Starry Nights

by Daisy Whitney

  I focus on my small tasks. I kneel down at the sink and carefully remove the tape from the painting. I move onto the padded envelope, which the canvas will need for a safe return. Sophie left the envelope between the trash can liner and the trash can itself, stowed out of sight. I take it out and tuck it under my arm.

  A few minutes pass, and Clio must have healed The Raft of the Medusa and has to be onto the Rembrandt now. I hear someone’s voice. I tense and shrink into a stall. I close the door quietly and hop up onto the toilet seat, holding the Monet and the envelope. Someone opens the door. I don’t move a muscle. The light goes on. Through the crack in the stall door, I see a security guard. She looks into the mirror, bares her teeth, and seems to inspect them. She pinches her thumb and index finger together and grabs at her two front teeth. “There!”

  She flicks the stray piece of food into the sink and turns on the water to flush it down.

  She turns off the water and opens the door to leave when her radio crackles.

  “Problem at the Mona Lisa,” the garbled voice says.

  I hold my breath. Please be safe, Clio.

  The guard brings the radio to her mouth. “What’s the problem?”

  “It’s talking dirty.”

  The guard scoffs. “Really?”

  “Something about a priest and a rabbi in a bar.”

  “I’m on my way,” she barks into the radio and slams it onto her belt. The door swings shut, and she’s gone.

  I exhale, and then it hits me—the Mona Lisa is unspooling her insides, telling her dirty joke. I’m tempted to pop out of the bathroom and listen in the halls, but her gallery is too far away.

  “… And the bartender says, ‘you can sit on my lap.’ “ The voice is a boom, like it’s coming from a speaker system, so I guess I don’t have to leave the bathroom because the whole museum can hear it now, as Mona Lisa unwinds, telling her bawdy joke over and over.

  Several minutes later the joke stops, and in sixty seconds Clio opens the door. She’s breathing hard. I unlock the stall. “I had to fix the Mona Lisa too,” she says with wide eyes. “The guards had already taken off her glass when I got there, so all I had to do was touch her. Must have been the Moulin Rouge that did her in.”

  That shouldn’t make me happy, but in a sick way it does, the collateral damage from one last dance.

  I position the padded envelope right next to the door and then lay the Monet on the tiles. We return to the Musée d’Orsay.

  We step inside the familiar blue-walled gallery, still grinning because we pulled it off, still holding hands. The touch of her is almost enough to make me believe there’s room in her heart for both art and me. But already she’s not quite holding my hand the way she used to, she’s not touching the inside of my palm with a finger, or tracing lines on my wrist. I’m more like a guy she likes, not the guy she loves.

  I call Bonheur. He answers his phone as if it’s been implanted in his head. “Please have good news.”

  “The paintings at the Louvre are healed. Now, go call the number I gave you and let the security guard know you left your Monet in the ladies’ room this evening. It’s on the floor, and the envelope he can carry it in is by the door.”

  He sighs happily. “Thank you.”

  I have no doubt Gustave’s friend will take good care of the Louvre’s temporary overnight visitor.

  I turn to Clio. “How was the art? What did it look like?”

  “Titian’s mirror repaired itself. Bathsheba regrew. The flame in the LaTour relit and it’s flickering in paint now,” Clio says, and she’s so animated and excited to tell me the stories of the reformed art.

  “And the Géricault?”

  “It was as if the water had crashed backward and the waves rolled right into the frame. Then the canvas just sort of slurped it all up. It looks just like the day it was made.”

  “It’s amazing,” I say. “Russia now?”

  “To St. Petersburg we go.”

  Clio might not be visible to anyone but me, but she’s audible to everyone. Including a guard who happens to be one room over from the Monet exhibit at the Hermitage. To complicate matters, the museum hasn’t updated its website lately because the layout we saw of this gallery is just a tad wrong.

