The Muse

by Lauren Blakely

  “I’ll keep a lookout up here. I am extremely particular about basement upkeep.”

  I can’t argue with that, so I thank him and follow Simon down a loop of stairs. I find the switch for a work light and pull it, illuminating a breathtaking and chilling sight.

  Two easels. Two paintings in progress.

  Renoir may be loathsome, but his work is astoundingly beautiful. And there’s no denying this is his work.

  On one canvas, the artist has begun the Young Girls at the Piano, and The Boy with the Cat is underway on the other easel. Those were the first two Renoirs to fade. Is he replacing his own work?

  Simon pokes around the stacks of empty canvases against the wall. “This proves that the Middleton woman is forging paintings, right? What next? Do we call the metro police or go straight to Interpol?”

  I’m sure Renoir’s been here, inhabiting Max. But it must be Cass doing the actual painting. Renoir needs a master art forger to reproduce his masterpieces. The ghost can’t simply paint them in a borrowed body—whenever he takes possession of Max, his fingers twist into an unusable shape, mimicking the deformity of Renoir’s arthritis.

  “I don’t know,” I answer Simon. “It’s going to be hard to explain the spirit of Renoir coaching his forger.”

  “But I don’t get why. He can’t sell them, right?”

  I picture Clio in the painted sunshine of Monet’s garden, telling me how Renoir loved his art above everything else. How it means the world to him.

  “Losing his art has got to be his worst nightmare,” I say. “Maybe he has his reasons. If he can replace the works with exact replicas, he can preserve his legacy.”

  Simon points out, “They won’t be exact replicas though. Not without the secret formula thingy in the signature.”

  That’s true. And who knows if he can even create the signature pigment with modern supplies?

  A door slams above us. Simon and I look up at the old musty ceiling at the same time. “Let’s get out of here,” I say, and I don’t have to tell Simon twice.

  We rush up the steps into the chapel, where there’s no sign of Remy.

  There’s no sign of the fist that blindsides me either. Not until it smashes into my face hard enough to spin me around and drop me to the ground.

  Pain tears through me, ripping through my body.

  “Trespassing in a church? That’s a step up from snooping around my shop,” a woman’s English accent taunts.

  A yell comes next, and I flip over, still wincing, as Simon flies out from behind the altar and jumps Cass Middleton. She jabs an elbow into his solar plexus and then a fist to his groin.

  “Oi!” Simon twists away from the brunt of it, but it still lays him out. Hell, it nearly paralyzes me in sympathy.

  Where the hell is Remy? Before I can look around for him, Cass grabs the neck of my T-shirt and twists so tight that I struggle to breathe.

  “You looking for your friend? He’s all right. Tied him to the baptism font with his scarf.” I can get a hit in on her now, if I get enough breath, but she backhands me so hard my brain rattles in my skull. Then she pins me to the ground with her foot on my chest.

  “Now, listen up. I don’t go for violence,” she says without a shred of irony, “but I might make an exception for guys who keep sticking their nose in my business.”

  “Might?” I wheeze, keeping her attention on me and away from the movement I spot behind her.

  “You think it can’t get worse than this?” She steps harder on my chest to make her point.

  I gasp for breath.

  Then Remy taps her on the shoulder from behind. Cass whirls, and my bon ami throws a punch like a prizefighter. It knocks her back, to the stairs, where she rolls across the edge of the door down into the basement, with a few loud thumps

  I crawl over to peer down. She’s at the bottom of the stone steps. I’m glad she’s not dead, and more glad she’s moaning too much to get right back up.

  Remy joins me at the edge and, livid, shakes the tattered remains of his scarf at her. “This. Was. Hermès!”

  21

  That evening, Clio waits for me in the corner of the gallery, reading a book. It’s a sight that makes my breath catch, because she’s so beautiful and because of the book—I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it on a tabletop in a Cézanne.

