Chapter 8

Everyone was hurrying home before the storm hit. The train, always busy this time of day, was bursting at the seams now with people all bundled up in wool or vinyl, either swiping along the screens of their phones, or else gazing blankly into the abyssal blackness of the tunnel.

I tried hard to avoid any eye contact. In a sea of commuters in grey wool and starched white cotton, my paint-splattered jeans, beat-up sneakers, and pea coat with its bad-and-getting-worse rip in the shoulder stood out like a dozen sore thumbs. I could feel the man beside me staring, probably wondering if I was going to ask him for money. I kept my eyes where they belonged, glued to the floor between my feet, where my satchel sat brimming with brushes, fresh paints, sloshing bottles of turpentine, gesso, and linseed oil, and the single largest piece of linen canvas I’d ever tried to fold up in my life. My left foot tapped as the train rattled on.

I’d run out to buy everything during my lunch break, using up about half the roll of bills Mr. Caine had given me. True to form, Madame d’Aulnoir took a nosy interest in the bags I brought back. ‘Did I never tell you, chérie? My fourth husband was an art dealer in Vienna!’ She sifted through my selections as if picking out flowers, and wrinkled her nose at the cheap wooden palette I’d purchased. ‘Stay put, chérie. I have something you should see.’ Then from upstairs, she returned with a lovely glass palette that she swore up-and-down once belonged to Egon Schiele. I had my doubts, but kept them to myself, and despite my protests, I watched her slip it blithely into my bag. Just like the dress, she wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.

I’d thanked her, feeling both bulldozed and grateful again, and nodded politely as she rambled through the fantastic chronicle of its acquisition, to include such tableaux as Madame riding bareback through the Black Forest, a down-on-his-luck art thief (husband-to-be, maybe?), and no fewer than fifteen Austrian gypsies. At least while she was looking at me, I tried hard not to glance at the clock.

Spinning wheels. Swiss watch.

When finally I could make my escape, I disappeared into the dressing room to pull on my paint clothes in the same little stall where I’d donned her Mondrian dress just a couple nights earlier. Things were bound to get messy, and this time at least, I was going to be ready. Honestly though, it was some sort of miracle I’d brought the dress back in one piece. How she expected me to keep a priceless piece of glass intact, I was almost afraid to say.

I felt for the palette, tucked safely between the folds of the canvas, and sighed. My stomach grumbled. I shifted, trying not to bump into the wide-spread men on either side of me. Having skipped out on lunch again, all I’d had that day was the dregs of some vanilla yogurt and some stale coffee around sunrise. On the door to the refrigerator, I’d found a sweet little note from Marie, wishing me luck.

Suppose they’re on the road already. I bit my lip. Hope they don’t get stuck in the storm.

Marie and Serge were stealing down to Toronto for a few days—something to do with contracts on the venue they wanted for their show. It sounded urgent and important while she was telling me about it, but to be honest I was only half-listening. With her flair for drama, it was hard to tell which crises were real, and which ones were just smoke and mirrors.

I frowned, feeling guilty now for having brushed her off, and slipped out my phone to text some well-wishes of my own. I was going to miss Marie. With her gone, I’d be stuck slogging through this weird, nerve-wracking week all alone.

At least there was Peter. I couldn’t believe how generous he was being, letting me come and use his studio. He even called me while I was at work to give directions, as well as the name of a little hardware store nearby. I called them up right after, eager to get some stretcher bars cut to Mr. Caine’s meticulous specifications.

The train hummed to stop in the cavernous brick grotto of Mont-Royal station. I slung the satchel over my shoulder and slipped out to the platform, getting jostled to-and-fro in the crowd. Near the edge, my shoulder scraped against one of a few dozen steel bars sunken into the brick, each pocked with sharp, molded polygons. The rip in the seam pulled deeper. I sighed and drew my coat closed, remembering Peter’s menacing obelisk. I wonder... I slid my fingers along the wall, catching the next metal protuberance as it passed. I wonder what it is he’s working on.

Up on the street it was cold and quiet—almost ominous, compared to the bustle down below ground. I could see stony grey clouds rolling in from the west. It’s going to get bad tonight, isn’t it? I shivered and crossed my arms, bending into the wind as I darted for the hand-painted marquee above Donatien’s Quincaillerie, and yanked open the door.

Inside it was cramped and poorly lit. It smelled of machine oil and sawdust. No one was in sight, but somewhere I could hear the muffled scream of a buzz saw. I walked up warily the counter and tapped the silver bell.

The sawing halted. A round, wizen-haired man with wild arched eyebrows and a long French nose emerged from the back. The sight of him startled me. He was entirely too big for his tiny store, with a body as wide as the aisles, and a head that almost scraped the low ceiling.

“Monsieur Donatien?” I cleared my throat.

He nodded, patting some shavings from the front of his apron, “Madame Foster?”

I nodded.

“Un moment. I am slicing your wood.”

He disappeared again through the doorway, and the saw resumed its squealing.

I shook my head, pacing away down a tight aisle lined with pipe straps, padlocks, and loops of chain in sundry gauges. My fingers slid softly along the links. They jingled against each other like a lumbering wind chime. Back in the back, the saw was still shrieking. I rounded the end, passing some wheels of braided rope. On a lark, I lifted a little bundled coil from the rack. Even through the oily air, I could smell its grassy fibers. I could feel it twist around my fingers, stiff and flaxen as straw. I shut my eyes, drifting back dreamily to the reed-daggered dunes down in Nags Head, to the stripes of sweetgrass along the shore. That’s the thing, isn’t it? Winter up here. I ran the rope across my palm. Not everything dies. But nothing grows at all, either. My fingers closed around the coil. I figured if nothing else, I could use it to tie up the wood.

