The Artist's Muse Page 5

  “Enchantée, Colette,” he says politely, though I can tell he’s not the least bit interested in me. His gaze flits back to Lise, who has shed her coat.

  “Would you like a drink?” I ask, and it seems that we are both looking at Lise, waiting for her to make the first move.

  “A gin fizz,” she says. Marcel and I both smile, as if we’d expected her answer.

  “And you?” I ask Marcel.

  “Brandy.” He pays for the drinks and tips me well, which I appreciate, but it’s small comfort when he puts his arm around Lise and leads her away to the far side of the bar, where a small table has become free. I stare after them, and if Marcel had turned back, he’d have seen my fury. I want to tear his arms away from her. Instead I’m stuck, the anger welling up inside. I can just see them through the crowd as people part, and Lise is smiling up at Marcel.

  When Lavoie comes up to the bar, I have to bite my tongue to keep from snapping at him. All he wants is to ask me about Victoire, and I don’t have the patience. I pour his drink and shoo him away. More people take his place, but they’re easy to serve. The crowd shifts and my glimpses of Lise are lost.

  Who is Marcel, and how does she know him? I remember how Nathalie looked, gazing up at Simon, her look just like Lise’s earlier. I shouldn’t be doing this to myself, but I can’t help it. Victoire would say that I know how to pick them, and I would agree.

  When Laurent comes to cover me for a while, I head outside to sit on the back stoop. The alleyway is filthy, but I have some privacy, at last. My fears are getting the best of me. Lise was in my bed this morning, making love to me last night. I shouldn’t be worrying at all. It’s my bête noire, this worry. I take a deep breath and rise to my feet. I’m making too much out of nothing. Lise and I are fine. We’re more than fine.

  I think back to last night, Lise writhing under my touch, pleading for more. The image in my mind makes my mouth dry, and I wish I could skip out on the rest of my shift and spirit Lise away. Instead, I go back inside.

  Laurent looks happy to see me, and I get swept up in the rush of orders. When the next lull comes, I look for Lise, hoping to see her come up to the bar. She and Marcel are still sitting at the table, and he’s leaning forward, his hand over hers, his mouth hovering so near to her lips that I want to rush over and pull him back. But I don’t. I can’t make a scene at work, and I’m sure it’s only because the bar is so loud that he has to lean near to be heard.

  I turn away and gather up the dirty glassware to take to the sink. As I wash the glasses, I look at the reflected image of the bar in the mirror, seeing people come and go. As I finish up, the evening is coming to a close. The singer finishes her last song, and the remaining audience applauds warmly. She says a few words before she leaves the stage.

  Laurent helps me put away the glassware, and my hand pauses in midair, holding a brandy glass, as I see Marcel and Lise, kissing. My stomach roils and I’m sure my face has gone white. My hand shakes as I put the glass in the rack, creating a ringing sound as it contacts the other glasses. She’s kissing him. He’s kissing her. Mon Dieu.

  I can’t bear it. We’re almost through, and I can’t stand to stay.

  “Laurent, I need to go.”

  He looks at me in surprise, but when he sees my agitation, so unlike me, he’s sympathetic. “You’ll owe me next weekend,” he says, his smile kind. “Go on.”

  As fast as my feet can carry me, I retreat into the back, stripping off my waistcoat and tie, and grabbing my things. I don’t bother to change but head out the back of the bar, skirting through the alleyway and out into the street. I don’t want to see them, can’t bear to see them, to hear the excuses. I’d heard it all before with Nathalie.

  In my flat, the bed is still askew as I’d left it; the pillow holds the indentation from her head. In defiance, I plump the pillows and turn them over, erasing the evidence of her presence. I strip off my clothes and retreat into the bathroom, washing and changing into my robe. When I crawl into bed, her scent clings to the sheets, and though I try to pretend I don’t notice, my vision blurs. I won’t cry, I won’t. I’ll continue on as before, just me. Only me.

  *

  I never see Lise on Sundays; she’s always been busy that day of the week. My time drags on and I don’t have the heart to leave the flat. I dress and make myself up, hoping that there might be a knock on the door, but there’s nothing. Didn’t she worry? Didn’t she wonder where I’d gone last night when I hadn’t come out to see her?

