Page 3 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
When I turn into the gallery, two dancers in white dresses, including the girl from that first night, have jetéd out of a Degas to spin in dizzying circles. They make regular nighttime appearances now, but not in any set routine. Last week, all of Degas’s dancers here in the Musée d’Orsay, plus a few musicians from an orchestra scene too, peeled away from their paint to stage an impromptu midnight performance of Swan Lake in the main gallery. What will tonight’s show be?
The dark-haired one from the first night dances past me on the way back to her frame but stops before she goes, turns back to grin at me wildly, then launches into a set of pirouettes. She spins en pointe, around and around, a bravura encore to tonight’s performance.
She’s stunning, and as she whips through the turns, she takes my breath away.
Not from desire though. From appreciation for the way she moves.
Then, at the last moment, she wobbles, and just like a top, she goes over, crashing to the floor.
My heart spikes in alarm, and I rush over to her, kneeling beside her, tense with worry. “Are you okay?”
She nods bravely as she cradles her foot.
“Let me help you,” I say gently. She seems too delicate for full volume.
She nods and leans against me, small and lithe. I loop my arm underneath her, and through my concern, I’m curious how she’ll feel. I’ve never touched one of the dancers. I’ve never touched any of the painted people.
She feels real. Warm skin, beating heart. Like me. Like life. Why that should surprise me, considering I’m surrounded by paintings that leave their frames to traipse through the gallery, nice as you please, I don’t know.
I support her as she rises and gets her feet under her. She’s a bit unsteady at first, then sturdy again.
A loose tendril of her hair brushes my arm. It’s the unexpected evidence that shakes me, knocks home the realization of how lifelike she is.
Beautiful, talented, and fully alive.
But only at night.
The dancer tucks the stray hair into its proper place and murmurs, “Merci.” Then, I help her into her frame, the canvas wrapping gently around her as if being careful of her injury.
The museum is still again.
I’m amazed I don’t have more doubts than I do. After all, the dancers don’t twirl for the visitors during the day or for my sister when she works well into the evening. And once the dancers take their figurative bow, the galleries will stay quiet for the rest of the night. That’s just how it goes.
Whatever the reason, my life has become a Dalí landscape. This has become my version of normal.
On my way out, I stop at the spot where we will hang a new painting soon. Woman Wandering in the Irises. I concentrate for a moment, picturing it there, knowing how stunning it will look. The coveted Renoir would look magnificent anywhere.
Displaying Woman Wandering in the Irises is a major achievement, and it would be even if it was hideous—which it definitely is not. Lost for more than one hundred years, it’s the stuff that art collectors and historians around the world dream about. Now and then, people would claim to have seen it—spotted it in an antique shop, glimpsed it at a flea market. Finally, just weeks ago, the piece was found and authenticated. Now, Woman Wandering in the Irises is coming here. When I give my tours, it’ll be one of the final paintings I show. The best for last.
There.
Right there.
That’s where it’ll be.
My blood rushes faster when I imagine that beauty on the walls.
All the times I’ve gazed at a copy of that beautiful woman in the irises, and now to think of her here, becoming flesh at night . . .
I can only imagine what that would be like.
How much more I might feel.
How much more intense it would be than the moments with the dancers.
I catch myself getting uncomfortably lost in my imagination, and I grimace and give myself a good, hard mental slap.
Pull yourself together, Julien.
I’m a guy with a crush on a painting.
There it is, in all its embarrassing honesty.
I shake it off, laughing a little at myself. I’ve just built a little bit of a fantasy to fill the gap left by the breakup with Jenny. Transference or something. It’s not vastly different than an image of a model or movie star.
Except . . . it’s a painting.
And I have to face facts—it’s not the strangest thing these days. Or nights, rather.
I head out, saying goodbye to the security guards. Charles isn’t at the desk tonight. The gray-haired one, Gustave, is there and gives me a curt nod. He’s fiddling with a piece of copper wire and teardrop crystals that he bends and twists into a miniature sculpture. He’s an artist too.
