Midnight Labyrinth

by Elizabeth Hunter

  The young one narrowed his eyes and his fangs grew long behind his lips. “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Ben said. “But if you’re involved in rare books, you might know my uncle. He’s a collector on the West Coast.”

  “Oh?”

  “Giovanni Vecchio.”

  The vampire grew paler and melted back into the crowd.

  Chloe stared at him. “So that wasn’t weird at all.”

  “What?” He put a hand at the small of her back and tried not to notice Chloe avoiding his touch. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “So which one was the artist you were raving about?”

  Ben had been asking casual questions about Tom all night, and he could tell Chloe was annoyed. Maybe she thought he was jealous of her new boyfriend. Maybe she thought he was just being an ass. She knew Ben was competitive.

  They walked into the next room, and an older woman who looked like a docent struck up a conversation with Chloe, asking about her dress. Ben wandered away after checking the immediate area for vampires. He strolled through two galleries of abstract sculpture until he came into a room that piqued his interest.

  The canvases were large and boldly colored. The style was crisp and realistic. No still lifes with melting apples here. These canvases were bold landscapes and crowded scenes filled with figures. Looking closer, he glanced at the label.

  Le Marché Nocturne.

  Oil on canvas.

  Emil Samson, 1933

  Ben looked back to the painting. The Night Market. It was almost a bucolic scene. A village market bathed in a bright half-moon. Tidy stands selling fish and produce. Buyers wandering among stalls. But on closer inspection, the crowd was… macabre. A little girl ran with her arms held out in front of her; her mouth spread in a smile, but the child had no eyes. A woman led a donkey up the cobblestone street, the animal dripping blood from its mouth, its hooves leaving a red trail. A farmer weighed onions, and behind him, a demon tail flicked from beneath his apron.

  Weird. And kind of awesome.

  Samson. This was the artist Chloe had mentioned. Ben wasn’t familiar with him, but as he examined each painting, the crowd in the room grew thicker, the voices louder. This section was clearly an anticipated feature of the exhibit. He glanced at the program he’d been handed and flipped to the back page.

  Emil Samson (1908-1943), celebrated Jewish painter of the surrealist school in Paris, was thought to be confined to a few surviving works and photographs of his paintings until this previously lost collection of early canvases was found and loaned anonymously last year.

  Admired by his contemporaries, he was known for the insertion of the subconscious in otherwise ordinary scenes. His work, particularly his Labyrinth series, gained him international attention at an early age.

  Samson was killed in Drancy internment camp in 1943 during a confrontation with camp guards. His work was labeled as degenerate art by the Nazi party, and much of it was destroyed. The current exhibit was made possible by a generous donation from Historic New York and surviving friends of the artist.

  Ben walked through the exhibition, finally understanding all the buzz. Recovered art always felt more exciting. Even Ben, who’d spent countless hours in museums and galleries around the world, felt his pulse pick up as he wandered. The room had filled with chattering clutches of excited admirers whispering over each painting. Photographs were strictly prohibited, but he saw a few respectable folks grabbing cell phone pictures behind their wineglasses. The energy in the room was palpable.

  But then there was the woman.

  She sat on a bench in the center of the room, back straight, eyes going back and forth between two canvases that sat side by side on the longest wall. Crowds blocked Ben’s view of the paintings, but the young woman didn’t seem to see the people. She stared through them, her gaze distant.

  She’d been crying.

  Ben felt someone bump his arm.

  “I see you found the best room,” Chloe said. “Isn’t Samson’s work amazing? This is so cool.”

  “She doesn’t seem to think so.” Ben nodded at the crying woman.

  “Hmmm.” Chloe narrowed her eyes. “How do you manage to find a damsel in distress even at an art museum?”

  “It’s a talent.”

  “It’s something.”

  The woman appeared to be around Ben’s age or a little younger. Early twenties. Her skin was a pale cream and her hair the color of bittersweet chocolate, sleek and twisted in a knot at the base of her skull. Her face was a Botticelli Madonna, but her eyes were red. Her cheeks and lips were flushed.