Sauntering back to the counter, I paused to admire a little polychrome display of paint chips. My eyes danced over the reds, stopping somewhere in the fade from strawberry to blood. I drew my favorite from the rack, and read. ‘Cardinal.’ I sniffed, stuffing the chip in my pocket. Why wouldn’t it be?

The old man reemerged with six long wooden slats. Christ. I swallowed, stunned by the size of them. Eleven feet is enormous. He set the stack down by the door, perspiring, and ambled back behind the counter.

“You are sure this is all you need?” He gestured.

I glanced the wood over. The size was still shocking, but beyond that, the grain was gorgeous, and each piece was ramrod straight. I nodded again, anxious again to get started, and set the rope eagerly on the counter.

“Bien,” he rang it up, “But there are some sharp edges, Mademoiselle. Be careful you do not get hurt.”

“Merci, Monsieur,” I handed him the remainder of Mr. Caine’s money, “Gardez tout.”

I knelt down and began fumbling with the slats, trying pitifully to lash them together. He watched me for a moment, brows arched, then took over without a word, his rough hands jerking the rope into a firm and elegant knot.

“Merci beaucoup,” I thanked him again, grunting as I wrestled the bundle up, and tried to maneuver it to through the exit without wrecking his little store.

“Avec plaisir,” he scratched his head, “Do you have no one to help you, Mademoiselle?”

“I’m not going far,” I huffed, carefully guiding the far end over a pyramid of paint cans.

The address Peter gave me was just two short blocks away.

“That is good, I think,” he pursed his lips, “They say tonight will be the coldest all year. Moins vingt, sans facteur vent.”

Marvelous. I peered outside. Already the sun had vanished, and the sky was buried in a slate-gray mire of clouds. Just your luck, isn’t it. Penny?

“Restez au chaud, Mademoiselle.”

For the third time I thanked him, and pushed through the door, lugging my load with both arms. My teeth chattered as I struggled my way to the studio. First fall. Second fall. Simon of Cyrene. Veronica waves her hanky. At an empty crosswalk, my mind flashed again, profanely, through the Stations of the Cross.

I was panting a little, and a cold sweat had beaded up on my temples by the time I found the address. From the front it looked abandoned, but there was an old white flatbed on the curb outside, with a little Nova Scotian flag on the antenna. I shivered and smirked. Gotta be the place. Laying the wood down beside a steel door, I knocked lightly.

Nothing.

I balled my fist and knocked harder. The door swung open, and there stood Peter, wrapped in a grimy leather apron, with his welding mask flipped to the back of his head.

I leapt back. His clothes were powdered with pale plaster. His arms were sweat-slick and smudged in black ash. I grinned. It felt good not being the grubbiest of the two of us. And it was nice to see him, for once, not refined and natty like the other night, but filthy, and sunk in his work up to the elbows. It was a better look for him than I cared to admit, what with the way his shoulders filled out his shirt, and the rippling veins along his arms. I crossed my arms, my teeth still chattering. I tried not to stare.

“Evening, ma’am,” he beamed, “Welcome to Chez Mulgrave.”

“Thanks, Peter,” I shivered, “I um, really do appreciate this.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it,” he ran a gritty hand through his hair, and spotted the pile of wood at my feet. “Wow,” his eyes widened, “Not messing around tonight, are we? C’mon, lemme grab that,” with a gloved hand, he lifted the lumber for me, and I tailed him timidly inside.

Holy... I froze in the doorway, stunned by what I saw. The space was tremendous, with smooth cement floors, twenty-foot ceilings, and the last flecks of light streaming in through three enormous glass garage doors. To either side of us stood shelf upon shelf of moulded wax models, pots of plaster and polyurethane casts, and scraps of poured metal spruing scattered all over. Unreal, I breathed, barely aware that my mouth was dangling. He’s casting bronze in here, isn’t he?

Floored, I moved to a shelf of wax statues, tilting my head to admire them. They were entirely different from his welded obelisk, and not just because of the medium. Every last one, as far as I could see, depicted a human form; all subtly stylized, and sculpted in incremental variations on a theme. Some were male, though most were not. And at least in the larger ones, I could make out two bodies entwined. I reached up on my tiptoes, running my hand along a girl’s pale, angular elbow, and up the rough ridge of her arm. Am I crazy? My skin reddened. She looks familiar.

“Not bad, eh?” Peter shuffled his feet, and stuffed his hands in his pockets, “Place used to be a body shop. And I think a little steel mill before that.”

“Peter...” I murmured, “This is amazing.”

“Well, it’s no Hôtel Biron. But I guess it does in a pinch. A real pain to heat it, though.” He stepped over, helping me out of my coat, and hung it up alongside a huge parka of tattered leather, smeared with oil stains, and scorched black along the sleeves. “I mean I can bundle up easy enough,” he tossed his helmet and gloves down near our coats, “But my models are always complaining.”

I raised a brow. His models?

“C’mon. Over here,” he took my hand, “This. This is what I wanted to show you.”

