The Fate of the Muse

chapter ELEVEN

MUSEUM





The wave dropped off like a cliff, a fifty foot wall of the deepest, richest blue I’d ever seen. I flew down the face of it in a trancelike state, aware that at any moment the lip could curl down onto my shoulders; crushing me under a wave of heavy rolling thunder. A perfect tube of water opened up in front of me like I knew it would, and I entered, not even needing to crouch inside the massive cylinder of turquoise. The song it was singing rang down my spine and straight through every bone in my body.





I started awake in a luxurious bed, squeezing my eyes shut and trying with all my might to return to the dream that was already receding from my consciousness, maddeningly drifting away from me. I flopped back down, not wanting to start the day quite yet. I wrapped myself back up in the silky smooth sheets, thinking about surfing, trying not to think about Ethan.

I’d stayed up half the night, trying to recall an instance where he’d said no to me. He’d refused to take me surfing, but that was mostly work related, so it probably didn’t count. I knit my brow together, trying to remember a time where Ethan had denied me something I’d truly wanted. I recalled what he’d told Cruz about going to prom. “Whatever she wants” were his exact words. I never thought that getting my way would ever make me feel so sad.

I dressed, moving mechanically, and finally shuffled out to the lounge to find that room service had thoughtfully brought us a stack of French and English papers alongside our breakfast. They included all the fashion trade journals, still reeking of chemicals from the fresh ink. Glossy photos detailed the ups and downs of the week’s extravagant shows, and Evie and I were both pleased and amused at the enormous amount of press that Shayla got.

“Le surfer Americain!” One headline screamed, and Evie translated the article that described Shayla’s athletic prowess, calling her “La belle surfer fille”, and praising her bold style and endless legs. We both basked in the satisfaction that Shayla’s success brought, a feeling I was learning to recognize as more than just typical goodwill.

Evie turned to me with a smile, “A supermodel is born.” My vision of Shayla’s bright future had come to pass. The front desk called, announcing her arrival, and Evie instructed them to send her up “tout suite”.

Shayla bounded into the room, flooding it with incandescent happiness, “Did you see the papers? Did you see?”

“Yes dear,” beamed Evie, greeting her with a kiss on each cheek. “And we’re so looking forward to your performance this evening!”

The three of us sat down to coffee and croissants, listening to Shayla tell us about her adventures in Parisan nightclubbing. She asked me to come and see her new apartment and I looked to Evie.

“As long as you’re back in time for the show,” she smiled indulgently, “Unless you’d like to join me at the spa for a rubdown.”

I declined the massage and followed Shayla out to the street, watching her in wonder as she put her thumb and index finger in her mouth and produced a loud whistle, summoning a taxi that seemed to materialize from out of nowhere. She scrambled in like she’d been hailing cabs her whole life, beckoning me to follow. She told the driver her address and leaned back in the seat.

“You sure have the whole taxicab thing down,” I said with a grin.

“They’re alright,” she replied, leaning over to whisper in my ear, “Most of them could sure use a shower, though.”

When we got to our destination we took a narrow winding staircase up to a tiny third floor apartment. Walking in, the first thing I saw was a long girl sprawled out on a short couch, fast asleep.

“Welcome to my shack,” Shayla whispered, “Tiffany got in kinda late.” She motioned for me to follow her to the tiny kitchen area, where a mess of cups and bottles filled a small counter with a miniature washing machine whirring away underneath. An assortment of lingerie was hanging to dry on a makeshift clothesline strung over the sink. The kitchen table stood in the corner, piled high with fashion magazines and newspapers. The whole place reeked with the pungent incense of overflowing ashtrays.

I followed Shayla down a narrow hall where she proudly showed me her room, waking up another sleeping model in the process.

“They’re not really morning people,” she laughed. “Hey! We have all day before the show… Let’s go climb the Eiffel tower or something!”

“I have an idea,” I said with a smile, “Let’s go see some art.”





We pulled up at the Louvre, stepping out into the vast paved courtyard on a beautiful blue sky day. I couldn’t help wishing that Ethan was there with me.

“Whoa! Check it out!” Shayla cried when she saw the pyramid, its diamond shaped panes of glass sparkling in the sun.