  “Is that from Cézanne’s Portrait of Gustave Geffroy?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll return it later. But it’s pretty good and has kept me—” She places a bookmark inside and looks up, breaking off her speech when she sees the cut on my cheek. “Oh, Julien!” Jumping up, she reaches for my face, but stops herself before she touches me. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “You should see the other guy,” I joke lamely, even though the other guy is a woman and she stumbled out of the church several minutes after us.

  That’s what Simon told me since he hung around when the police showed up.

  Besides, the only person I care about now is Clio. She threads her fingers through my hair and kisses my forehead tenderly.

  “Better now?”

  “Not yet. I need another.”

  I feel her soft lips on my eyelids. “Does that help?”

  “Only a little.”

  There’s a flutter against my bruised cheek.

  “More please.”

  She kisses my jaw where Cass first whacked me. Soon, her lips find mine. Hers taste like cherries, and I want to stop time. To stay with her right now.

  “Clio,” I say softly.

  “What is it, Julien?”

  “Nothing. I just like saying your name.” I run my thumb across her lip as it stretches into a smile. No, a grin, and then she’s grabbing my hand and pulling me along the gallery.

  “Come with me. I have something to show you.”

  Minutes later, we’re inside Starry Night, my favorite Van Gogh.

  It’s a dreamscape—lush blues drip over the water, and banana-yellow stars sparkle in the night sky. They cast long rays of moonlight, like gas lamps glimmering across the Rhône.

  We step into one of the sailboats on the river.

  “Lie back,” Clio says, letting me rest my aching head in her lap.

  “My headache feels better already,” I say as we drift into the Rhône.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened to you?” She’s all sweet sympathy, but there’s real concern beneath it. Maybe she’s worked out what I did—that I might be in danger from Max. She’s certainly smart enough to add things up, and I decide it’s time to level with her the best I can, considering how much I don’t know.

  I give her the details of my afternoon excursion, but I also brief her on the fading Renoirs. I haven’t wanted to worry her, but now that I know she’s a Muse, there’s no better person to help me figure it out.

  Sighing sadly, I tell her, “It’s as if all the colors are bleeding away. I can’t figure it out. Maybe it’s related to your curse, maybe not. It seems like Renoir is as worried as any of us.”

  “Of course,” says Clio. “His art is what he prizes above all other things.”

  “Here’s my thought—you said Muse dust is very powerful, potent enough to trap you. Could it also have been used to put a curse on Renoir’s paintings?”

  We float lazily over exaggerated ultramarine as she strokes my hair. “I suppose it’s possible. But art magic is highly specific. It’s for inspiration and creation. But it’s also the only thing powerful enough to change art—transform kernels of ideas into fully realized masterpieces.”

  “Okay, hear me out on this, but I have an idea.” I twist around to look up at her. “You don’t owe him any favors, but maybe you can fix the Renoirs with your Muse dust.”

  She tilts her head, then nods. “I can try it. I’m not fond of him. Clearly.” She shakes her head with a guilty sigh. “But despite everything, I do still love his paintings. Is that awful, to love the art of someone like that?”

  “The paintings contain the beauty he saw,
and that’s what you love. That’s what has outlived him.”

  “So when we leave this painting, we’ll try.”

  I toss out another theory, one that’s been tugging at my mind. “Do you think the other Muses could have cursed his art?”

  Her mouth drops open in unmistakable horror. She holds up her hands. “Absolutely not. It goes against what we are. We love the art, not the artist. The job of an eternal Muse is to coax out the idea, and our magic and our love keep the art and literature and beauty alive through the years.”

  “So how does it work? Being a Muse?” I ask. The golden stars bathe the night around us in a warm glow as shimmery water laps the boat. The sound of the sweet waves is as gentle as Clio’s hands in my hair.

  “Do you know the opening of Homer’s Odyssey?” She quotes the first line of the epic poem. “Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story.” She taps her chest. “My specialty is painting, as you know. From our home, we can go anywhere in the world. Poets, writers, painters, dancers, actors, musicians—we sense they need us, and we travel.”