He led me out of the maze of shelves, and again I stopped cold. There in the center, glowing brightly beneath a skylight and surrounded on three sides by scaffolding, was a massive, half-finished rendition of the amorous miniatures on his shelves. I gasped softly. The forms were towering, and still emerging from the wax. But from what he’d already chiseled away, I could make out a man and a woman entangled, both of them utterly bare. I edged closer, marveling. The girl was seated on a rough, round pillar, her arms raised high above her. The man knelt at her ankles, arms clasped about her waist, his face hidden between her thighs—like some gently bent homage to Rodin’s Eternal Idol. I blushed, circling slowly, and gazing through the battered, crisscrossing bars. The pose itself was more than shocking, but after his obelisk, the curves were much softer, sweeter even, than anything I would have expected from Peter.

“It’s stunning...” I breathed, barely audible.

“Here,” he put his hand on the small of my back, “Care for a closer look?”

He flipped a switch. I jumped as the floor lurched beneath us, and began to rumble and rise. It was a pneumatic lift—the kind they use to work on the undercarriages of cars—and inch-by-inch it carried us up to eye-level with his colossal statue. I clutched his arm as we jolted to a halt.

“See it yet?” He said softly.

See what? I squinted, shaking my head.

“Daphne and Apollo...” he nudged.

I bit my lip, still stumped. But then the details fell into focus. I saw how the girl’s hair was woven thick with laurel leaves, how her curled toes took root with the pillar beneath her. It seemed odd to me that he’d spent such time carving out these painstaking details—like David’s veins, or Proserpine’s pale thighs—yet the girl’s face he’d left formless, and blank. I bit my lip, trying hard not compare him to Bernini.

“It’s really something, Peter.”

“But seriously,” he crossed his arms, “What do you think? Like, critically or whatever.”

I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say. The theme itself was timeless. The composition modern. In fact, speaking critically, it didn’t seem all that different from his obelisk after all. Both were moving marriages of ancient, and avant-garde.

“Well I’m no critic,” my brow creased, “But I don’t think you need my help at all. It’s brilliant.”

“You’re sure?” He pulled me closer, “Not too derivative? Too played-out?”

I shifted anxiously in his arms.

“I mean, plenty of people have tried it. But this... this is—” I glanced down at his cunning Apollo, “It’s unique, to say the least.” The heights made me dizzy, and I clutched him a little harder, “It’s um, very vertical.”

“Yeah,” he smirked, mistaking my death-grip for something it wasn’t, “I was thinking ‘on a pedestal’, you know?” He turned to face me, “And I was thinking about what you said that night at Marie’s. How even Picasso couldn’t improve the nude, and Schiele couldn’t make it ugly,” he shrugged, “Just is what it is. The perfect subject. A work of art.”

My cheeks and chest glowed, “I must’ve been pretty drunk.”

“In vino veritas,” he chuckled. “You know, I’m really looking forward to having you here, Pens.” His tone fell lower, “Really. Reminds me of when I was first getting started. No money. No studio. No bed. Very self-conscious about my work.”

I bit my tongue, and let my eyes lose focus. About the last thing I needed right now was another man pointing out how pitiful and pathetic I was. Mr. Caine had given me enough of that to last half a lifetime. I cleared my throat, breaking away from him.

“But you said you were strictly non-objective, didn’t you?” I tried steering us back to abstractions. I was comfortable in abstraction, “Something change your mind?”

“Change of heart, more like it,” he scratched his head, sidling closer, “What’d that guy who translated Dante say? You told me that night,” he smirked, “Modern art is what happens when painters quit looking at girls, and convince themselves they have a better idea.”

Ciardi... I grimaced. Are there laurels in the seventh circle?

“Maybe,” I flushed crimson, retreating, “But I think I like Diderot better.”

He narrowed his eyes at me, still grinning.

“Mille peintres sont morts,” I murmured, “sans avoir senti la chair.”

He chuckled softly again, shaking his head.

“You’re nuts, you know that?” He touched my arm, “I just... I can’t believe how bright you are. You don’t even know.”

I dropped my eyes, embarrassed, just as he reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. By instinct, I jumped back, and just about tumbled right off the edge of the lift.

“Whoa!” He caught me, pulling me back to him, “Easy, Pens,” he steadied me, “Last thing I need is to be scraping you up off the floor.”

“Sorry,” I swallowed, “Just jumpy, I guess.”

“I’ll say.”

I wriggled my hips and he let me go, slipping his hands back in his pockets.

“So look, uh, I’ve got a confession to make.”

Don’t we all? I held my breath.

“You said I don’t need your help with this,” his brow was tense, “But you’re wrong.” He shook his head, “Truth is, I didn’t ask you here just to get your advice.”

I eyed him warily, “...what do you want from me, Peter?”

“Honestly,” his ears went red, “I uh, I was hoping you might pose for me.”

Pose? My brow furrowed, “Y-you mean like..?”

He nodded to his bare-skinned sculpture, and crossed his arms. I stared back at him, blushing furiously. Whatever I could’ve expected him to say, it absolutely wasn’t that.

“Come on,” I shook my head, “you’re joking, right?”

“I’m not,” he took off his glasses, wiping them on his shirttail, “Not at all, Pens.”

I spluttered at him, stunned, “Why? I mean, why me?”

As the initial shock wore off, I could feel a fire rising in my belly. He turned away from me, scratching his head. Whatever reaction he was hoping for, this clearly wasn’t it, either.