  As daylight fades, I light the lamp and take a book from the stack by the divan. Perhaps Mauriac will distract me for the evening. I start where I’ve left off, but find myself rereading the page. I flip back a few pages to refresh my memory, but it doesn’t help. For half an hour I try to convince myself that I’ll manage, but it doesn’t work. I replace the bookmark.

  There’s no help for it. I can’t stand not knowing for sure, only guessing. I rest my hand on the phone for a long moment then lift the receiver. I don’t dial. What would I say to her? And how much easier would it be for her to lie over the phone, when I couldn’t see her face? Nathalie had done that, told me that I meant so much to her, even as she was already in love with Simon. I straighten my plain gray dress and pull my dark jacket over it. I’ll go over there and ask. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. Maybe they’re old friends. The excuse sounds flimsy, but it’s what I can hope for.

  The concierge lets me in with her usual silent politeness, and I take the stairs slowly, reluctantly. Outside Lise’s door, I lean in but hear nothing. I press the buzzer. There’s a low murmur, like voices, but I can’t tell for sure. No one comes to the door.

  I press the buzzer again, and finally, I hear footsteps. The bolt scrapes and the door is pulled open. Lise stands there, and when she sees me, she looks startled.

  “Colette?” She’s pulled on a robe, and her hair is down, looking mussed. I’ve woken her. I feel ashamed for having thought such things. “I’d hoped to see you last night, but you’d left already. Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing. I—”

  “Chérie, who is it?” The masculine voice shocks me, and I know I’m gaping. There’s a flush on Lise’s cheeks, and she seems to sink into herself. I push past her, into the flat.

  Marcel is stretched out on Lise’s bed, wearing only a sheet. His shirt, jacket, and trousers have been flung on the divan, and he gives me a wicked grin. “She didn’t tell me she was inviting friends. Come here, ma belle.” He pats the bed, and I turn on my heel, retreating toward the door.

  I feel like I’ve been struck dumb. Victoire, why did you have to be right? This is Nathalie all over again, except that I didn’t find Nathalie in bed with Simon. This feels worse, much worse.

  “Colette!” Lise calls after me as I leave; I ignore her, ignore the plaintive note as she calls my name again. I stride out into the street and find my way back to my flat, though I have no idea how I get there, no memory of the streets I crossed, or the route I took. My hand is on the doorknob and I’m inside, staggering to the divan. I sink down into the cushions, and only then do I let the tears come.

  *

  At the bar the next night, Victoire is sympathetic, but not the least bit surprised.

  “Maybe she grew up being told about her future husband, her future children, as if it’s the only thing she could do,” she says, slowly sipping her brandy. “If we don’t spread our legs for the Republic, where will the next generation of Frenchmen come from?” She snorts in derision.

  “I just wish she’d told me.”

  “She might have been getting to it. Did you really see them in bed, Colette?”

  I pause to pour a glass of champagne for a hovering waiter. “No,” I concede, “but he was in bed naked and she only had on a robe. There’s little else they could be doing.”

  “What if she just isn’t the sort to stay faithful?” Victoire asks. “You know me, I can’t stand to be with the same person for too long. Could you handle it if sh
e’s the same?”

  “I don’t know.” I hardly know what to say to that. It’s not what I’d ever pictured my life would be.

  “Your lover will be your only one, won’t she? Forever and ever.”

  Yes, forever and ever. I’d thought Nathalie would be forever. And Lise…it had become that way after our first night together.

  “You should talk to her,” Victoire says, interrupting my thoughts.

  “I don’t know if I could bear it,” I reply. I loosen my black bow tie. It feels more snug around my neck than usual.

  “Leave her alone if you can’t,” she advises. “You’ll drive yourself mad if you aren’t able to let this go. There are others out there.”

  “I know.” But the others aren’t Lise. They don’t get paint smudges on their cheeks without noticing, or sit next to me and laugh at Victoire’s antics on stage, or have violet eyes.