  “Well,” Chloe whispered, “I have to say that is the prettiest crying woman I’ve ever seen.”

  Ben bit his lip to keep from smiling. “Don’t be a brat. She’s genuinely upset.”

  “I can tell. But when I’m upset, my nose gets swollen and snotty and my face turns red. It’s not very pretty.”

  “I know. I remember.”

  Chloe’s elbow landed in his side. It hadn’t gotten any softer over the years.

  “Moved by art or tragedy?” Ben said.

  “Can it be both? The painter was killed by the Nazis because he was Jewish. Most of his work and his family were destroyed. It’s a tragic story even if you’re not a fan of his paintings.”

  “True.”

  “Are you going to talk to her?” Chloe said.

  “I think so.” He cocked his head. “Italian?”

  “You and your weird thing about nationalities.”

  “It’s languages more than nationalities.” He glanced at Chloe. “Should I try Italian? It might be charmingly disarming.”

  Chloe examined the woman again. “French. No one wears scarves like French women.”

  “Oh, good eye,” he said. “You may be on to something there.”

  Chloe patted his arm. “Go and comfort her, Romeo. Make sure you get her number. If you give her yours, she’s too emotionally distraught to keep it.”

  “Good call.” Ben started to walk away, then he turned. “Is this weird?”

  “Me giving you advice about picking up crying women?” Chloe scrunched up her face in that way he found adorable. “Kind of? But not really. Just don’t be a toad. If she wants to be left alone, leave her alone.”

  “Okay.” He nodded. She was right. It was weird. But his whole life was weird, so that bit didn’t bother him much.

  Casually, Ben walked over to the bench and sat next to the woman, staring at the two paintings on the main wall as he relaxed for a moment. He glanced at her, saw her looking before she looked away. He smiled and crossed his arms, bringing his hand up to his chin and idly stroking his thumb over his lower lip.

  The woman sniffed delicately, and Ben saw his opening.

  Reaching for the linen handkerchief he kept in his pocket, he held it out to her. “Mademoiselle, un mouchoir?”

  A faint smile through her tears. “Merci.” She reached for it and dabbed her eyes. “How did you know I was French?”

  “Just a feeling.” She didn’t have much of an accent, but Chloe was right. Definitely French. “My name is Ben. Are you feeling all right? Can I help you?”

  “I am fine, I assure you. I’m…” She shook her head and motioned around the gallery. “Emotional, I suppose. A bit overwhelmed by all this.”

  “You’re a passionate lover of Samson’s art then?”

  “I am.” She smiled. “I’m very passionate about his art.”

  He smiled back and angled his legs toward her. “But that’s not the whole story, is it?”

  She offered Ben her hand. “I’m sorry. You told me your name was Ben, but I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Emilie.”

  “Nice to meet you, Emilie. That’s a beautiful name.”

  “Thank you. I was named for my great-grandmother’s twin brother, Emil Samson.”

  “So your family, is it involved in the exhibition?” Ben had recovered from the shock and moved closer to Emilie on the bench. She wasn’t lea
ning away from him.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “That’s surprising. You’d think they’d ask the artist’s surviving family for—”

  “Some of his paintings?”

  “Maybe. Or sketches. Family pictures. Things like that.”

  “I doubt they even know we exist. And it wouldn’t matter if they did. We have nothing.” Emilie gestured around the room. “These all come from private collections.”

  “Samson left no paintings with his family?”

  “He did,” Emilie said. “Of course he did. But Emil wasn’t the only one arrested. My great-grandmother, Emil’s sister, was taken to the camps with most of the family. Her daughter, my grandmother, was sent to a convent to be raised in secret. My great-grandmother did survive, but when she returned there was nothing left. Everything had been stolen or destroyed.”

  Ben frowned. “That’s horrible. Surely there’s some recourse for her. She has birth records?”

  “She does, but…” Emilie shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now. Emil sold much of his work—he was quite well-known—so these could easily have come from a legitimate collector who simply hid the paintings so the government could not destroy them. Perhaps an heir found them. Perhaps they simply felt the time was right. They remain in an anonymous collection, so it’s not for me to say.”

