The Green Muse (21 page)

 

I
WAS ALL
trepidation as I walked up to the door of the address I had been given. I was wearing my best suit, but I knew it was inadequate to the occasion. I had borrowed a cravat, gloves, and hat from Richet; he would have given me more, but I would not accept a suit. I am, after all, not Richet but Edouard, and I would have been even more uncomfortable wholly portraying myself as something I am not. I was wearing my own unfashionable suit. The hat, gloves, and cravat were absolute necessities, though, if I were to appear in polite society, and I accepted them gratefully.

In spite of my reservations I found myself as excited as a schoolboy. I had never before been to a truly fashionable party. I tapped the lion's-­head door knocker as though I had a right. I doffed my hat to the servant who answered the door; she was older than I had expected, and quite proper and prim, and it occurred to me that what I had expected was a debauch, and I was relieved to my core. My silly boy's fantasies! Richet had introduced me to Mme. and M. Gaudet at the next Tuesday lecture, and there was nothing even remotely sordid about them; Mme. Gaudet in particular was of obvious good breeding, with her high forehead, clear eyes, and gentle manner of speech. And the first woman I met, who in fact rushed to greet me, was Mme. Gautier, was an elderly coquette encrusted with diamonds. She seemed not in the least put out at not having any notion who I was. She quite charmed me, as did her husband, who spent the entire time of our introduction feeling about in his pockets for his monocle. And then there was Mme. Soulavie, who came to me with her dainty hand outstretched; she was all in ivory, and stood out among the crowd like those bright clouds one sometimes sees in a gray sky, separated from the rest by a light that seems to come from within. She greeted me kindly and steered me gracefully toward Richet, taking the hat, coat, and gloves I had not managed to give to the maidservant from my awkward hands.

“Ah, Edouard, there you are!” Richet exclaimed, taking me from Mme. Soulavie's arm. She smiled and disappeared into the crowd. Society is an intimidating creature to those of us brought up outside its grip. Those to the manner born are also born to a language of which I knew only phrases. Were I to travel to Italy, I would know the names of the dishes I would like to order and the destinations I should like to visit, but I would be unable to say much more in Italian than “where” and “I would like,” and it is much the same in the ballrooms of the elite.

I looked around, feeling the country bumpkin. Richet, after having greeted me, strolled the room with me at his side, perfectly at ease. As we spoke casually of work, I found myself embarrassed—­I should not need the protection of an escort! After he had introduced me to half a dozen attractive ­people whose names I instantly forgot, I decided it was time to fend for myself.

“Excuse me,” I said to him and the particularly pretty young woman he was speaking with, “I believe I will go pay my respects to Mme. Gaudet now.”

Bowing to his pretty companion, I made my way into the thick of the crowd.

I had found myself, while in conversation with Richet, searching the room for Odette. The moment I left him I saw her. She was the center of attention; and yet I felt that the boredom she displayed was not fashionable ennui, not simply for show. She wore what looked to be an Oriental dress, although I had never actually seen one, black silk with a pattern of golden snakes and small, bright flames, with flat black satin slippers on her feet. Even so, she was at least as tall as most of the men around her, and taller than some.

As I approached she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and the dress shifted, too, like rippling water, a shudder of movement that went from her shoulders to her ankles, a waterfall of movement designed to reveal and hide as it went: For an instant her breasts stood out in sharp relief, then her belly, then her hips and thighs and calves. I watched, mesmerized, and looked up to her face to find her regarding me with a bemused smile.

I smiled in return, fully aware of how small I was, to stare at a woman's body in such a brazen fashion. But her smile seemed genuine, and certainly her display was disingenuous. But even as I bid her good evening I knew that a woman's disingenuousness does not excuse a man's bad behavior.

“How are you this evening, Madame Alexandrovna?” I asked as normally as I could; I felt as if I had just seen her naked.

“Edouard, I am merely Odette,” she said, and she laughed, and I have never before heard such a laugh, hoarse and mocking yet sweet as a siren's.

