Immortal Muse (8 page)

 * * * 

He
r sleep that night was restless and disturbed. When she did fall asleep, her dreams were haunted by a man chasing her with a sword through a bewildering city landscape—both modern and ancient, all at once. Though she couldn't see the face of her attacker, she knew who it was, and the knowledge made her try to run faster, but in nightmare slowness, her legs refused to respond and he was nearly upon her as she fell, as she heard him laugh, as she heard the
snick
of the blade through the air and felt it pierce her neck.

She could see the blood spurting, felt her head separate from her body, and the world rolled crazily as her head went careening away.

She screamed and woke suddenly in her bed, the echo of the scream already fading in her ears, with her bed sheets wound around her and her head pounding. The sun was up, splashing light against the far wall; the clock by her bed said 7:32. The taste of old Guinness was in her mouth. “Christ, it's too early,” she muttered. Her cat Verdette—a gray-furred French Chartreux—stared at her in annoyance from the bottom of the bed. Camille lay back, trying to find sleep again and knowing it was already hopeless. With a sigh, she swept aside the covers and sat on the side of the bed, stroking the cat, which began to purr.

“If only everyone were that easy to satisfy,” she told her, “it'd be a much better world.” She sat there a long time, with Verdette curled contentedly on her lap. Finally, she realized that she'd made a decision.

She called David later that morning, when she figured he might reasonably be awake. The sound of his low voice in her ear made her smile. “Camille? I didn't expect . . .” His voice trailed off.

“I'm really sorry about the end of last night,” she said. “I hardly ever drink like that, not that I expect you to believe me. And judging by the way my head's pounding this morning, that's a damned good thing. I just wanted you to know that I appreciate, well, everything.” She took a sip of the strong coffee she'd brewed—she was on her third mug now—and hurried into the words she'd prepared. “David, I never gave you the answer I intended to last night. I've been thinking about your offer. The answer's ‘yes.' If you're still interested in photographing me, you can.”

Over the phone, she heard the soft clatter of keys, as if he were typing on a laptop. “You're sure?” he asked

“I'm sure.”

“Then . . . Do you want to come to my studio later this afternoon? I'm free today if you are. Maybe around 3:00?”

“I'll be there.” The silence between them stretched too long. She could hear his breathing. Her gaze went around her apartment: the three paintings on their easels, unfinished and (to her mind) unsatisfactory; the equally unsatisfactory ones she'd actually put on the walls; the violin propped in one corner, the case pale with dust; the neatly-labeled jars at the rear of the kitchen table, with their brightly-colored powders and crystals; the Tarot deck wrapped in silk to one side.

Her life in a few quiet images.

You're sure you want to do this, so soon? After what happened the last time? Without having found Nicolas yet?

“I'll see you in a bit, then,” she said finally. As she ended the call she looked at Verdette, and touched, softly, the pendant around her neck. “I know it's a mistake,” she told the cat. “But it's mine to make, isn't it?”

 * * * 

Da
vid's studio was on the third floor of what had once been an industrial building now turned into residential apartments; he and his wife Helen lived on the second floor below the studio. Camille thought the lower floor of the apartment was more Helen than David. It smelled of her, a faint sharp perfume, and the interior decorating was too perfect, too mannered and too
Architectural Digest
to be David, she thought. Helen didn't appear to be home; at least she made no appearance as David let her wander around, and David didn't mention her.

But she was there, in spirit if not in fact.

None of David's prints were on the walls of the living area. There were, instead, framed reproductions of paintings—expensive prints on textured canvas. “Monet, Degas, Sisley, Renoir, Mary Cassatt,” Camille said, glancing at them one by one. “Someone really likes the Impressionists.” Camille stopped in front of another one set near the stairway leading to the upstairs. “Gustav Klimt,” she said. “
Portrait of Emilie
.” She nearly whispered the name, then took a long breath. “Interesting. She was his true muse. The painting's out of period with the rest, though.”