  The guard jerks his head when he hears the sound of Clio’s footsteps race past him on the way to the Goya. But when he swivels around and sees me, I must appear—though it would be impossible—to be the source of the footsteps. At the very least, I’m an intruder. I’m about to jump into the closest Monet, the one I picked in advance for protection, but all the Monets near me are his earlier works that Clio inspired—thanks for nothing, Hermitage website—and I’m not about to take shelter in a painting that could collapse in on itself.

  I scan the room quickly as the guard calls out to me in Russian.

  I don’t know what he’s saying, but he’s not happy. He moves toward me. I spot a later Monet, one of the haystacks. It’s a few feet from me. I step toward it as the guard comes closer. I reach my hands inside the painting and take out the haystack. It’s big, but it’s not heavy. I hold it in front of me as a shield. I don’t think he can see the haystack, since he’s not a muse. But like Olympia’s cat and Cézanne’s peach, the haystack is real and it occupies space.

  More Russian words fall from his lips. I shrug my shoulders but stay silent. Accents won’t disguise me. The guard is now mere feet from me and he tries to get closer, but he can’t. There’s a buffer between us, and it’s a thick mound of straw only I can see. He tries to grab me, but he bumps up against the crackly mass and flinches. He reaches for me again, but I move away, and we’re now engaged in the most awkward of dances. He keeps lunging and keeps getting bounced back by the invisible haystack. It’s as if I have a bubble surrounding me. He fumbles for the radio on his belt and calls for backup. He goes for his phone next and snaps a picture of me, of the Teflon guy he can’t touch.

  C’mon, Clio. It’s only one painting.

  I hear another set of footsteps, but the soles of the shoes are heavy, and they carry another guard. More Russian words are fired off at me, but no one pulls a gun. Seconds later, Clio’s racing through the halls, and they both turn their heads at the noise. She slides into the gallery and sees the guards, the haystack, and me. She rushes past the second guard, knocking off his cap. He swivels around. She comes up behind the first guard and speaks rapid-fire Russian. His eyes widen, and he looks down at his pants and his face turns red. It’s enough of a window for her to grab the haystack from me, drop it on the ground, and take my hand. We run like hell to the bridge.

  “What are we going to do about the haystack?” I ask as soon as our feet touch safe ground.

  “I’ll go there tomorrow morning. I’ll put it back. It’ll take two seconds, but we didn’t have time right then,” she says.

  “Right. How was the Goya?”

  “Oh, it was beautiful.” She lays a hand on her heart. “I was so happy to see it again.”

  Happy. I wince.

  “But I still like you,” she says, and she sounds like herself, or as much of herself as there still is. She’s got that shy and sweet look about her, and part of me thinks she may even dive in for one more kiss. But she doesn’t.

  “What did you say to that guard in Russian?”

  “I told him his fly was down.”

  I laugh, and she smiles, and we’re still in this together.

  “Hey, Clio. I have a favor to ask you. Can you try to be just a little quieter when you run down the halls? I’d kind of like to not run into a security guard if I can.”

  “Maybe you should draw me some padded socks,” she says with a wink, and I have a feeling it’s the last time we’ll have an inside joke.

  The Impressionist room at the National Gallery is blissfully quiet. So is Clio as she taps Muse dust into my hand and I close my fist around it, then let the dust loose in my front pocket. She takes careful, quiet steps away from the Monets and heads for the Turners, a fe
w rooms away.

  I spy the bench. Simon’s friend Patrick came through. There’s a sheet of paper and a pencil taped to the underside of the seat. I untape them, lie flat on my stomach and sketch quickly. I tuck the paper under the bench, then go camp out inside a painting of water lilies. I’m soaked to my knees the second I enter the painting, but it’s peaceful here at Monet’s pond, and I won’t be wet when I leave, so I sink down and float on my back. I count the seconds until I reach fifteen minutes. I don’t want to lose track of time, and I know she’ll need time here. There are more than half a dozen damaged Turners.

  I stand up in the tranquil pond, surrounded by water lilies. I’m in the most beautiful place, and I’m about to enter a terrible one—I can’t imagine she’ll feel much of anything for me after the Turners take her love.