“I want to smoke,” Odette said to me, dismissing the others, and so I took her arm and led her toward the patio. Actually, she led me, because I did not know where the patio was, and I must admit that I was so overwhelmed by her presence that even had I known, I'm sure I would have walked her off into a wall. Her scent was overpowering: something musky and exotic I took at first to be incense; and the strong smell of sweat, which, far from being unpleasant, was practically an aphrodisiac. And she had jasmine oil in her hair, and also the smell of foreign tobacco.

“Are you enjoying the party?” she asked. Under her keen gaze I felt as transparent as air; she knew exactly the effect she was having on me. She must see men react this way to her all the time, I thought to myself, with no little annoyance. I wanted to be different. I knew I could never mean anything at all to this woman, knew that in my heart I did not really want to mean anything to her. What I wanted was to conquer my own desires.

We walked out to the patio. I was acutely aware of both my hand against the naked skin of her arm and the frank stares of the men we passed. I was proud to be seen with her, and ashamed of my pride. I wasn't conquering anything. I suddenly quite honestly wanted a smoke myself. I had to clear my head.

The cool night air was a welcome slap. But Odette's face was all the more alluring under the light of the moon, and I hastily removed my hand from her arm under the pretext of locating my cigarettes and lighter.

“Smoke one of mine,” she said languidly., “They're Egyptian.” The cigarette was thin and long and oddly scented; I recognized the incense smell. Odette insisted on placing it to my lips, on being the one to hold the lighter that I might have to touch her fingers to steady the flame. I inhaled. At least her ways were not subtle, and surely could not be so hard to fight once I had regained myself. But just then I felt a sudden rush of sensation in my head; I thought I must have spoken.

“No words,” she said softly.

So we smoked. Soon I felt that there was an unspoken undercurrent of communication between us, all the stronger for its silence. I felt almost that I could read her heart. Longing, for peace, serenity, a haven from despair—­what despair I did not know. I could feel her pulse beating against the blue veins of her delicate, almost translucent skin. Longing, for protection, understanding: longing for me.

And I knew with equal certainty that nothing I felt was hidden from her: desire, resistance, the urge to shelter her from all harm.

And the moon stared down, impassive.

I was almost delirious with my new knowledge, my certainty of my power. I moved closer, and closer still, and when she lay her head against my shoulder I felt I had never before known bliss.

The door slammed open behind us.

“That wind!” I heard a male voice exclaim. I experienced a moment of fury entirely outside my character.
Who were these ­people who would intrude on two hearts communing!

“Take my hat,” a woman's voice said, and I became aware of a discordance between their words and my understanding. They seemed to be speaking from far away, and their words were fragmented, as if being torn from their mouths by a sharp wind. There was a wind, but it was not the hurricane, surely, that it seemed so suddenly to me; in fact the air was warm and soft upon my neck. And when I turned to see who spoke, I was utterly unprepared for what I saw: faces made grotesque by simple moonlight, grimacing skulls whose bones shone through the merest sheen of skin.

For a moment I doubted my own sanity. Would Odette appear so? I turned to her face, her beautiful body, and perceived rot and corruption there.

“Odette.”

“Silly Edouard,” she said, and she laughed with pleasure. “It is only your cigarette.”

Then I remembered: the sick-­sweet smell of incense. The seeming lifting of a veil over my consciousness. The lucidity of the opalescent moon.

“What is in those cigarettes?”

“The finest Egyptian tobacco,” she said, and suddenly her smile was snakelike. “And opium, of course,” she added lightly.

I threw mine to the floor and crushed it with my foot. There was nothing to resist. The image of Odette I had been so eager to test myself against existed only in her powers of seduction and in the drug, not in the woman herself. I saw now that her makeup was badly applied, and the kohl around her eyes was uneven; that the blush on her cheeks was garishly bright against her pallid skin; that her laugh was a shield and not an invitation.

“You should have told me,” I said stiffly. Nothing but tinsel, this surging silver feeling. Gone was the delicious pull of mutual attraction. There was nothing but this drugged and pathetic woman in front of me.