  “You could always come home with me.” Victoire winks, and I can’t help my chuckle. Years ago we’d made a pact, after we found out how well we understood each other, that we’d never sleep together and ruin our friendship. I’m quite sure most people think we’ve been lovers, since we spend so much time together.

  “You snore,” I reply, deadpan.

  “I do not.” Victoire makes a silly face, and I burst out laughing. She grins at me. “That’s better.”

  My heart is a little lighter, but Lise hasn’t left my thoughts. She’s there, waiting for me to look her way.

  *

  Instead of going to Lise’s studio and continuing to pose, I spend my free time at the cinema, or reading at the Bibliothèque nationale. I lose myself for hours in the novels of François Mauriac. The films of Dreyer and Fritz Lang occupy me when I can’t stand to read any longer. The phone can’t ring and no one can find me here, and it’s what I need to come to my senses, to recover from the loss.

  I should have known better. I fell too hard and too fast, and I paid for it. First Nathalie, and now Lise. I don’t trust my own judgment anymore. I start looking for a roommate again, but without much enthusiasm.

  At work, I pour drinks, and I can’t help but look for Lise. She doesn’t come. An entire month without her. I can’t stand it, but I will. Better to be alone than to risk my heart once again.

  So that’s that, I think as I pour yet another glass of beer for a table of carousing actors. The waiter looks harried, and I don’t envy him that night’s work. Behind the bar I can be standoffish and quiet and no one thinks it amiss. I do my job, and that’s enough. Another large group comes stumbling in, and I watch them drag tables together, the metal legs scraping against the floor. I’m familiar with their usual antics and I know it’ll be a busy night.

  As I’m pouring their first pitcher of beer, Luc Arcand, a sculptor of some renown, comes to leer over the bar at me. He’s done it before, but tonight seems different.

  “Colette, I’m surprised I didn’t see you earlier,” he says. I give him a puzzled glance but keep filling the pitcher. “You should have seen the paintings—magnifique!”

  “Which paintings?” The pitcher nearly slips from my hand, but I shakily place it on the bar. The only paintings I can think of are Lise’s, but surely she would have told me?

  “You make a lovely Lady Macbeth, and an odalisque,” Luc replies. “Go to the Salon tomorrow, you’ll see what I mean.” He shakes his head as he hefts the pitcher. “I can hardly believe you wouldn’t pose for me.”

  “I’m particular,” I quip, making my voice cheery and bright. I want desperately to be alone, to go to the Salon and see the paintings for myself. I don’t want to be here, pouring pitchers of beer and making gin fizzes. But even if I did leave, Lise would be there, holding court and celebrating her success. What would I say?

  I try to throw myself into my work, but I can only mask my feelings for others. In my heart, I know the truth. I want her. I want her more than I ever wanted Nathalie.

  “Is it true what I’ve heard?” Victoire slides onto her usual stool at the bar, and I come to my senses.

  “What have you heard?”

  “About the Salon and Lise Beauclerc, of course.” She shakes her head. “Honestly, Colette.”

  “I haven’t seen the show,” I reply, “so I wouldn’t know.”

  “I haven’t seen it either,” Victoire replies tartly. Of course, she would have been at the theater. Ubu Roi was enjoying a rather long run, and the cast was the talk of Paris—or, at least, of the Marais.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters!” Victoire reaches over the bar; she shakes me, her fingers digging into my arm, wrinkling my sleeve. “Do you think she’d show those paintings if she didn’t feel something?”

  “How should I know?” I reply. My tone is surprisingly insolent and I brush off her hand. I don’t need Victoire urging me toward an impossible future.

  “Do you want me to come with you tomorrow?” Victoire’s sympathetic, and I don’t know if I can stand it. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. I’d almost left Lise behind, and now she’s back and I can’t stop hearing about her.

  “I’m not going,” I say.

  Victoire sighs. “As you will.”

  Of course, I’ve lied. I’ll just step inside the door to get a glimpse, and then that’ll be it.

  *

  My heart’s in my throat as I approach the door of the Salon, a small yet prestigious gallery in Montparnasse. After World War I, the original owner of the Salon, Henri Belanger, was one of the first to show the works of the great Surrealists. The gallery’s patronage is like gold to a struggling artist, a way out of the gutters and into the great houses. It’s said that Belanger’s son, the current owner, has the ear of all the wealthiest people in Europe. I’m not sure what to believe.

