Immortal Muse (63 page)

“I can change that for you,” Camille said. She lifted her hand from his and reached into her purse. She took out a small glass tube, placing it on the sheet over his chest where he could see it. A deep blue liquid nestled inside the glass.

“Is that . . . ?”

“Yes,” she told him. “All you have to do is drink it.”

“Then what?” he asked. His eyes were darker bruises in the center of purple and green swellings. “I become like Pierce? Or like you? Or your damn cat?”

“I don't know,” she answered, stung by the vitriol in his response. “There's no way
to
know. I've told you that. But I do know what else the elixir can do. I know you wouldn't have to worry about your wound or surgeries, ever again.”

David's hands, shaking and trailing the plastic line of the saline, plucked the elixir from his chest. He held it up to the fluorescent lights in the ceiling, staring hard. His eyes closed again, fingers tightening around the glass. Then he was staring at her, and he was holdin
g out the elixir toward her. “Take it,” he said. “I don't want it.”

“David . . .”

“Take it!”
he said loudly, which set him to coughing. She took the test tube as his body was wracked with the coughs. He groaned, pressing the button for the morphine drip. When the spasms stopped, he wiped at his mouth with the sleeve of his hospital gown. “Camille, you should go.”

His soul-heart was closed, a tight shell inside him that she couldn't touch. Her mind slid around it as if it were slick ice. “All right,” she said. “I'll come back again soon. In the meantime, I'll get the apartment ready for you. Mercedes is there right now; she's been helping me.” She didn't trust herself to say any more. She rose from the chair, reaching down to touch his hand again. It was like touching a stone. “I'll see you soon.”

“Camille,” David said as she started to leave. “I don't know how to say this, so I'll just spit it out. When I come home, I don't want you to be there.” She stopped. She couldn't look back. “I don't hate you,” he continued. “But after all this . . . I can't be with you, either. I'm sorry. I can't.”

She forced herself to smile as she turned. “I . . .” she began, then had to start again as her voice betrayed her. “This has been hard on both of us,” she said. “I'll do whatever you want; I'll be whatever you want me to be. It's up to you, David. We'll talk later, when we can both look at things more objectively.”

He didn't answer her. His eyes closed. She watched the rise and fall of his chest for several seconds before she left the room.

T
H
E PERCUSSIVE SOUND of the piano swelled in the front room of the house, the intricate twists and riffles of the melody wafting from the open windows to dance above the lawn in the cool Pennsylvania evening and pirouette between the oak and pines surrounding the house. The woman crouched over the keys—a Bosendorfer concert grand, the lid canted to throw the sound back into the room—was Asian, perhaps in her mid-thirties. Her name was Ami Huang. She played with her eyes closed as her right hand coaxed an intricate counterpoint from the shifting foundation of the block chords she played with her left hand. A faint humming came from her throat, just ahead of the melody, as if she were sounding out the path of the notes before she played them. A video foil was unrolled on top of the piano, transcribing the notes as she played them, an eternal double staff rolling across the screen, dotted with the black spermatozoa of quarter and eighth notes.

A younger-looking woman sat on a worn leather couch facing the grand piano, a cat purring on her lap. She was red-haired and short, and the blue light of her own video foil touched the ridges of her face as she listened. She called herself Sarah Miles now, and she suddenly gave a cry as her gaze skimmed the text on the screen. Ami's melody halted in mid-phrase, the video foil recorder on the piano going dark and the chords fading slowly as she rose from the piano bench and came over to sit alongside Sarah.

She touched Sarah's shoulder with long, delicate fingers. The cat looked up at her, its ears flattened, and it hissed warningly. Ami drew her hand back. “I'm not going to leave, Verdette, so you might as well stop it,” Ami scolded as the cat leaped to the floor and away. “What's wrong, love?” she asked, and Sarah shivered as if noticing Ami for the first time. Sarah shook her head; she touched the video foil and it rolled into a tight, small scroll on her lap. The cat glared at them from under the piano.

“Nothing. It's nothing . . .” Sarah brushed at her eyes, her hand searching out a cameo brooch around her neck, dangling at the end of a golden chain. “Don't stop. Play what you were just playing,” she said to the older woman. “That was a lovely melody.”

The pianist smiled. “It's your fault,” she said. “You inspire me, dear. These last several years, well . . .” Leaning in, she kissed Sarah, a brushing of familiar lips, a gesture between lovers who were well past the initial heat and flame of infatuation. Ami hugged Sarah hard.

“I want to hear more,” Sarah told her. “Go on; I didn't mean to interrupt you.”