  Ben glanced at the two paintings Emilie had been staring at. “These two, are they special?”

  Her eyes went wide. “Are you saying you don’t know the story of the Labyrinth Trilogy?”

  The majority of the crowd had drifted to the front gallery where a string quartet was playing and wine was being served. Ben remained with Emilie, enjoying the quiet of the Samson room. He sat with his arm along the back of the bench, casually letting his fingers brush against her shoulders.

  She was beautiful, interesting… and she was a mystery. He wouldn’t have left unless he was dragged.

  “The Labyrinth Trilogy?” He shook his head. “No.”

  Her face lit up. “There were three paintings Emil worked on from 1930 to 1933. He did do some other, smaller pieces in that time, but the majority of those years was spent on the Labyrinth. He considered them a single work. They were his masterpiece. Fascism was rising in Europe. Anti-Semitism was becoming more and more virulent, even among the artistic community. My grandmother said that Emil wrote to his sister, Adele—my great-grandmother—many times during that period. He’d been tormented by dreams of being caught in a labyrinth, unable to find his way out.”

  Ben was transfixed. Emilie was a natural storyteller, and her voice enchanted him.

  “All around Emil was darkness. He could hear monsters and creatures around him. He could smell their stench, my grandmother says, but he could not see what chased him. So he decided to paint it.” Emilie motioned to the painting on the left. “Le Labyrinthe Crépusculaire. Twilight Labyrinth. Emil painted a woman—my grandmother says the figure is Adele—walking into a maze at twilight. The moon is low in the sky, and there are eyes peeking through the hedges. Do you see them?”

  Emilie rose and took Ben’s hand. They walked to the painting and leaned in.

  “Do you see?”

  “I do.”

  Eyes peered through thick hedges. At first glance, they appeared to be leaves, but on closer inspection they were definitely eyes. Bloodshot eyes. Cat eyes. Snake eyes. The woman stood at the entrance of the labyrinth, her neck bared to the elements and her diaphanous dress clinging to her legs. She was barefoot, as if she’d walked through long grass to reach the dark green maze.

  “There is so much detail,” Emilie said, her hand floating over the painting. “I’d only seen pictures before this, and they were so small. I could look at this for hours.”

  “Are those fangs?” Ben cocked his head and squinted.

  “Fangs or thorns,” Emilie said. “We have no way of knowing what monsters are hidden in the maze.” She took his hand again and drew him to the right. “And this is the final painting, Le Labyrinthe de L’aube. Dawn Labyrinth. See, the woman is out of the maze now. The monsters have retreated. She has survived, but barely.”

  It was the same woman, but now her dress was torn and bloody. Her feet left bloody prints in the sand at the maze’s entrance. Her long hair hung loose and tangled, half obscuring her face. Her lip was bleeding, but a phantom smile lurked at the corner of the woman’s mouth. She had a secret.

  Ben’s heart raced. “Where is the last?”

  “This is the last.”

  “No, you said there were three. A trilogy.” He looked around the room. “Where is the third one?”

  A haunted look came to Emilie’s eyes. “Labyrinthe de Minuit. Midnight Labyrinth. That one is lost.”

  “Lost?” His eyes went wide. “Just… lost?”

  “Sadly, yes. We will never know what happened to Adele at midnight. The few pictures we have are very unclear. My grandmother remembers her mother describing it, but—”

  “If these survived, then it’s possible the other exists too.”

  There was that look again. It was so like the mysterious woman’s half smile in the painting that Ben’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Perhaps,” Emilie said. “I suppose you’re right. It might have survived.” Emilie walked back to the bench and sat. “You see, the Labyrinth Trilogy was never sold. Emil kept them for himself, but during the International Exposition in Paris in 1937, his friends pressured him to display them together. Just once, they said, the public should see his masterpiece. Pictures were taken. Tickets sold out. The three paintings became a sensation.”

  “And then?”