  “That’s fantastic, like inspiration on call. I want to know more. Tell me who else you’ve inspired. Who are your favorites?”

  “J. M. W. Turner. I loved helping him with his seascapes. I also adored working with Ingres. And Géricault—I’m especially proud of him for The Raft of the Medusa. He struggled so hard with that one, the depth of emotion in it. I put so much love into that painting to help him realize its potential.” I love hearing her talk like this. She’s even more enchanting than usual, especially as she runs her finger along the neck of my T-shirt. I relax into her touch. “Vermeer and Rembrandt too.”

  “If you inspire all these artists, you must be able to speak every language. So you can talk to them, right? That’s why you speak perfect French, but you don’t have the accent of someone who was born here.”

  “It’s true. Are you impressed?”

  “Everything about you impresses me,” I say, and she rewards me by leaning in for a kiss. “So how do you say in Dutch, ‘Oh, Mr. Rembrandt, I think you need a bit more brown in this self-portrait’?”

  She answers immediately.

  “You know I have no idea what you really said.”

  “I said exactly what you asked.”

  “How do you say in Italian, ‘Leonardo, I think the Mona Lisa is lame’?”

  She laughs and rattles off a quick Italian phrase.

  “All right, I have a good one. How do you say in Spanish, ‘Mr. Goya, your paintings are so beautiful they remind me of the most amazing woman I’ve ever met’?”

  She blushes and lowers her face, then repeats Spanish words back to me.

  Headache gone, I sit up in the boat so I’m facing her, my heart thundering in my head. “How do you say in English, ‘I can’t imagine being without her’?”

  She looks at me, her eyes brimming with passion. “I feel the same.”

  I take her hand. Run my index finger along hers. Feel her skin warm to my touch. “Clio.” I breathe her name into the painted world we’re floating in. I cup her face in my hands, my palms on her cheeks, holding her soft and close as golden starlight streaks across the night. All my nerves fly into my throat as I ask the next question. “How do you say in French, ‘Clio, I’m falling in love with you’?”

  She loops her fingers through mine, lacing them tightly. “Julien, I’m falling in love with you too.”

  And then she takes my face in her hands, gentle and tender, and kisses me.

  I am truly in another world.

  More so when the kiss turns urgent.

  Heated.

  When hands slide up and under clothes, and breaths become needy and desperate. When my shirt is off, she stops, seeming nervous.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re hurt. I don’t want to hurt you more.”

  I laugh. “Trust me, being with you only makes me feel good.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I promise.”

  She runs her fingers gently down my chest, over my stomach. “No pain?”

  “Only pleasure,” I whisper.

  “Only pleasure,” she repeats softly against my lips.

  Then we lie down, shifting side by side, hands exploring, touching, traveling.

  Lips everywhere.

  Mouths needing, seeking, finding.

  And soon, we’re a tangle of limbs and flesh.

  And then, I am inside her, making love to a Muse, in a boat, in a painting.

  Under all the stars in the most beautiful sky.

  We are side by side, face to face, as she hooks her leg over my hip. Slowly, we move together, taking it easy, savoring every second.

  Her eyes lock with mine as I go deep in her, and when her lips part and she leans her head back, all I can think is how much I need this, how much I need her, and how I have to find a way to save this woman.

  Because I want this life with her inside a painting. All surreal and dreamlike.

  But more than that, I want a real life, beyond the blue waters, past the starry night, far past the frame.

  Into the world where I spend my days.

  Because I want my nights with her to become days with her.

  I want it all with Clio.

  We lose ourselves in each other, in the sounds, in the touch, in the connection.

  Once upon a time, many weeks ago, I fell for a work of art.

  A painted image of a woman.

  I didn’t know her. I hadn’t talked to her.

  Now, I’ve fallen for the real woman behind the painting. I know her. I talk to her.

  I touch her.

  And I’m certain, too, that I won’t be happy in a world without her.