Ami kissed her again, then went back to the piano. A minor 7th chord sounded, low and resonant and as thick as liquid chocolate, then the melody began again, chasing the chord into brighter places. The foil on the piano began recording the notation once more. Sarah listened, a faint smile on her face. When Ami's eyes closed again as she played, Sarah touched the video foil on her lap, and it snapped open. She glanced at the words, blurred by unbidden tears.

David Treadway, Pulitzer-winning photographer and graphic artist, arguably among the best known of the “Bent Calliope Group” of creative artists, has died at age 83 after a series of debilitating strokes. Treadway is survived by his second wife, Kristin Emerson, who was also a photographer, though not a member of the Bent Calliope Group. Treadway's career blossomed in the years following the death of his first wife Helen (née Meeks), murdered in an apparent robbery. Her suspected murderer then abducted Treadway and attempted to murder him as well, but died in a fire that followed Treadway's rescue by a NYC detective.

Treadway would meet Kristin a few years later, and the couple moved from New York City to New Mexico after their marriage. Treadway is also survived by two children with Kristin: Aaron Treadway, 49, and Michelle Treadway, 46, as well as five grandchildren and one great-grandchild.

The Bent Calliope Group also included among its members the award-winning magic realist novelist Mercedes Vargas, whose longtime partner Camille Kenny had a small reputation as a landscape painter, though the two of them are far better known for their unexplained disappearance. The group was also renowned for the tragically short-lived sculptor Morris Johnson, whose piece “Vengeance” is displayed at the Rockefeller Sculpture Garden at MoMA.

David Treadway himself is best remembered for . . .

Sarah touched the foil again, this time wiping the obituary.

“David . . .” She breathed the name, her fingers scissoring around a sardonyx pendant at her throat.

The two bare syllables seemed to wrap themselves around the melody and the radiance of Ami's green heart, lifting away from Sarah and floating out into the night.

A
s stated in the Acknowledgments at the beginning of this book, please
do not
mistake the genuine historical characters for the fictionalized versions I've presented here. However, I thought certain readers might find it interesting to know some details of what was “true” in the novel and what was not.

PERENELLE & NICOLAS FLAMEL:
These two characters really did exist, though the evidence that Nicolas was actually an alchemist is conjectural despite being much repeated (heck, even J.K. Rowling mentions the Flamels briefly in the first
Harry Potter
book). The Flamels
were
wealthy, and there are records of substantial charitable donations as well as several Parisian buildings owned by Nicolas. However, my speculation that Nicolas made himself richer through buying the houses of Jews who were forced to leave Paris, then reselling them for a profit, is exactly that: speculation . . . but then so are almost all of the details of his life. The restaurant at rue de Montmorency is a genuine establishment, and the building it inhabits was indeed built for Nicolas Flamel in 1407. However, it postdates Perenelle's usual death date and was evidently not a house Nicolas built in which to live, but was another of his charitable works—a dwelling for the indigent.

Étienne Marcel, Provost of Paris, was assassinated in July of 1358, but not by Nicolas Flamel and not at a dinner party—he was killed at the Porte Saint-Antoine when he attempted to open those gates for Charles of Navarre's men. The Dauphin Charles, later to be King Charles V, entered the city a few days later to complete the downfall of Marcel's faction.

The story that Nicolas and Perenelle were alchemists appears to have been started in the 1500s and later—possibly as an explanation for how someone who sold books and served as a scrivener managed to become so wealthy. There is an alchemical book attributed to Nicolas, but the extant copy of that book was published in 1612, centuries after his lifetime. Whether Nicolas and Perenelle really possessed the
Book of Abraham the Mage
is anyone's guess. The tale of Nicolas' tomb being empty is an old one, but again has no definitive proof. I've actually viewed Nicolas' tombstone in the Musée de Cluny in Paris. However, the “arcane alchemical symbols” that many claim are carved on it can also be construed as being straight Christian symbology as well. Want a look without going to Paris? Try here (http://hermetism.free.fr/images/Nicolas Flamel tombe.jpg) or search the web for “Nicolas Flamel tombstone.”

And, obviously, there is absolutely no proof that Nicolas and Perenelle lived beyond the usual lifespan, nor that they interfered in anyone else's lives.

Alas, no paintings or sketches survive from the time to allow us to glimpse what Nicolas and Perenelle might have actually looked like.

GIANLORENZO BERNINI:
There is indeed a bust of Costanza by Gianlorenzo Bernini, which is considered to be one of his masterpieces, though the date of Costanza's bust varies quite widely: I've seen attributions ranging anywhere from as early as 1633 to as late as 1638; I've gone with 1636-1637 in the novel. Costanza
was
Bernini's mistress, and yes, she was married to one of Bernini's assistants. When Bernini began to suspect that his brother was
also
having an affair with Costanza—Bernini supposedly saw him leaving Costanza's house and kissing her when she was dressed only in her night shift—Bernini hired someone to slash poor Costanza's face and tried to kill his brother. For that, his brother was exiled, while Bernini was ordered to pay a fine. He wouldn't ever pay that fine, since Pope Urban VIII stepped in to save his favorite artist, and forgave the fine provided that Bernini married Caterina Tezio (which is what Nicolas hints at the end of Bernini's trial). Caterina was the daughter of a prominent lawyer who was also friendly with the pope. Bernini agreed to this arrangement, and he and Caterina would remain married for 34 years and produce 11 children.