  “And then nothing. After the exhibition, they went to private collections. My uncle was forced to move, and so he sent these two to friends for safekeeping.”

  “And Midnight Labyrinth?”

  “To his sister.” Emilie stared at the space between the paintings. Her voice went low and grim. “But then the Nazis came and everything was lost.”

  Ben sat next to her. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m not sure.” Her voice held a bite. “We’re not sure of anything except that most of the family died and all the art was lost. Probably destroyed. Possibly stolen.” Emilie’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry. This is why I was upset when you first saw me.”

  “Don’t apologize for being upset over horrible things. That just means you’re human.” He was intrigued, enthralled, entranced. By her and by the paintings. “I want to see you again.”

  She smiled through her tears. “Ben—”

  “Let me have your number. Please. I promise I won’t be a nuisance, but you’re upset and I really want to see you again. Away from here. We’ll do dinner. Coffee.” He had to know more. About her and the paintings.

  Emilie’s mouth opened, but before she could respond, a gentle chime signaled the museum’s closing.

  She stood. “We need to go.”

  Ben stood too. “May I have your number?”

  She was flustered, glancing at the door. “I don’t know.”

  Ben heard footsteps coming and reached for Emilie’s hand before she could escape. “Please.”

  “Ben?” It was Chloe. “Are you still… Oh!” She smiled brightly. “Sorry to interrupt, but the museum is closing.”

  Emilie wiped her eyes with Ben’s handkerchief. “My apologies. Is this your—”

  “My friend,” Ben said.

  “Just a friend,” Chloe said. “Promise.” She stepped into the gallery. “Sheesh, Ben, she’s still crying. You used to be better at comforting a girl.”

  “Ha ha.”

  Chloe walked to Emilie and held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Chloe. Why don’t we visit the restrooms while we can? I have some drops for red eyes that work wonders.”

  “You’re so kind,” Emilie said with a watery laugh. “And I promise, Ben wasn’t making me cry. It’s something entirely unrelated.”

  “No problem. I have some cream for the puffiness around your eyes too.
”

  “Oh, I must be a mess.”

  “No, you’re great.” Chloe patted her arm. “Seriously, you have the prettiest crying face I’ve ever seen.”

  He watched them walk down the hall, Chloe’s powerful and curvaceous figure next to Emilie’s gentle, willowy shape. Chloe looked over her shoulder and caught him staring at their asses. She raised a sardonic eyebrow, but he only shrugged.

  What could he say? He had a type. And that type was female.

  Ben sat on a bench by the entrance, waiting for the two women to leave the bathroom. A few guests were still trickling out, but the lobby was mostly empty. He heard the click of heels on the ground and looked up to see Chloe coming toward him.

  “Hey,” he said. “Everything come out all right?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You are such a boy.”

  He smiled and rose from the bench, folding his suit jacket over his arm as his eyes turned back to the women’s bathrooms.

  “What?” Chloe asked.

  “What do you mean, what?”

  “Aren’t we ready to go?”

  “Aren’t we waiting for Emilie?”

  Chloe frowned. “She left before me. Said she’d find you. I had to fix my hair and she seemed flustered, so…”

  “Dammit,” he said, his eyes sweeping the lobby. “Are you serious?”

  “No, Ben. I routinely lie about random stuff like strangers leaving the bathroom.” She held out her hands as if to say, Really?

  How had he missed her? He’d been watching for them, but maybe he’d been relying on spotting Chloe’s vibrant presence and Emilie managed to slip away. He was getting rusty again. He started toward the museum store, but Chloe grabbed his arm.

  “Sorry, Benny, but this one’s a no. If she wanted to give you her number, she would have.”

  “She didn’t have time in the gallery. I wonder if there’s a guest list with—”

  “Nope, you are not being weird about this,” Chloe said. “Did you ask her for her number?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And she didn’t give it to you?”

  “She was upset.”

  “Ben.” Chloe put her arm around him and steered him toward the front doors. “She would have made sure you had it if she was interested. Stop. She ditched you. It happens.”