Immortal Muse

by Stephen Leigh

  She’d also considered that here in Paris, it would be easy for her to walk away from David, to walk away from Nicolas and the attention of prying detectives like Palento for Nicolas’ murders. She could vanish again into the streets of the city she knew so well, take on another identity, and David would never be able to find her again. And Nicolas … well, she could find him again, and begin the hunt once more.

  The problem with that strategy was that it was becoming more and more difficult to assume new identities. In a world laced together by the Internet, in a world where anyone could reach into distant databases, in a world where information had a potential shelf life of forever, where communication was quick and easy and documents more and more technologically difficult to fake, becoming someone else was a slower and far more expensive game.

  In the beginning of her long life, when people rarely traveled more than a few miles from their home and communication was measured in months or weeks rather than minutes, all she’d needed to do was take an appropriate name and say that she was from some sufficiently distant town. She could create a background and lineage that suited her, and no one would particularly question it. Even up through the 19th century and through much of the 20th, claiming a distant home was safe and forging documents was relatively simple.

  Not now. Now it was easy to be caught and exposed. Even a relatively trivial run-in with the authorities could lead to issues and awkward questions. She knew that from her interaction with Bob Walters and Detective Palento.

  Worse, it was also becoming harder to escape through faking death as well—she suspected that an embalming would not only be agonizing, it might also truly kill her. Even if her body could somehow recover from that abuse, which she doubted, coming back from it would be a lingering and long torture. The modern world was no longer one from which an immortal like her could easily escape.

  No matter how tired of the game she might be, it was a game she couldn’t voluntarily quit without experiencing actual death. On the other hand, the modern world was one in which it seemed there were more ways for her to finally, truly, die. Cremation, embalming, an autopsy, electrocution, explosions and terrorist bombings … She wondered whether her body could survive any of those, whether she would have died like thousands of others if she’d been caught in the twin towers during the 9/11 attack.

  There was no way to tell without experimentation. Those were experiments Nicolas might have made with others; they weren’t ones she was willing to test herself.

  I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to abandon David.

  If the previous evening had told her nothing else, it had told her that she did love David, loved him as she had so very few in her life. His green heart: it contained that rare lapis thread that she’d thought she might never taste again. With him, maybe, she could find in herself her own genius once again, and move her own creative endeavors forward. He could be her muse as she was his. Could she give that up once more, as Nicolas had forced her to do before?

  Only four or five times before had she encountered a green heart like his, in all the centuries. She could not even think of that. She would not.

  She lifted her body up, leaning well over the rail and staring into the Seine as if she could find answers there in the dark, swirling water. She heard two people approaching the bridge, talking. She let herself fall back onto her feet again. She took a long breath. In the east, the sky was salmon-colored and cloudy. She walked over the bridge to the Île, then over to the Right Bank. She wandered, not caring where her footsteps took her, just letting her thoughts move her. The sun rose, lifting itself slowly into a cloud-strewn sky and doing little to allay the early morning chill. Camille found herself at the east end of the Jardin des Tuileries, near the glass pyramid in front of the Louvre. There were already quite a few people out in the park in the early morning. She found herself rousing from her reverie at the sight of a gray-haired and mustachioed old man, wearing a set of horn-rimmed glasses and seated on a chair under the trees near the Place du Carrousel. He was dressed in a beige sport coat and dark pants, his shoes polished as if for church.

  A paper bag was on his lap between his legs, and he plunged both hands into the bag before lifting them skyward. A few moments later, dozens of sparrows were fluttering and dancing around his outspread hands, landing on them momentarily as they fed, then rising again in twin, animated clouds. The old man watched them, a tight-lipped smile on his face as the birds cavorted around his hands. When they left, descending to the grass around him, he put his hands back into the bag and the aerial dance began once more.

  Camille watched, not even realizing she was staring, until the old man turned his head slightly toward her. “They dance beautifully, do they not?” he said to her in French.

  “Oui, they do.”

  “Would you like to try?” He held out the paper bag toward her.

  “No,” she said automatically, but his smile only widened.

  “Come. You’ll enjoy it,” he said, and she found herself moving toward him as the birds scattered. “Bring that chair here,” he said pointing to one of the chairs nearby. She dragged it over alongside him. “I’m Etienne,” he said.

  “Camille.”

  “Enchanté, Camille,” he said. “You’re a tourist?”

  She shook her head. “I used to live here, once. But I live in New York City at the moment.”

  “Ah.” He favored her with a small nod. “You speak French well, but not quite like a Parisian. I’ve never heard an accent exactly like yours. Now, you must be very quiet and very still. Put your hand in the bag; it’s full of birdseed coated with just a little honey, so it sticks to your fingers …”

  She gingerly placed her hands into the bag and pulled them out again. She could see bits of birdseed adhering to her skin. “Good,” the old man said. “Now, just hold your hands out and wait.”

  She didn’t have to wait long; first one sparrow fluttered around her fingers, then another, and finally the entire flock seemed to be in motion around her. She could feel the buffeting air from their wings, the occasional strike of them against her hands or arms, and their beaks plucking the seeds from her skin. Helplessly, she laughed. “It feels so strange,” she said. “And yet it’s so delightful. So alive. Do you do this every day, Etienne?”