Of the poor disfigured Costanza, very little is recorded after that horrible incident; she vanishes from history.

If you'd like to see the bust of Costanza, you can find a multitude of images on the web: for instance, here (http://www.wga.hu/frames-e .html?/html/b/bernini/gianlore/sculptur/1630/bonarell.html) or here (http://www.getty.edu/visit/events/mcphee_lecture.html). Or you can go to the
Museo Nazionale del Bargello
in Florence, Italy, where it's on display. That would be the best way of all to see it!

ANTONIO VIVALDI
: Anna Giraud (alternate spelling: Giro) was a student of Vivaldi's in whom he took an intense interest, and Anna and her sister did indeed live with him for many years—the evidence that Vivaldi and Anna were lovers is rather convincing. It was convincing enough, in fact, that the Cardinal-Bishop of Ferrara
did
refuse Vivaldi permission to enter the city and revoked the musician's commission to put on operas there. In response, Vivaldi wrote a letter to the Cardinal-Bishop emphatically denying his romantic involvement with Anna; that seems to have ended their public closeness, according to some accounts. Anna and Vivaldi certainly were with each other at various times afterward, but mostly away from Venice.

The playwright Carlo Goldoni, in whose company Nicolas is found in the novel, is also a historical personage—and the Teatro San Salvatore, where Vivaldi and Anna go to see an opera in the novel, was a genuine theater, is still in use, and is now (interestingly) named the Teatro Goldoni. Goldoni's words to his companions about Vivaldi and Anna are a paraphrase of a comment he wrote and which has been preserved: “This priest, an excellent violinist but a mediocre composer, has trained Miss Giraud to be a singer. She was young, born in Venice, but the daughter of a French wigmaker. She was not beautiful, though she was elegant, small in stature, with beautiful eyes and a fascinating mouth. She has a small voice, but many languages in which to harangue.” I loved that last line—so wonderfully wicked. And it fits Perenelle, who in this book speaks several languages.

There are a few (very few) paintings and sketches of Vivaldi (for instance, at: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/1b/Antonio_Vivaldi.jpg) but I was unable to track down a verifiable image of Anna.

ANTOINE LAVOISIER
: Antoine Lavoisier and his wife Marie-Anne are both real characters, and Antoine did die by the guillotine during the French Revolution after accusations were brought against him. It was one of many tragedies of the time. “The Republic needs neither scientists nor chemists; the course of justice cannot be delayed” is an actual quote from the trial by the judge, and his friend Lagrange did indeed say after the execution that: “It took them only an instant to cut off his head, but France may not produce another such head in a century.”

I've conveniently ignored the fact that Marie-Anne lived to the ripe old age of 78, ran a scientific salon, and married (evidently unhappily) again.

I have no clue as to whether Marie-Anne and Antoine had a cat.

A wonderful portrait of Antoine and Marie-Anne was painted by Jacques-Louis David (David could have perhaps interceded for Antoine with the leaders of the Revolution, but did not), and can be viewed at
http://www.bc.edu/bc_org/avp/cas/his/CoreArt/art/resourcesb/dav _lavois.jpg.

JOHN WILLIAM POLIDORI
: I really must apologize to the memory of John William Polidori, for in making him an incarnation of Nicolas Flamel, I also made him rather sinister when there is absolutely no evidence that Polidori was anything more than an honorable physician and writer. Polidori did write the seminal novel of vampires, “The Vampyre,” and was indeed Lord Byron's physician, though I have conjectured here that Polidori and Byron were acquainted before Polidori received his medical degree, for which there's no historical evidence. “Emily Pauls” is entirely fictional; there is no one of that name in the historical record. However, Lord Byron, Percy Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft, and William Blake were all well aware of each other, and Shelley and Mary did run away together in that year.

The “King's Square” mentioned in this section is now called “Soho Square”—and King Charles II's statue still stands there, as I know from having visited London in 2012. The statue is no longer in the center of the square, and has been rather much damaged over the years. The square itself is no longer residential, and only a few buildings survive from the time described in the book. Interestingly (well, to me, anyway) at one point Charles' face was sliced off the head of the statue, though it was cemented back into place when the statue was restored in the 1930s. I couldn't help but stare at it hoping to see Nicolas' face appear in its place.