  Inside the room, I’m dry again. All the water is left behind on the other side of the frame. The room is still quiet, but just in case a guard comes, I return to the bench, pluck the paper from its hiding place, and pinch some Muse dust from my pocket. I stand by the Japanese bridge and wait.

  Two sets of footsteps. Heavy boots and soft slippers.

  I curse silently, and my chest tightens. Still, I’m glad we planned for this, so I trace my drawing with silvery fingertips, and a blond mutt comes to life, along with a tennis ball. Clio rounds the corner into the Impressionist room, and I toss the ball as far as I can in the direction of the boots. The dog barks happily and scampers after it, his nails scratching the hardwood floors. He careens around the corner after the ball, and I can hear the guard say, “What the bloody—” as Clio and I step back onto the bridge. Inside the painting she tells me about the magnificent sight of the waters and the sunsets being remade, of how the light streaked across the paint in just the way Turner had always envisioned. As I listen to her, it occurs to me that in some ways she’s not that different. She isn’t cold or callous. She’s still warm and glowing, but she only has eyes for art now. She is slipping away from the girl she was with me and reverting back to the Muse she was made to be. I want to share this moment with her, to rejoice in the saving of the art, but each reborn painting crushes me a little more.

  She almost forgets to reach for my hand when we walk onto the bridge on the way to the Met. I feel as if the ground is starting to sway as she changes.

  “Oops, sorry,” she says, like it’s no big deal, and it isn’t to her, because she no longer has the desire to hold my hand.

  I take shelter in a church. I’m in front of a gothic cathedral now that bends and waves, its skyscraping spires cutting skies with a tower that was once the tallest in the world. The real Rouen Cathedral in Normandy is damaged after bombs rained down on it in World War II and one of the towers burned. But the painted one is still perfect. I grab hold of the metal knocker on the heavy wooden door, pulling as it groans and creaks open. It is beautiful inside, with stained-glass windows that fly from floor to ceiling and pews in a rich shade of chestnut that seem to billow and swell, paint marks that sway like a breeze blows through them.

  I wander through the pews, past the altar, and back again, wrapped in silence in the crystal quiet of this other world.

  But it’s too quiet, and too lonely in here. I leave the painting, find the paper Bonheur’s American friend left for me, and draw a blue jumpsuit, like a janitor would wear. Then, a broom. I could draw a cloak, or a mustache and glasses, but blending into the surroundings as if I belong here will be better than hiding my features. I flick dust on the paper, then step into my drawn set of clothes, pulling them over my jeans and shirt.

  There’s a cry from another room. Clio. All my instincts tell me to run to her, and I don’t ignore them. I leave the broom and bolt down the hall in her direction. I see a shadow by the exit to the next gallery.

  My heart stops. I survey the room in seconds. I’m surrounded by modern art, so I dive into the nearest painting. My jaw drops when I reach the other side of the drip marks, and I think I may laugh harder than I’ve ever laughed in my life. Jackson Pollock always said his abstract art was about the art, and the paint itself, nothing more.

  Pollock lied.

  I’m inside a gigantic refrigerator. There’s a jar of pickles, a container of mustard, and some yogurt that is probably way past its expiration date.

  This is what art historians and modernists have been ruminating on for years?

  Ladies and gentleman, I’m here to say Jackson Pollock painted appliances.

  I leave and double back to our exit. Clio is waiting for me by the bench. She looks nervous and worried. She motions for me to run. I do as instructed, moving quickly even in my double outfit. But she surprises me by grabbing my hand and pulling me under the bench, shifting so I’m on top of her. The bench has a front that hangs down, and I’m shielded, so there’s no need for my new garb to hide me. But this is the cruelest torture. I’m pressed against her, and I can feel her heart beating against mine. I want to smother her in kisses, but she’s simply my accomplice now, nothing more. She presses a finger against her lips. Footsteps pass dangerously close. I don’t breathe until they leave the room, my temporary jumpsuit dissolving to dust in seconds. Then she rolls out from under me, and we head for our final destination.

  “Why were you crying back there?” I ask once we’re safely on the bridge.

  “It was the Vermeers.”

