’s wife, who assisted him but who added nothing of her own to his success.

  In her prayers at night, she would admit to God that jealousy was not only a fault of Nicolas’.

  And still another reason she had not left was because she felt she could not. When she was most haunted by the desire to leave, she would find herself wanting to take in her hand the pendant that she always wore, the pendant he had given her that night when she was still pregnant with Verdette. Though the feelings and memories the cameo always evoked had faded somewhat with time, the pendant still brought back the vestiges of love that she’d once felt for Nicolas. The emotion would fill her again, driving away all her doubts, her concerns, her fears, her distaste for the man. It was as if everything ill about Nicolas was erased, and she was given a new slate on which to inscribe her feelings.

  She wondered at that, from time to time, but the thought was elusive and small, and never permitted Perenelle to catch it and examine it. The thought would dance away and be forgotten.

  *

  “Would Monsieur Flamel perhaps be interested in this?” the man asked. “I received this from my father, and he from his, and where it came from before that I don’t know. I wouldn’t part with it, but …”

  The last statement was accompanied by a shrug that said more than words could. Nicolas still kept the manuscript store open, though he himself was never there anymore, and the store’s income no longer mattered to them. Telo, who now managed the storefront, snorted derisively back in the shadows. Perenelle glared at him.

  The man’s clothing was fine, but was already beginning to show signs of wear and too many repairs; in a few months, Perenelle decided, it would be in tatters. His wife and three children—two boys and a girl, all of whom looked to be between seven and twelve years of age, watched from a respectful few steps away in the street. Cloth bags and trunks were at their feet; Perenelle could see the sleeve of a nightdress and the brass column of a candlestick protruding from one.

  A Jewish family leaving Paris: it was an everyday sight since Charles VI had ordered the expulsion of all Jews from France. The Jewish population had been summarily commanded to sell their possessions and depart the kingdom. Nicolas had already purchased old books and manuscripts from several of the Jewish scholars in the city; evidently the word that the Flamels might buy old manuscripts had gone through the Jewish community.

  She wondered whether they also knew that Nicolas was eagerly buying the houses of the Jews for a pittance and selling them for a huge profit later, or renting out the property if he thought it was well situated. He’d already made another small fortune; donating a tithe of it to the church justified the near theft to Nicolas. “They have to leave the houses in any case,” he’d said when she questioned the morality of his actions. “I don’t force them to sell to me. They’re the ones who take the price I offer when I show them the gold francs that I can put in their pockets immediately. And afterward …” He’d shrugged. “What I do with the property afterward is between me and God, and I give Him
His portion.”

  “I’m afraid that Monsieur Flamel isn’t here at the moment,” Perenelle told the man, and she saw his shoulders sag. His face was already coated with dust from the streets; she wondered what the family would look like a few days from now, wearily passing through the countryside to Spain or perhaps to Aquitaine. “But let me look at what you have,” she hurried to say. “The monsieur and I have the same interests …”

  The man ventured a faint smile. He motioned with his head toward the eldest boy, who came hurrying forward with a small case that he handed to his father, who passed it to Perenelle in turn. Perenelle placed the case on the shop ledge, pushing aside the scrolls and books there set out for sale. She opened the case and looked in, the distinct scent of must and old paper rising to meet her. She glanced at the first sheet of yellowed, brittle paper, lying on top, taking in a breath. She looked first at the man, then at Telo, who had taken a few steps toward them as if he intended to examine the manuscripts with her. She suddenly didn’t want that, for what Telo knew Nicolas would inevitably know as well. “Telo, why don’t you take your lunch now?” she said. “I can deal with this; it’s not worth your time. Go on.”

  Telo gave another snort. “As you wish, Madame.” He shook his head in the direction of the Jewish family and went to the back of the store and into the house, calling out to the cook as he went. Perenelle opened the case again, and gently reached down to take out the sheets, manuscripts, and books there. They were indeed old, and not in the best of condition. She could see moth holes and damage from water and mold. But the manuscripts … They were an odd assortment: personal journals, fragments of the Kabbalah, portions of the Pentateuch, and a few pages that tugged immediately at Perenelle because the handwriting, the hodgepodge of languages, and the obvious cipher in which it was written was immediately familiar.

  She was certain that those last pages were the missing portion of the book of Abraham the Mage. Those were alchemical formulae written there, she was sure. “These have been with your family for a long time?”