“What can I say, Pens?” He shrugged, “You’re a muse. You inspired me. Here I’ve been chipping away at this thing for weeks. Ever since that first night at Marie’s,” he combed a shaky hand through his hair, “And I’ve tried to ignore it. I’ve had some girls come through and sit for me. They’re good,” he frowned, “They are. But they aren’t you.”

My fire dimmed a little, doused by something like sympathy. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to believe what he was saying.

“It’s frustrating, you know? Sometimes it’s like torture,” he spun back to me, adjusting the glasses, “I mean, I’ve got this thing in front me. This image. It’s so clear, it feels like I could reach out and touch it. But every time I try,” his eyes darkened, “it just comes out empty. Like a shell. A husk,” he shook his head, “I really thought I had it with this last girl. That’s why I went big,” his lip curled, “But now, just look. It’s just more of the same.”

“Peter...” I murmured, at a loss for words.

“Then the other night, back at the gallery. Being there with you,” he looked down at me, his voice husky, “I think I finally figured out what was missing.”

“Peter, I...” my voice faltered, “I mean, I don’t—"

He stepped back a little, letting me breathe.

“I really don’t think...”

“I’m sorry,” he cut me off, rubbing his eyes, “That uh, that really wasn’t fair of me.” His jaw clenched, “I uh, I shouldn’t unload on you like that.”

I blinked at him, still baffled.

“Look, I don’t need an answer from you tonight. Just promise me you’ll think about it, Pens,” he nodded down to his faceless Daphne, “I mean, you can only carve so many laurel leaves. At some point, you gotta focus on what actually matters.”

Are there laurels in the seventh circle? My toes clenched as he flipped the switch, and lowered us back to the ground. Or apple trees? Péché Originel. L'Origine du monde. I still couldn’t quite remember how to speak. Even breathing wasn’t easy.

“C’mon,” he took my hand again, and a quiver moved up through my wrist, “I’ve got a little office upstairs. Thought we could set you up in there.”

Still reeling, I let him lead me up a precarious catwalk to a room overlooking the studio floor. My feet felt like lead. My heart was still pounding. He turned the door handle and flipped on a lamp.

“Voilà. Your private atelier, Madame.”

My eyes went wide, and a sharp chill skimmed through me. Is it real? I stepped in, doubting. Is this really for me? My lips parted. The walls were bare brick, and fitted with huge steel windows. The scuffed floors creaked underfoot. Along the far wall—his ‘office,’ I guess—stood a chesterfield, an antique radio, and a slate gray tanker desk, with a rusty old shotgun mounted above. He saw me staring, and scratched his head.

“It was my Dad’s,” his arm dropped. “You know, he probably thought God was punishing him, having a son who’d rather see a Brâncuși exhibit than go out duck hunting with him.”

“...I take it you two aren’t close?” I breathed.

“He died. A couple years back,” his brow creased, and he shook his head, “But yeah, we never quite saw eye-to-eye.”

I saw him blink some dew from his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Peter.”

“Hey, c’est la vie, right?” He shrugged it off, “Kinda nice having his gun around, really. Somebody broke in last spring, and made off with a couple grand worth of tools.”

I nodded absently, running my fingers along the rough brick. The whole rest of the room was spare, and weathered. Blank canvas. I breathed softly, biting my lip. Another rosy tingle was moving through me as I tiptoed up to the window, watching the snowflakes swarm like satin moths, and flutter dreamily against the glass.

“So what do you think?” He followed me, shuffling his feet, “Is this gonna do the trick?”

My breath fogged the window. I closed my eyes. It’s funny. For a moment, I actually felt like I might cry.

“It’s perfect,” I whispered, turning to him. “Really. It’s more than I could’ve hoped for...” I sighed, “I just—I don’t know how to repay you, Peter.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it.”

He smirked, and set his hand on my hip. I let him. Right then, right there, it felt right with him, and I actually kind of liked it.

“And look, about what I said earlier, Pens. I uh, I didn’t mean to—“

“...I’ll do it,” I murmured.

He stiffened. The words hung in the air, as startling to me as they were to him.

“Y-you will?” His voice was hoarse, “For real?”

I shut my eyes, resigned, and nodded. His hand slid higher, up onto my waist.

“Right now?”

My skin burned scarlet. Pushing his luck, isn’t he?

“If that’s what you want,” I bit my lip, “I just—I guess I’m nervous.”

He spun me round to him, “Don’t be. You’re beautiful, Pens. And we’ll do this right. I promise.” He pointed, his voice trembling with excitement, “There’s uh, there’s a fresh robe for you in the washroom,” he nodded, “You can undress in there. I swear, I won’t touch a hair on your head while we’re working. And we can stop any time you like. Cool?”

I swallowed the knot in my throat, and nodded. I had no illusion of knowing what I was doing. But he’d been so good to me—so free, and funny, and warm. I owed him something. And if this was the way to repay him, the way to please him, then at least in that tender, transient moment, I was willing. I could make myself open to him. I could make myself vulnerable. Nudes to heaven, I quivered. Naked, to hell. Are there apples in the seventh circle? ‘A girl who was deathly allergic...’ Did he drown after the fall?

Slipping lithely out of his grasp, I crossed over. I thought of La Fornarina, Bella Simonetta, Lizzie Siddal as Lady Godiva—all those demure, denuded muses, frozen forever. Objectified. ‘I’m just a gaze, Miss Foster. A pair of eyes, devouring.’ And then I thought of Evelyn X, all stripped and bound, in strokes of oil and ochre. That portrait, I shut my eyes. She’s fearless, isn’t she? My thoughts taunted me. You’re not too afraid, are you, Penny? You’re not going to run?