“You don't like the way it makes you feel? As if you could float right up to the moon as if you were part of the sky. And it sweetens other things.”

“No,” I said flatly. “I don't like it. I like feeling what I feel, not what some inhalant makes me feel. I want all of my feelings to be true.”

“Oh, Edouard, where is the fun in that? Anybody can feel. I prefer to open the doorways to experience. To go beyond mundane feeling and truly live.”

“I am sorry, Odette, if I misled you.” She laughed and laughed.

“I misled you, dear innocent Edouard. And yet, you would have been such a pleasure to corrupt!”

“I will take that as a compliment, but I must take my leave.”

“You will remember, Edouard. I guarantee you will remember Odette and your missed opportunity.”

“And I thank you for the memory,” I said sincerely, and I kissed her cold hand and left her on the patio with the moon.

The party had lost its charm. The great oak I had wanted to climb had proven merely a bush with sweet-­smelling, poisonous flowers, and I was no longer tempted by their fragrance.

I drifted back into the ballroom. No one was dancing, and all the guests seemed merely shadow puppets miming gaiety. I knew I was still affected by the opium I had ingested, and I was disgusted with myself. What a bumpkin I was indeed, out of my depth among the glistening falseness of the throng. But I had promised Natalie a full description of the ladies' dresses, so I walked about alone, making mental notes.

My attention was drawn to several young men discoursing in loud voices in the corner by a blazing fire. “ . . . the finest play ever to have been written,” I heard, and, “Nonsense! Everything he writes is scurrilous nonsense!”

I heard, and the first, quite distinctive voice: “He is the greatest artist of our time.”

Three young men were talking intensely, two on a pale green settee, and one lounging on the floor.
Literature,
I thought.
I can talk about literature
. I might not have lived, but I had read.

I grabbed a whisky off the tray offered me by a servant; I needed to steady my nerves. Certainly cerebral conversation with these young men would prove an antidote to opium, delirium, and Odette.

“May I join this learned discussion?” I asked, glass in hand.

“Of course you may join our discussion,” the young man with the distinctive voice said with great force. He seemed to speak only with enthusiasm, which was just the antidote I needed. He was the one lounging on the floor.

A man of ideas,
I thought, and realized that perhaps whisky was not the wisest choice of drink after opium.

The room tilted, once, and was still, but something must have shown on my face.

“Come,” said another of the young men. “Sit. Have you had a visit from the Green Fairy?”

The first young man laughed: a pleasant bray. “There are fairies all about tonight. No, I can smell what you've been up to.”

“I had no intention. She told me they were Egyptian cigarettes.”

All the young men laughed heartily, but somehow I was unashamed.

“Oh, you must point her out to me. I am Theo, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” I gave him my hand and my name; his grip was firm, his skin soft as a woman's. “I have no cure for Egyptian cigarettes. I myself would never seek such a cure, but I think that if you take a seat and talk quietly with us by the fire, you will feel more yourself presently.”

“You can listen to Theo expound on one of his favorite topic his very favorite. What does he care for more?”

“Absinthe.”

“Ah, gentlemen, gentlemen, you will frighten poor Edouard, and it is clear that he has already had a fright. Here, Edouard, finish your drink. It will make a man of you.”

For some reason this struck Theo's cohorts as exceedingly comical; but I didn't mind. There was no malice in it. I thought of Odette and shuddered.

“Oh, look!” Theo exclaimed. “Someone is going to be mopping the floor tonight!” And I looked to where he pointed and saw a bright red trail of blood. I thought of the dead man I had photographed, I thought of Tabby. But this blood came not from death but from life.

“It is an honest accident,” I said. “A woman cannot always control her flow.”

“Are you one of those men who finds that a woman's menses adds a certain sweetness to the act of love?”

I blushed. But I held my head up. “I have not yet found my true love,” I said. And thought of Augustine, her blue eyes clear, sparkling without glycerin, arresting without kohl. Augustine, who had no arsenal of feminine tricks and yet was the personification of all that is beautiful; Augustine, who had only looked into a mirror a half dozen times before she came to La Salpêtrière. I missed her passionately.