  I rest my hand on the iron doorknob and take a deep breath. Just a quick look and then I’ll go. I open the door and step inside. The small entryway is empty, and I continue through to the first showroom. One glance, that’s all, I tell myself.

  I am greeted by an image of myself: the great painting of Lady Macbeth. It’s complete, and I stare in awe. It’s me, yet it’s not me. Me, idealized and beautiful. It’s transcended the tension of Fuseli’s original and become something more, a powerful figure in its own right. I have to look away. My vision is blurring.

  There’s a smaller painting beyond Lady Macbeth and I head toward it, hoping for something mundane to take my mind from Lise’s masterpiece. It’s an odalisque, as Arcand had said last night, a nude woman with vibrant red hair that spills over her shoulders, covering one of her naked breasts. One of my naked breasts. Again, I stare back at an image of myself. I never posed for this odalisque. Lise has done it from memory, from imagination.

  It’s agony. I move away, but my gaze is caught by another canvas, this one of a Venus in the style of Titian, just like his Venus of Urbino. But it’s me, again. Except in the background, instead of the servant girl looking down and away, she’s looking out from the canvas. And her eyes. It’s Lise, looking at me. Not at my figure on the sofa, at the Venus, but me, standing here. I reach out, my fingertips hovering above the shining oil paints.

  I drop my hand. It’s torture, being in this gallery. I step back from the Venus, and a painting in the next showroom catches my eye. It reminds me of Delacroix, yet it’s different, more vibrant. I move forward, slowly.

  It’s La Liberté. And it’s me.

  I hadn’t posed for this one; we hadn’t even gone beyond that first, offhand suggestion, but here it is. I follow the strewn bodies up, up to the figure—my figure—holding the tricolor in such triumph. I trace the vivid lines, and my gaze drops to the figure at the feet of Liberty. It’s a woman, her hair back in a kerchief, on her hands and knees before Liberty. In supplication. And this, too, is Lise. She looks almost the way she’d been the first day we met. My heart contracts.

  “Colette.”

  It’s as if she’s talking to me through the painting.

  “
Colette.” The voice is behind me, and I slowly turn. It’s no hallucination or wishful thinking.

  Lise stands calmly, barely two feet from me. Her dark hair is loose and it falls about her face, making her look younger, more delicate than I remember. She isn’t wearing makeup, but she doesn’t need it. She blinks, and I am drawn to the brush of sooty lashes over pale cheeks. And her eyes. She seems to look right into my soul.

  I can’t speak, and I think she knows.

  “I hoped you’d be here,” she says, her voice soft. My breath catches in my throat and the words won’t come. I want to tell her everything, but I can’t.

  “I had to.” I finally manage those words, forcing them out though every syllable threatens to bring me closer to tears.

  “Je suis désolée,” she says, reaching out for my hand. Her fingers close around mine, and I clutch at her as if she’s my shelter in the storm. “Will you give me a chance to explain? Not to be forgiven—I could never expect that.”

  I give her a shaky nod, and she draws me away, out of the gallery and down the street, until we find a bench just outside the cemetery. She looks nervous suddenly, her gaze flickering over our joined hands, down to the cobblestones, anywhere but my face.

  “I should explain about Marcel,” she says. “Back home, in Marseille, we were to be married.”

  I stare at her in shock. Her fiancé. How had I ever thought I’d had a chance?

  “When I left home,” she continues, her grip on my hand tightening, “I ended it with Marcel. My parents, and his, were stricken, but I did it anyway, even though our families were so close. I couldn’t marry him. I didn’t love him. I couldn’t love any man. When I came here, I gave up on finding someone. I didn’t think it was possible.”

  “But—”

  “Then I met you,” she says simply, finally looking up at me. Her gaze is filled with affection. With…love. “And I didn’t know how to react, how to be. We were just starting to really know each other when Marcel came.” She drops her gaze again. “We didn’t sleep together, Colette. I wouldn’t do that to you.”