I clenched my jaw, steeling myself. But just at the edge of the door, I slipped on something, and turned my ankle, tumbling clumsily to the ground.

“Christ!” Peter hissed, hurrying over, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” I shook my head, embarrassed beyond words.

What the hell was that? A sharp pain pulsed through my ankle. I glanced down to my foot, and flushed. The proverbial banana peel, still stuck to the tip of my shoe, was a silky red thong, with a little lace ruffle around the waist. Peter spotted it too, and the color drained from his face.

“Cécile,” his voice cracked, “One of my models. I’m sorry, Pens. I swear, she leaves her shit everywhere.” His cheeks glowed like embers as he snatched up the panties, and stuffed them hastily into his pocket.

Ah...I felt something sinking inside me. So that’s how it is, is it?

He held out his hand, “Here, lemme help you up.”

“I’m fine,” I waved him off, humiliated.

“Can I get some ice, at least?”

“No,” I snapped, “No need.”

My tone was sharper than intended, and my ankle hurt a lot more than I let on. You really must be an idiot, Penny, I seethed. Did you think even for one minute he wasn’t sleeping with all of his models? My stomach churned. I mean, you didn’t seriously think you were ‘special,’ did you? Look at him. Look at you. I glowered. What the hell goes on in that idiot head of yours?

Peter had backed off, looking sheepish.

“I uh, I think I’ll get some ice,” he shifted, “Hang tight. I’ll bring your stuff up while I’m at it.”

My eyes trailed him to the door, and once I was sure he was gone, I hobbled over to the sofa, and sank. Poor Rhodopis lost her thong. I scowled. Pantoufle de verre. Pantoufle de vair. I dug my nails into the leather, wondering gloomily about his ‘Cécile’.

By his sculpture, I knew she must be slender, and pretty. And by her panties, I knew she must be petite. I imagined Peter flattering her, flirting with her, tucking the hair behind her ear on his lift—the same smooth moves he’d tried out on me. I pictured her undressing for him. His eyes alight, his rough hands trembling, trying so hard not to touch her. I saw him gazing at her. Kissing, caressing her. Making love to her. Probably right here on this couch... I wrinkled my nose, and yanked up the leg of my jeans. My ankle was already swelling.

Peter tramped back upstairs. He came in dragging my satchel and stretcher bars, puffing a little, and wiping some sweat from his face. He tossed me an ice pack. I caught it and thanked him. Without a word more, it was clear that whatever was going to happen before, whatever philter was in the air between us, had vanished.

“So uh, this project he’s got you working on,” he dropped my supplies, nudging

the wood with his toe, “You making a painting, or building a shed?”

I leaned in, brow furrowed. The ice took the edge off, but the throb was still building.

“You’ll laugh if I tell you.”

He ran a hand through his hair, “I won’t.”

“You will.”

He shook his head.

I sighed, “He wants me to do the chapel again,” I bit my lip, “But bigger.”

He did laugh, though his voice was coarse, and metallic.

“For real?” He rubbed his eyes, “The same stupid chapel?”

I nodded, unnerved. I knew it didn’t make any sense.

“And what’s Mister tall-dark-and-Russian want with this thing?”

“He just says he wants to mount it in his study,” I shrugged, glancing askance, “Is he really Russian?”

“Dunno. I just assume with the accent,” Peter stepped closer, shaking his head, “I really don’t know him from Adam, Pens.”

I sighed again, and dropped the ice on the ground. I had a feeling he was lying. With his warning; with what a wealth of hearsay he’d been the other night—it was hard to believe he didn’t know anything more about Mr. Caine. Or maybe he only keeps up with the artists. I thought acidly, artists and models.

Then a bulb went off in my brain.

“Peter,” I breathed, “how well do you know Evelyn X?”

“Not very,” he cracked his knuckles, “Why?”

I frowned at the floorboards, “She was married to him. Did you know that?”

He sighed, slumping his shoulder against the glass.

“So I’ve heard,” he took off his glasses, avoiding my gaze, “...You know I’ve also heard he’s the reason she’s so fucked up.”

I squinted, “What do you mean?”

“She’s crazy, Pens,” he held his lenses up to the light, “Like, padded-walls-and-electroshock crazy.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood stiff. Don’t call people crazy, Peter. I gritted my teeth.

“What did he do to her?”

“Hell if I know,” he shook his head, “Mind games, I guess. Gaslighting,” he shrugged, “I mean, if her work’s any indication, Pens, he put her through some pretty messed up stuff.”

I shut my eyes, afraid to push any further. ‘Comme une saison en enfer, Penny.’ The words echoed in my head, ‘J’ai assis la Beauté sur mes genoux... Je l’ai injuriée.’

“Anyways, don’t listen to me,” Peter shifted, “For all I know, he’s as nuts as she is. They might be a match made in heaven for all I know. But if you want my advice,” he crossed his arms, “just do the damn thing, get paid, and get out. Don’t get tangled up in their web.” A deep crease cut across his brow, “You oughta keep him at arm’s length.”

“Yeah,” I rolled my eyes, rubbing the bruise on my ankle, “...We’ll see.”

“I’m serious,” he stepped closer, “He’s bad news, Pens. I don’t—d” his jaw tightened, “I just don’t wanna see you get hurt.”