  The old man was smiling with her. Now that she was close to him, she could see the way his jacket was worn, the edges and seams frayed from long use. There was, very faint, a green soul-heart inside him. She could feel its quiet radiance: simmering there, content. She wondered what he did to feed that creativity, or perhaps it was this daily performance in the park. “When the weather’s good, I come here,” Etienne answered. “Charlene—my wife—always liked feeding the birds in the park. Ever since she died, I’ve been feeding the birds for her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, but there’s no need to be sorry. Charlene and I had a wonderful sixty years together, and we’ll be together again, one day soon enough. Here, let me have more seed …” She handed him the bag, and he put his hands into the sticky birdseed, letting the sparrows flock around him once more. “You remind me a bit of our granddaughter,” he said as the sparrows fluttered around them. “She has Charlene’s enjoyment for life, I think. That’s what I remember most about Charlene: how she relished every day we had.”

  The birds fluttered down to rest, and he brushed the seeds off his hands. A few pigeons cooed at his feet, their heads bobbing as they searched for the seeds in the grass among the sparrows. “You have someone that completes you the way Charlene did me?” the old man asked her. “A husband, perhaps?”

  “A boyfriend,” she answered. “But—”

  “But?” His eyebrows lifted. “You love him? He makes you happy? He treats you well? He makes you laugh?”

  “Yes, all of that. And more.”

  “Then it’s simple,” Etienne told her. “You should stay with him for as long as life lets you.” He plunged his ha
nds into the paper bag again and the sparrows lifted from the ground eagerly. Twin chirping gray clouds formed around his hands. “The birds know,” he said. “You must grab for what you want while it is there. Otherwise, you may never find it again.”

  *

  “Where have you been?” David said when she returned to the hotel. He was in the lobby, pretending to read a newspaper, even though it was in French. He leaped up as soon as he saw her approaching. His camera swayed on its strap around his neck. “I was beginning to get worried.”

  “You should have called my cell. But, I have breakfast,” she said, lifting a paper bag of croissants. “Come on. It’s a beautiful day; let’s walk.”

  “You’re in a good mood.”

  She grinned at him and grabbed him around the neck, pushing the camera aside so she could hug him tightly and kiss him. She saw Dominique—who had come on duty—smiling at the affectionate display from behind the desk. “I am,” she told David. She took his hand. “Very much so. Come on. I want to you to meet someone.”

  They ate the croissants as they walked alongside the Seine in the shadow of Notre Dame. They strolled north and west past the Louvre and into the Jardin des Tuileries. Camille looked for Etienne, but his chair sat empty. A few pigeons scavenged around the iron legs. “Who did you want me to meet?” David asked.

  “He was here earlier,” she told him, “but he’s gone now.” She looked up the length of the park. “Maybe he’s just moved. Let’s just keep walking …”

  It was a slow stroll, with a stop for ice cream, but an hour later they were at the western end of the park, standing at the fountain there with its black stone figures edged with bright gilt. They gazed out at the Place de la Concorde and the tall, gold-capped spire of the Obelisk of Luxor at the center of the square.

  Staring up the long, rising expanse of the Champs-Élysées toward the Arc de Triomphe, Camille remembered an entirely different scene, when Place de la Concorde had been called Place de la Révolution, when rather than the obelisk, the bloody guillotine had pierced gray Paris skies near the Hôtel Crillon.

  Nicolas … Pressing Antoine’s head down onto the stock as the blade of the guillotine creaked upward …

  “Camille?” David’s voice brought her back to the present. “Hey, are you okay?”

  She tried to smile for him as the scene snapped back to the present, as the vicious, eager roar of the crowd faded in her ears. She heard the click of a shutter and realized that David had been taking photographs of her. They were surrounded in an emerald glow so strong that she wondered that the people passing them didn’t notice it.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just that seeing this brought back some memories of another time I was here.” She shuddered, suddenly and visibly, then grabbed David’s arm again. “Thanks for walking with me. Sorry that the man I wanted you to see wasn’t here.”

  “No problem. I love walking this city, and I love watching you. It’s like you see the city as an old friend, one you’ve known forever, with all her quirks and foibles.”

  She laughed breathily, the sound almost unheard against the rushing traffic around the roundabout of the Place. “Yeah, it’s something like that,” she said.

  “It’s almost too bad we have to go home,” he said, lifting up the camera again. “I almost wouldn’t mind staying here forever. After what happened back home …” He grimaced suddenly, and she knew he was thinking about Helen—and that reminded her of Nicolas once more.

  She remembered what Etienne had told her: Then it’s simple. You should stay with him for as long as life lets you… . But it wasn’t so simple, not for her. And not for David, as long as he was with her. “I wish we could, too,” she told him. “And maybe we can, one day.” After I kill Nicolas. After he’s really and truly dead. “By the way,” she told David, “I got a phone call early this morning. I have to go back to New York City tomorrow—some business with my accountant that I can’t let slide. It’ll only take a few days.”