“That one's my choice, I'm afraid—the painting just really struck me when I saw it. You obviously know your art.”

“I'm a bit of an art history buff,” she said. “You know that Gustav slept with most of his models, don't you? He had children by some of them as well, but never with Emilie. Poor, dear Emilie.” She stared at the Klimt for several seconds more before turning back to David with a smile. His eyes had widened, but he said nothing.

She'd worn a simple white tank top over her bra, an old, comfortable pair of jeans, and the sardonyx pendant on its golden chain over the tank top: casual clothing that said she didn't consider this a special occasion. Minimal makeup. Just another day. She could sense him watching her as she peered around the apartment. “Nice place,” she said. “I'm glad you didn't come in last night. My apartment's a complete wreck. This . . . It's very nice, David.”

“I can't take credit for it,” he told her. He pointed to the ceiling. “I'm only responsible for what's up there.”

“And the Klimt.”

“And the Klimt,” he agreed.

They walked up the open metal staircase to the cluttered studio above. Here, little had been touched. The walls were unpainted, gouged drywall, with exposed brick in the corners. The wooden floor was stained and scratched, the ceiling high with exposed beams and ancient fluorescent fixtures dangling from wires. Long black extension cords writhed over the floor like motionless constrictors. There were two still life studies set up with flood lighting arranged around them, several stands with rolls of backdrop paper, tripods and studio lights with the black wings of shutters attached to them. She wandered around while David watched her. Barber's
Adagio for Strings
was playing on a stereo system attached to an iPod.

“Classical?” she asked. “Really?”

“My tastes are eclectic,” he answered. “The next song could be anything from Celtic to metal. I like being surprised.”

“Good,” she told him.

David had several of his prints arrayed along one wall, the line of them uneven, some in frames, some matted but unframed, a few simply dry-mounted on poster board—yes, the artwork on the walls downstairs was definitely Helen's, Camille decided. She walked slowly along the line of photos, looking carefully at each one. A few of them were nudes—not Helen, but other women. Camille could feel David watching her, heard a camera lens snap onto a camera body.

Here, in his studio, in this place that was full of him, she felt David's pull intensely. His green heart swelled and the aura of it surrounded him.

“Like them?” he asked.

“Wonderful compositions, gorgeous lighting, and truly appalling presentation,” she said. “But I see why your clients like you, anyway.”

“I wish Helen felt that way,” he said it quickly, then seemed to regret the statement. “Sorry,” he said. “It's just . . .”

“Just what?”

She thought for a moment that he wasn't going to answer. He pointed the camera in Camille's direction and snapped a shot. “She thinks I should be looking at another career. Sometimes I can believe her. Those clients you mentioned have been scarce recently. I'm not that up-and-coming young guy anymore; I'm becoming the guy who almost made it and didn't.” Camille nodded, ignoring the camera. “You know,” he said, “I really should have you sign the release form.”

“I told you I didn't need a release. I trust you.”

“A release protects both of us, not just you.” He sounded like he was reciting something he'd memorized.

“Do you think you need protection from me? Do I look that frightening?”

He chuckled at that. “Hardly. But I can't afford to be sued. This is all I have, right here.”

Camille smiled. “Then don't do anything with the pictures without asking me first. And trust me.”

His sigh was just louder than the outside traffic. “Helen checked with a law firm where she works, and they said—”

“There's nothing magical about forms,” she told him. “My signature on a line isn't a talisman. It won't ward off bad things or lend you any real protection at all, and it won't stop me from doing whatever I want to do.” He was already shaking his head. “Fine,” she said. “Give me the damn release.”

She signed the form without looking at the words there, handing it back to him. Their hands touched as he took the form, and she felt the warmth of his skin, the softness of his fingertips. She wondered what they might feel like on her face, or running along the length of her arm. “Thank you,” he said. “I'll make you a copy before you leave.”