  22

  After we leave Starry Night, we head to Gabrielle with a Rose, and Clio puts her hands on the painting, closing her eyes as she concentrates on repairing it. She smooths her palms over the shawl where the work is the most faded, and tries to coax the color back into the layers of paint.

  Without success.

  She might try until the sun rises, so I finally tug her away and see her to her painting, giving her a good morning kiss before she goes still.

  On my way out, I pass Gabrielle with a Rose again, and I catch sight of The Swing hanging nearby. I step closer—a woman stands on a swing in a sun-dappled garden, and the dark-blue bows on the front of her dress are now gray-blue, and the whole gown looks faded from too many washings. I pause to touch it gently with my palm, the way Clio had smoothed Gabrielle’s shawl, and I feel as if I’m saying goodbye to another friend.

  When I reach the front doors, I wave to Gustave. “How did your sculpture in the subway art contest go?”

  He grins broadly. “Fantastic! Can’t thank you enough for helping me figure it out.”

  As I congratulate him, something Clio said hits me—about helping artists realize the potential in their work. I did that for Gustave. I keep hearing how I’m a human muse, but it’s only in this moment that I feel like one.

  And it feels pretty damn good.

  His phone rings, and he glances at it. “My buddy at the Louvre,” he says, offhand. “I wonder what bizarre story he has this time.”

  “I wonder,” I echo, but with a pit in my stomach.

  Gustave answers the call, waving goodbye. I return it but pretend to check my phone for an excuse to stand there and eavesdrop.

  “Oh, sure, I believe you,” Gustave says a few exchanges in. He catches me still there and rolls his eyes at whatever his friend is telling him. “Our seascapes spring leaks all the time.”

  I raise my brows in a silent question, as if it doesn’t matter and my gut didn’t just knot like a pretzel. Gustave tilts his phone away from his face and stage-whispers, “The big Géricault in room seventy-seven is dripping onto the floor, apparently. Told you he was a loon.”

  “Sure,” I say. “A real nutter.”

  Worried my face will break, I turn toward the door, and Gustave turns back
to his phone call. “Well, just mop it up. See you on Sunday for cards?”

  I stagger outside, like I’ve been trounced all over again.

  The Louvre doesn’t open for another four excruciating hours. I go home and manage a bit of sleep, then wake so tired that I wonder why I bothered. A shower helps, and so does coffee, then I’m out of the flat and at the museum in time to be one of the first people in the door.

  The Raft of the Medusa is an early eighteenth-century painting of survivors of a French shipwreck clinging to a raft in a storming sea. I take the marble steps to the upper floor two at a time, my mind on where I’m going, not where I am, and I nearly flatten a red-haired woman heading the opposite way. I say sorry, but she’s already gone.

  If people are running away, it’s got to be worse than the drip Gustave’s friend reported.

  I turn the corner and freeze. It’s like gawking at a train wreck—wanting to look away, wanting to see everything, wanting to help and knowing you can’t. The Raft of the Medusa is gushing. Seawater pours out of the massive canvas from the rocky waves Géricault painted, the ones Clio helped him to create.

  A custodian races by with a mop and a bucket, wholly inadequate. Next comes management—a man in a suit, barking instructions into a phone until he sees the flood and stops, jaw agape, no clue what to do. When an assistant runs in, slips, and belly-surfs across the gallery, the suit goes back to yelling, and the custodian gets to mopping futilely.

  “Close this gallery. Close this gallery now!”

  No one notices me duck through the crowd trying to get a look at the chaos. I find the Ingres in the next gallery and recoil at the sight. The blue cushions have folded over the concubine, and all that’s left of her is one eye staring out desperately as the cushions squeeze and strangle her.

  The candle in the La Tour has become a red-hot flame, setting the whole canvas ablaze. I reach the Titian just as the mirror tips out of the canvas and plummets to the floor with a deafening crash and a spray of shards. I find Rembrandt’s Bathsheba at Her Bath shriveled up into tiny hardened pieces, like pork rinds, on the floor.