  “Oh,” he said, obvious disappointment in his voice. “That’s too bad. I guess we’ll have to come back some other time …”

  “No,” she told him. “I want you to stay here. There’s no reason for you to have to come back with me. Stay here; see the city. Or take the train out to Chartres or the Loire Valley or Normandy. I’ll come back and join you just as soon as I can.”

  “I don’t know, Camille,” he said, but his face contradicted his words. She squeezed his hand.

  “You should stay,” she repeated. “And maybe I’ll bring Verdette back with me and we really will just stay here afterward.”

  *

  They returned to the hotel late that afternoon. Dominique handed them the key to their room, then called out after them as Camille was pressing the button for the elevator.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot. A package came for you while you were away, M’mselle. Here it is.”

  Dominique placed a small wicker basket on her desk. In it, nestled in rustling straw, was a bottle of tequila: El Tesoro de Don Felipe, the label on the clear bottle proclaimed. 100% Blue Agave Tequila.

  “Is there a note?” David asked over Camille’s shoulder.

  There wasn’t. “Who brought this here?” Camille asked, probably too harshly, since Dominique’s eyes widened.

  “Why, a delivery man,” she answered in her accented English. “One of the local ones.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know… . An older man, his hair gray and balding here.” She patted the top of her own head. “Taller than your boyfriend, and heavier.” She tilted her head quizzically. “Do you think you know him, M’mselle?”

  “Tall …” So it wasn’t Nicolas. She felt the panic which had started to rise in her chest subside slightly. But not entirely. “No, I don’t know him. What service brought this here? Do you have their address or telephone number?”

  “Oui, M’mselle,” Dominique replied, though with a quizzical, concerned look. “Let me write it down for you …”

  David was also looking at her strangely. “I get it, Camille,” David said. “One of our friends has figured out we’re not in Mexico, and sent us this as a joke. I’ll bet it was Mercedes; that would be like her. She knows her tequila, after all.”

  Camille managed a half-smile as Dominique handed her a slip of paper. She was just as certain that it wasn’t Mercedes or any of their friends, but Nicolas who had done this. “Don’t you understand, Perenelle? You’re my passion.” This was a message to her: he was watching, and he knew where she and David were.

  David had picked up the basket. “Thanks, Dominique,” he said, then hefted it in Camille’s direction. “Guess we’ll have tequila rather than wine this evening, eh? We can celebrate Paris with a bit of Mexico.”

  “We can do that,” she told him. “Why don’t you go on up to the room? I’ll be up in a moment; I want to call my accountant and let him know when I’ll be arriving …”

  David shrugged. “Don’t be long,” he told her. She watched him enter the tiny elevator, then went to one of the couches in the small lobby as she pulled out her cell phone, placing the paper Dominique had given her on her knee. She dialed the number.

  “Bonjour,” she said to the woman who answered. “This is Camille Kenny, staying at the Hotel de Notré Dame on rue de Maítre-Albert. One of your drivers just delivered a basket with a bottle of tequila here for me.”

  “Oui, M’mselle. Is there some problem?”

  “No. Not at all. I just wondered … There was no note, and I would like to know which of my friends sent the gift, so I can send a thank-you note.”

  “I understand. One moment …” Camille heard the buzz of the hold, her stomach churning in time to it, then the woman came back on the line. “The package was sent from a Dr. Pierce, of New York City.”

  “Was he here?” Camille asked. “Did he order it in person?”

  “Oh no, M’mselle. The order came in through a long distance call from the States
.”

  “I see.” The acid threatening to rise in her throat subsided a bit. He’s not here. He’s still in New York. “That’s all I need, then. Merci beaucoup.” She ended the call, sitting on the couch with her eyes closed.

  Her plans had just been shattered. Leaving David here wouldn’t mean that he was safe: Nicolas knew where to find him, and even if Nicolas himself stayed in New York, Camille was certain that he still had contacts in Paris. He could reach David here, through them, or through a simple plane flight.

  The best way to protect David now is to keep him near you. You know that. He’s in danger because of you, but you’re his best shield. You can’t leave him; you know that from the past.

  She couldn’t leave him unless she was willing to accept his death. She couldn’t leave him until she could rid her life of Nicolas: forever.

  But she’d known that for centuries, and it still hadn’t happened …

  *

  “David?”

  He was lying on the bed in their room, an arm over his eyes against the light from the window. He stirred sleepily. “Yeah? What’s up?”

  “I want you to go back with me.”

  The arm lifted and David sat up, rubbing at his eyes. “I thought …”

  “I changed my mind,” she told him. “My accountant thinks it could be a week or more before we get things settled. If that happens, then you’d be coming back anyway. I’d rather not be away from you that long. I already booked us seats on a flight tomorrow afternoon. We’ll come back to Paris later, maybe in a month or two.”

  “Okay,” he shrugged. “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Another shrug. David swung his feet off the bed. “Then let’s make the most of the time we have left here,” he said. “To hell with a nap …”

  They stayed out the rest of the evening, seeing the sights a last time, watching the sun set over the city from the summit of Sacré-Couer and eating dinner in the Montmartre district.