A little late for that, I fumed. You know, if you’re so worried about my safety, maybe don’t leave your models’ skanky lingerie lying all over like little silk landmines. I bit tongue, hard enough I thought it might bleed.

But still, I wasn’t quite being fair to Peter. He was, after all, just trying to help—trying to protect me, really. I’m not sure why I needed to push him away. He knelt down next to me, fumbling to loosen Monsieur Donatien’s knots, and after a moment or two, gave up. I picked up the ice pack, setting it back on my ankle.

“Look,” he raised his head, “I uh, I don’t wanna beat a dead horse to death.”

I smirked at him, “Who would?”

He chuckled dryly, though his face remained tense, “I’ll leave it alone. But you know where I stand on this,” he ran a hand through his hair, “You got everything you need up here?”

I nodded.

“Think you’ll be working late?”

I nodded again.

“Ok...” he pursed his lips, “Ok. Well, I’ve got some work of my own downstairs. But I’ve been at it all day. Might try to head out before the roads get bad.” He rubbed his neck, “I can give you a ride, if you want.”

“I’ll be fine,” I breathed, reaching out to touch his arm, “Really. “you’ve done plenty, Peter,” I squeezed, “Thank you.”

His freckled cheeks went pink.

“Yeah, well, don’t sweat it, you know?”

I think I do, I bit my lip.

“So, stick around as long as you like, I guess,” he stood, “And don’t worry about closing up. Just turn the furnace down, and hit the lights on your way out.” He slid his hands in his pockets, “The doors lock behind you. Got it?”

“Got it,” I eyed his pockets, one of which still concealed Cécile’s panties.

“Alright,” he backed away, looking reluctant to leave, “You’re sure you don’t need anything? More ice? Morphine, maybe?”

“I’m good,” I shook my head, dragging my satchel over. “I really do appreciate this,” I dropped my eyes, “All of it.”

“Sure thing,” he gave a gaunt and lopsided grin, “And look uh, I’m really sorry about before.”

“Me too,” I breathed, flames licking at my cheeks, “Goodnight, Peter.”

“Night, Pens,” he took his leave, waving two fingers as he disappeared through the door, “Don’t get caught in the storm.”

I nodded stiffly. As soon as he was gone, I reached down to poke my ankle, and winced. It was tender now, and swollen to about twice it’s normal size. I glanced at the ice pack, still sweating beside me.

I didn’t dwell on it. There wasn’t time to waste licking my wounds. Blocking out the pain as best I could, I stood up, spun the old radio’s dial until it landed on some sultry old Édith Piaf song, and threw myself into the work.

The next few hours were exhilarating, and productive. It had been so long since I’d had anything tangible to show for myself, and without an all-too-unreasonable struggle, the whole huge wooden frame laid assembled on the floor beneath me. The sun was long gone. The piano twinkled. Édith crooned her last, sad trill as I shot another staple through the edge of the canvas. I sniffed, and dabbed my temples. The radiator kept the room toasty, while the wild swirls of snowflakes raged outside. It’s getting pretty ugly out there. I sniffed again, and ignored it. Wrestling the canvas off the ground, I limped to prop it against the brick wall, and grinned.

I still couldn’t believe the size of it. The thing was gigantic. And it was mine. All mine—stretched smooth and taut as the skin of a drum. I dipped my brush into the gesso and paused, leering at the shadows over its pale, inviolate surface. Dmitri was in my head again. Yes, he’d coerced me into this, but I couldn’t deny that I felt grateful. He dragged me here kicking and screaming. But now there was nowhere in the world I’d rather be. Without him, I thought, I might never have made it. I might’ve just idled on, dreaming for years without ever making a move. Like a stopped watch, he’d wound me—set my wheels, my complications, in motion. I was ticking now, and I couldn’t stop.

Bearing weight, the throb in my ankle was almost unbearable, but I pressed on, standing on tiptoe to slather a smooth, creamy layer of gesso across the top. I imagined a man’s shadow behind me, watching, judging—like Michelangelo’s Lorenzo di Piero, his sharp jaw propped upon his fist. ‘One week, Miss Foster,’ I quickened my strokes, spurred on by the pain, ‘Don’t disappoint me.’

As the gesso dried, I rooted out the red paint swatch from the hardware store, and started mixing up alizarin and cadmium on Madame’s glass palette. Wally Neuzil. Even Egon couldn’t make her ugly. I wondered if there was any slice of truth to her story. I swirled the paints richer and deeper, until they struck just the right scale. It was a lovely color. I wanted it to dominate the painting.

And Peter. I dabbed the brush. Did he really want me to pose for him?

I shook my head. Was I really going to do it? I poked the corner of the canvas with the tip of my pinky.

Still tacky.

I sighed, impatient, and sank back onto the sofa. My ankle was turning black and blue by now, and the sickly-sweet odor of turpentine made my head spin. Really. What the hell were you thinking, Penny? I still felt bitter, but not about that. He knew something—something about Evelyn, about Mr. Caine—something he wasn’t telling me. And I wanted desperately to know what it was.

The rope laid in loose tangles at my feet. I remembered again her self-portrait. Her hair in flames, her body bare. Wrists bound. I breathed out, gazing dazedly across my snow-white canvas. I wondered. Will mine be even half what hers was? My eyes fell closed. Even half as beautiful?

The Old Master. ‘Alle und keinen.’ It’s Nietzche, right? ‘I was thinking of Auden.’ Brueghel’s brush. Probably an impostor... I yawned, resting my cheek on the edge of the sofa. What was it?