And there really
was
a Great London Beer Flood in October of 1814. Don't believe me? Here's a link: http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A42129876—the Great London Beer Flood killed nine people and destroyed several houses. Of course, the Great Beer Flood was actually an accident, not the result of a battle between Nicolas and Perenelle. The British Museum is now only a few blocks down on the same street that was a slum in 1814.

The online National Portrait Gallery of the UK has a Gainsford portrait of Polidori—you can see it at http://www.npg.org.uk/collections /search/largerimage.php?mkey=mw05070

“The Vampyre” is available as an e-book from Project Gutenberg at http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/6087

GUSTAV KLIMT
: One of my favorite painters, and one of the darlings of the Art Nouveau movement—in Austria called the “Vienna Secessionist” movement. Emilie Flöge was certainly Klimt's true muse and most constant companion, though he would never marry her, and some historians question whether the two of them were ever lovers in the physical sense. Certainly Klimt had affairs with several other of his models, some of whom bore children that Klimt acknowledged as his own. But when Klimt was on his deathbed, there was only one person he called for: Emilie.

Vienna, at the turn of the century, was indeed a place of grandeur and pomp and gilt, but it was also a place that had perhaps the highest suicide rate in all of Europe. Their society was obsessed with death as much as it was obsessed with beauty.

There was no Gabriele; she is a fiction. Many of Klimt's subjects were well-known women in Vienna, but as many others aren't identified; count Gabriele as among them. And Klimt
did
like redheads . . .

There was also no Anton Srna, though there was a photography exhibition, and Anton Srna's name was plucked from that of two different exhibitors. It seemed to me appropriate that an alchemist would become involved in a process that heavily involves silver and chemistry.

Klimt died of a cerebral hemorrhage (not of a flawed immortality potion) in 1918 at age 55, leaving several works unfinished. Emilie would outlive him by decades; maybe
she
took the true potion?

CHARLOTTE SALOMON
: While Anaïs Dereux, Perenelle's incarnation in this section, is entirely fictional, Charlotte Salomon is all too real, all too talented a person, and all too poignant a tale, only a portion of which is glimpsed—as always, greatly altered and fictionalized—in what I've presented here. It's true that suicide ran tragically in her family, with both her mother and her grandmother killing themselves by jumping from a high window; judging from Charlotte's drawings in
Life? or Theater?
, she feared that she might one day do the same. Luckily for us, she did not, and instead rendered her life in the exquisite pictures of her masterwork. If you google her name and look at the images that are linked there, you'll have the chance to glimpse some of these. As for Charlotte herself, there aren't many photographs of her that have survived. If you're curious, you might look here (http://www.ynetnews .com/articles/0,7340,L-3274438,00.html) or here (http://www.jewish-theatre.com/visitor/article_display.aspx?articleID=734).

There was no Anaïs in her life, no relationship with anyone like her, and no attempted rescue of Lotte and Alexander from the clutches of the Nazis. Lotte and her grandfather were interred at the Gurs camp for a few months in 1940; they were released due to her grandfather's ill health and both were allowed to return to Nice—which saved Lotte for enough time for her to create
Life? or Theatre?
However, not long after Lotte married Alexander Nagler (after the Germans took over the Nice region following the Italian surrender), they were both gathered up as so many others were and transported away from France, the majority of them to die in the camps. There is no direct record of Charlotte's death; it seems she was one of the many women culled from the transports as “useless” (because of her pregnancy) and sent directly to the gas chambers upon arrival at Auschwitz, while Alexander was placed in hard labor.

As for Nicolas in this time period: unlike the case with Polidori, in this instance I think I may have done
Nicolas
the injustice by giving him the identity of Alois Brunner, who was unfortunately a very real character and was directly responsible for the death of thousands of Jews, including Charlotte Salomon. I couldn't possibly make Nicolas as vile as the reality: if there is evil in the world, Alois Brunner was a significant manifestation. He vanished for a time after 1945—and in my fictional world, that was Nicolas changing identities once more. In reality, he resurfaced in the 1950s and took refuge in various countries in the Middle East. According to the Jewish virtual Library, (http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Holocaust/Brunner.html), he was interviewed in 1987 by telephone for the
Chicago Sun Times,
and said then: “The Jews deserved to die. I have no regrets. If I had the chance I would do it again . . .”

DAVID TREADWAY
: It should go without saying that there is no real David Treadway, Camille Kenny, or Timothy Pierce—well, there may well be a David Treadway, Camille Kenny, or Timothy Pierce
somewhere
in the world, but I'm not aware of them and the David, Camille, and Timothy in the book have no connection to them at all. Those characters, and those around them, are made entirely of fictional cloth.