  “Well, are they okay? Did you fix them?”

  “Yes, they look so beautiful now.” Her voice breaks. “I was overcome.”

  We go to Chicago.

  The sick Morisot is only a few rooms away, and I’m so pummeled now by witnessing Clio lose her love that I barely care if I get caught. Besides, she’s arrived at the final destination, and what’s the worst that can happen? She doesn’t need me anymore so she could just slink out of the museum in the morning and find the Chicago entrance back to her Musely home. As for me, I suppose the worst is happening so I don’t bother to draw a jumpsuit or a dog. I’ve never been to Chicago, and I’ve always wanted to see Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, his image of three lonely people in a diner. Why not? I’ve made it this far. It’s a few rooms over, and I go inside and order a chocolate milk shake.

  The guy at the counter nods and hands me the drink.

  It’s fantastic, and I feel as if I could stay here all night. No one talks to each other. The other three people just stare off with empty eyes at their lonely worlds.

  But I have friends back home, and I could really use them now. More than ever. So I leave, and I walk to the Japanese bridge where Clio’s already waiting. A guard sees me, calls after me. I understand him perfectly.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Getting a milk shake,” I tell him, and keep going.

  The guard grabs for the belt buckles on my jeans, and I roll my eyes.

  “Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got?” I speak to him in English but don’t bother with an accent. Let him report back to the Chicago police about the boy with the French accent who drank milk shakes in his museum.

  “You want to be arrested, smart aleck?”

  I pull away. He’s no Cass Middleton. He’s sluggish and I’m nimble, and I suppose all things being equal, I’d really rather be in Paris right now, so I run to the bridge painting and dive into it with Clio.

  I don’t make it all the way in. He’s grabbed a boot. Clio’s got me by the forearm and is pulling me farther into the Monet, and the guard is yanking harder on my boot. With the sole of my other shoe, I push the boot off and slide into the painting, picturing a guard in Chicago bewildered by the worn black boot in his hand.

  Chapter 32

  Freedom

  “Good night, Gustave.”

  “What happened to your other boot?”

  “Lost it somewhere. Go figure,” I say.

  “Maybe your prince will find it, Cinderella,” he teases. “Hey, did you hear about the Monet that was left in the bathroom at the Louvre a few hours ago? Some crazy collector left it th
ere, along with an envelope too.”

  “Your friend found it?”

  “Yup. Packed it all up and has it ready to be returned.”

  “Ah, but that’s the real Cinderella story,” I say, and head for the doors, Clio by my side.

  I pause when I lift the handle to leave the museum, remembering when she told me how easy it would be to free her. You don’t need a crazy car chase or knife fight to free me. Nothing violent, nothing dangerous. It’s simple because art is grace. Art is class. You can free me by holding open the door and letting me out.

  I do the thing Clio didn’t want me to do a few days ago. Because there is nothing for her on this side of the door. There is nothing to tie her to the museum. Not her frame and not me.

  She crosses the threshold and her feet touch outside ground for the first time in a hundred and thirty years. If I were to look back at Gustave right now, he’d probably be as shocked as the Chicago guard with the boot in his hand, because now there is a girl beside me who wasn’t there before.

  Anyone can see her. She’s no longer bound to the painting Renoir trapped her in. She’s bound to being a Muse, and she can’t wait to start up again.

  We walk down the steps, like two acquaintances, like two coworkers who did a job together. A job well done, but now they move on. To the next city, the next assignment. I walk her across the river, and to the block with La Belle Vie. Bonheur has alerted Thalia to meet Clio there. I called him a few minutes ago and asked him to let her know the missing Muse would be coming home.

  I stop on the rue de Rivoli. “Good-bye, Clio.”

  “Good-bye,” she says, her voice clipped and cheery. She doesn’t even use my name.

  “Do you even remember what happened with us?” I ask tentatively because she seems like a robot, like she had her chip erased of all past memories.

  “Of course I remember. We had a nice time together,” she says and smiles brightly, but her eyes are empty. There’s nothing there for me. “And now I get to go back to work.”