‘About suffering they were never wrong.’ And something... Something about Icarus. Fallen angel. Fall from grace. Fall asleep. Fall in love. Falling down, falling down... ‘Fear death by water.’ Did Icarus drown? ‘Un saison en Enfer, Penny. J’ai assis la Beauté sur mes genoux. Et je l'ai trouvée amère...’

I didn’t dream, but I must have dozed off for a while. A shrill alarm on the radio snapped me awake, announcing a winter weather advisory, with blizzard conditions until 5 AM. I blinked, rubbing my eyes as the music resumed, and fumbled around for my phone.

Tabarnak! I gasped, and my face went pale, where’d the time go? I had just ten minutes to get back to Mont-Royal and catch the last train up to Saint-Michel. I sprang from the sofa and scrambled downstairs, making a beeline for the front door.

Damn it. The furnace. I doubled back, feeling along the wall until I found a thermostat, and dialed it down to a subarctic setting. I grabbed my jacket and froze, eyeing his huge, tattered parka and heavy welding gloves on the shelf.

‘The coldest all year…’ Monsieur Donatien’s warning rang in my ears, ‘Restez au chaud, Mademoiselle.’

Filthy as it was, the coat’s thick fur lining and buttoned hood looked too cozy, too irresistible to pass up. I’ll be back tomorrow, right? I mean, he won’t even miss it. I snatched up the gloves and cloaked myself in the gargantuan garment, dashing my way to the door.

Outside, the wind struck me like a solid wall. I staggered, choking a little on the frigid air, and pulled the hood down over my eyes as I hobbled toward the station, sinking up to my knees in the fresh fallen snow. I winced with each step.

With my adrenaline fading, the ache in my ankle was back with a vengeance. Well, my teeth chattered, at least there’s plenty of ice.

I made it to the station, scrambled down the escalator and across the platform, ducking between the doors just as they slid shut. The train lurched. I tumbled into my seat. The entire car was empty, and only half-lit. I sighed, panting, and breathed in the scorched, oily scent of Peter’s parka, nestling up against the window. I was beat—lightheaded, winded, half-frozen, half-asleep—and my ankle hurt like the dickens. But still, I was smiling.

I couldn’t help it. I felt so thrilled with the progress, so anxious to get back to it tomorrow. My breath fogged the glass as the train careened through the tunnel, mercifully obscuring my reflection. I didn’t want to think of what I hot mess I must’ve looked in that outfit. I stretched and yawned, still simpering. I’ll sand it down tomorrow, I thought, tracing out some circles with the tip of my finger. Then we’ll really get started. At the end of the blue line, the train shrieked to a halt. I crossed my arms tight, dreading another trek through the odious cold.

The streets up top were deserted, and the snow was still getting worse. I didn’t pass a single car, not even a plow, as I trudged the last three blocks to Marie’s. Even with Peter’s gloves, my fingers were frozen solid by the time I got to the stoop.

I fumbled clumsily in my purse. My hands were too numb to feel anything, and it was too dark to really see. My teeth chattered like castanets. I grimaced. I didn’t have much choice. I pulled off the gloves, and slipped my hands up under my shirt, wincing in anticipation as I laid them both against my bare belly. The shock wracked me, and a convulsive shiver shot through my body. But after a few seconds, my hands began to warm. I stuffed them back in my purse to find my keys.

My keys.

With a slow, surreal swell of horror, I realized I’d slipped them into my satchel. The satchel that I’d left at Peter’s studio. The studio that was now locked. The locked studio, from which I’d taken the Metro. The Metro, which was no longer running. Hands trembling, I pulled out my phone. It’s fine, I thought. I’ll just text Marie. She can let me in. But my thumb froze just before I hit ‘send’.

Marie’s with Serge, down in Toronto.

I groaned, and scrolled lower, picking out Peter’s number instead. It rang once, and went straight to voicemail. Shit. I stood there on the stoop, clutching the phone to my ear. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

Water started welling in my eyes. I rapped hard on the door with my fist, and hollered, knowing full well that no one would answer. The girl across the hall had already fled for warmer weather—for Rio, or Havana, or wherever—and the boys upstairs were ski bums, already out for the season. I didn’t have the landlord’s number. Even if I did, no one but Marie even know I was staying there. I glanced frantically up and down the street. No one was out. Nothing was open. It was just too late, and entirely too cold.

I backed away, shaking, and staggered into our little alleyway to get away from the wind. I crouched down, taking shelter beside a rusty dumpster. It wasn’t much better, but at least I could breathe. What are you going to do? My knees knocked. You’re fucked, Penny. You are so royally fucked. Gazing up at my windbreak, and trying hard not to panic, I saw it sat just below Marie’s bathroom window. My eyes widened. I had a stupid idea.

Slamming down the lid on one side, I scrambled up on the dumpster. I had to balance on my tiptoes, and stretch my arms out as far as they’d reach before my fingers reached the window. With a deep breath, I leapt up, giving a little shove on the frame. It didn’t give. I leapt higher, pressing harder, at the risk of ruining my ankle. Nothing. It was locked, or frozen maybe. But either way, it wouldn’t budge.

I let out a snarl, frenzied and desperate. The snow wasn’t letting up. The wind was howling now. I put my hands back under my shirt to warm them again, but it worked only half as well this time, and the shivers actually made me nauseous. Panic set in, and a horrifying feeling fell over me.