She smiled at him. “Hope you and your lawyer feel better now. I don't need a copy, though. I trust you, David.” She continued wandering around the studio, going to the large south-facing windows. She leaned against the wooden frame: chipped white paint, the window grimy and dusty. From the side, she heard the clicking of a motorized shutter.

“That's good,” he said. “Stay there, Camille; the light's wonderful. Don't try to pose. Just be yourself.”

She could visualize what he was seeing in the camera's viewfinder: a strong chiaroscuro with the sunlight streaming through the glass, the studio a darkness behind her. Her face would be almost a cameo, like the one around her neck. She cupped the pendant in her hand, the shutter continuing to click.

The air around her was charged and electric—it was David that she felt: his energy, his passion, his promise. She let the atmosphere envelop her, inhaling it as if it were sweet oxygen. She looked at him from under lowered eyelids—at him, at the lens of the camera. “Yes, that's right. Excellent,” she heard him say. The shutter continued its relentless, imperative beat: a mechanical heart.

Click. Click. Click . . .

She could sense him, staring at her through the viewfinder, all of his focus there. She was his world, all that he saw right now. She reached down, her hands crossed at her waist, and took the hem of the tee, pulling it slowly up. She heard him inhale, but he said nothing. He didn't encourage her, but he also didn't stop her.

Click. Click. Click . . .

She pulled the tee over her head and off, let it drop to the floor. Her head down, her hair a red-highlighted waterfall over her shoulders, she opened the front clasp of her bra. She slipped the straps down her shoulders, let them fall. She could feel the cold stone and metal of the pendant between her breasts. The entire time she looked up at him, at the camera, her expression almost defiant, her chin lifted.

“Do you always leave that on?” David asked. She realized, almost belatedly, that he was talking about the pendant.

“Yes,” she told him. “Always.”

The single eye of the lens stared at her, hungrily. She had seen artists stare at her that way before. Before, she had nearly always also been their lovers.

Click. Click. Click . . .

She turned sideways to David again, looking through the window once more to the skyline outside. She could feel the sun, could feel the air moving across her breasts like the arousing caress of a ghost.
It's always like this, the first time. A frightened heat in your belly, a shivering anxiousness. He feels it, too. Listen to how his breath shivers . . .

Click. Click. Click . . .

His hand touched her bare shoulder. He still held the camera to his eye with his other hand. “I want you to turn—” he began. His hand slid toward her neck; she caught it between head and shoulder, trapping it there, luxuriating in the feel of his caress. She smiled up to him, hearing the click of the camera's motor drive. She found his hand with hers, brought it down so it just touched the swell of her breast . . .

“What the hell!” The voice—a woman's voice—swept away the vitality and strength and heat in the room and stopped the heartbeat of the camera. David pulled his hand away. Camille's head craned around as her own hands, instinctively, started to move to cover her breasts. She forced them to stay down, to look as calm as if she were fully dressed. The woman was attired in a business pants suit, the bangs of her hair, cut in a conservative bob, dark with sweat as if she'd just walked several blocks.

“Helen? What are you doing here this early?” David lowered the camera as he took a step away from Camille. He looked from Helen to Camille and back.

“Interrupting your afternoon fun, it looks like,” she answered. Helen glared at Camille her gaze dropping once to her exposed breasts and the sardonyx cameo there. “You—whoever you are—put your clothes on and get the hell out of here.”

“David was photographing me, that's all,” Camille said. “I'm just . . . just a model.”

“I'm sure that's all you are,” Helen answered, her voice low and angry. “Now, get out of here.”

Camille put on her bra, slipped the tee over her head again. Helen stood in the doorway to the studio, watching her. “He's much more talented than you think he is,” she said as she passed the woman. “You should open your eyes and see it. You should love him for his gift.”

Helen sucked in her breath as if she were about to retort, but said nothing. Her blue eyes were searing, her hands were curled into fists with polished red fingernails digging into flesh. Camille kept walking.