I’m going to die. I shut my eyes. I am, aren’t I? I’ll freeze to death. Terminal burrowing. Paradoxical undressing. I’m going to go mad in a few minutes. Strip off all my clothes, and probably crawl down in this fucking dumpster. And that’s how they’ll find you, Penny. Brittle and glassy. Pale as a china doll. Tossed out with the rest of the trash.

I gazed down fretfully at the black, snow-capped bags inside. It looked dark and earthy, like a pit. Like a tomb. My head flashed to that article in the paper—the poor girl they’d fished from the ice floes—frozen solid. I shuddered, my entire body quaking. My vision blurred. Tears brimmed along my lashes. I wiped them away, glaring down at the foreboding black bags. From the top of one, I saw a faint glint in the orange glow of the streetlamp. I knelt down to look closer.

No fucking way... I rubbed my eyes.

There, sticking out of the rubbish like Excalibur from the stone, was the old brass fire iron the girl across the hall had tossed out. I dropped to my belly, muttering one of the longest, most virtuosic strands of obscenities I’d ever incanted, and shook it free from the bag.

I think at that point I was in a kind of trance. I clambered to my feet, so cold, so tired, so hungry and scared, it didn’t occur to me in the least that my actions might look, to the casual observer, perhaps more than a little bit crazy. I didn’t even have a plan, exactly. My body was on autopilot, making its own decisions. It was just sort of surviving, and I was along for the ride. I flipped off my hood, raising the iron high over my head. Carefully, I aligned my aim twice, like an executioner readying his axe. Then I drew a deep breath, and struck a merciless blow to Marie’s frosty window.

The shatter echoed up and down the alley. I ducked as little flecks of glass landed in my hair like shrapnel. And when I looked up again, I saw before me a broken window; a warm, dark portal to the indoors. I saw sanctuary, asylum. But behind me, I saw something else—the flashing blue lights of patrol car, gleaming on the crisp white snow of the alley.

Tabarnak...My face sank, and I fell back into my body.

“Madame,” a squat, mustachioed officer slammed his door, pointing the piercing beam of his flashlight in my eyes, “Descendez s’il vous plait.”

“Yes, sir,” I croaked, “I um, I can explain.”

I shaded my eyes. As they adjusted, I saw that not just his light, but his stun gun was trained on me, too.

“Madame, discard the weapon, and come down immediately.”

Weapon? I dropped the fire iron, terrified. It clanged to the ground. My heart raced as he muttered something into his radio.

“Very good. Now come down slowly, Madame.”

Shaking, I obeyed. I slid off my perch, tumbling gracelessly into a snowdrift, and let out a cry as my ankle gave out beneath me. I caught myself against the dumpster, barely able to stand up. A few shards of glass fell out of my hair.

“Je suis désolé, Monsieur. I um, I was locked out.”

Again, he shined his flashlight in my face, then up to the shattered window, and back once more to blind me.

“Is this your apartment, Madame?”

I bit my lip, “Well, no. It’s my friend’s. But I’m staying with her.”

“Is your friend at home?”

I dropped my eyes, more humiliated with each passing moment, “No. She’s out of town tonight.”

He cast his beam lower, up and down the length of me, and frowned.

“And you have nowhere else to go?”

Oh, Lord... I breathed a gasp. Slowly, very slowly, the visual arithmetic of my limp, my mussed hair, ripped and paint-splattered jeans, welding gloves, and Peter’s soiled, scorched, and seven-sizes-too-large-for-me parka summed itself in my head. He thinks you’re homeless, Penny, I scourged myself. And in a way, he’s right. Isn’t he?

Still on guard, he holstered his stun gun, and grumbled again into his radio.

“It is bad to be out tonight, mademoiselle,” he stroked his mustache, “You’ll freeze. It happens every winter.”

His face remained stern, but his voice seemed to soften.

“Perhaps you should come with me to the station. It is warm there,” he nodded, “We have some nice cots. Hot tea, with honey. Maybe even something to eat?”

My eyes welled up again. Is this real? Is this happening? It was pointless to try and explain myself. He’d have been an idiot to believe me. I bowed my head low as he walked me out of the alley. I spread my legs as he patted me down. I put my bare hands on the icy hood of his car. A tear trickled it’s way down my cheek. I think I almost died of shame, feeling his hands root through all my scuzzy layers of clothing.

“Procédure, mademoiselle,” he murmured, clicking his cold steel cuffs around my wrists, “Et précaution.”

I sniffled, wiping my cheek on my shoulder. It was hard to remember a time when I felt so degraded, so debased. But even as he locked me in the rear seat of his car, I admit some little sliver of me was relieved—perhaps even grateful. I might be arrested. I might be arraigned. In the end, I might even get deported. But at least I wasn’t going to die in a dumpster.

Out in the alley, I saw him pick up my fire iron, and mumble once more into his radio. It was warm in the car. It smelled of menthol, and burnt coffee. I wriggled around, trying to settle myself in a less painful position. Between the cuffs and the bulk of Peter’s jacket, any motion of my upper limbs was all but impossible. By and by I just gave up, suffering in silence as a rosy ache blossomed up through my arms and shoulders. I sighed. It’s funny, almost. Somehow resigning to the cuffs instead of struggling against them came with its own subtle kind of comfort.

I laid my head against the window, humming. Take the key and lock her up. Lock her up. Lock her up... My fists clenched, and unclenched. What the hell’s wrong with you, Penny? I shut my eyes. What are you doing here?