“That’s where we go inside,” I told her.

We walked around to look at the fountains before entering the glass pyramid and boarding an elevator going down to the galleries. We wandered among the paintings, sculptures and antiquities, stopping to pause at the feet of the Venus de Milo.

“Recognize her?” I asked.

“Nope,” said Shayla, “What happened to her arms?”

I shrugged, and we continued on our tour, weaving through the crowds of tourists gaping in awe at some of the more popular exhibits. We approached a spectacular marble statue of Diana the huntress alongside a stag, weapon in hand.

“She looks like she could kick some butt,” Shayla said respectfully.

“I believe she did,” I said, “She was the goddess of the hunt and the moon.” I remembered that she also had the power to talk to animals, and I studied the statue a little closer. Could she have actually existed? The things I’d seen in the past few months made nothing seem out of the realm of possibility.

“Come see,” I said, motioning to a crowd gathered around a small exhibit off to the side, “Look.” It was the Mona Lisa, set in a special concrete container, protected by two sheets of bullet-proof glass.

Shayla was tall enough to see over most of the people, and announced in a loud voice, “Oh yeah, I’ve totally seen that one before.”

Several people turned to glare at her disapprovingly, and she stuck her tongue out at them.

I smiled at Shayla’s complete lack of self-consciousness as we continued to weave our way through the endless galleries. She had no expectations, and voiced her opinions about anything that struck her fancy, freely and innocently. Sometimes she reminded me of Lorelei in her naivety, and then she would randomly blurt out something so wise and insightful it was almost shocking.

I was also amused at all the attention we were receiving from the opposite sex. Shayla was always an attractive girl, but the new-found poise she radiated made her seemingly irresistible. She held her head up, and walked with a confident stride that had both the Frenchmen and the tourists taking notice.

“That dude over there is checking you out,” she said, tipping her head at a man who stood nearby. Unlike most of the others, he turned away when our eyes met, becoming seemingly engrossed in a painting.

I rolled my eyes at her, “I think it’s you they’re all noticing.”

“Marina!” she called me over to a painting, pointing, “Look– it’s you!”

I craned my neck to look up at the huge canvas, six feet across and painted with a Renaissance version of classical Greek mythology. There, hidden amongst the crowded images of gods, goddesses and dancing nymphs was my own face looking back at me.

Shayla laughed, “Says here some Italian dude painted it… in 1497!”

I stepped closer, counting the dancing girls in the center of the painting. There were nine. The information alongside the painting described the gods Apollo, Venus, and Vulcan. Mercury the messenger stood in the corner, his arm resting lightly on Pegasus. The girls frolicking in the center were identified as muses, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

“A long lost relative?” Shayla teased me.

“Very funny,” I said, walking away slowly with a few backwards glances.

We came upon another section of the museum that housed the spectacular statue, “Winged Victory”. We had the area all to ourselves for a few moments, and we stood back to contemplate it in silence. It was magnificent, standing boldly in a high ceilinged room, with oval windows set into archways that bathed the chamber with a warm golden light.

“This poor angel lost her arms and her head,” observed Shayla.

“Yeah,” I explained, “They think it was in a huge earthquake or something. It’s a statue of the goddess Nike.”

She scoffed at me, “You mean like the shoe?” she laughed.

“Exactly like the shoe,” I replied.

“Let’s go shopping,” said Shayla.

We took a cab to a popular boutique district and wandered around for a few hours. I could feel the time slipping by rapidly, each minute bringing me closer to the inevitable confrontation that I both feared and dreaded.

“Are you hungry?” I asked her when we passed a charming sidewalk bistro.

We sat down at a little metal table and watched an endless procession of sophisticated and urbane Parisians pass by. The people of Paris was dressed with a good deal more care than you’d ever see in a California beach town, and each woman seemed to have put some real effort into her hair and makeup before she ventured out into the street. Even the simplest of outfits was accessorized with a colorful scarf or piece of jewelry, and their shoes were a far cry from the flip-flops and sneakers most people in Aptos sported.

“French women are really pretty,” Shayla observed, “Do they dress up like that all the time?”

“You’ll have to ask Evie,” I replied.

We ordered as best we could with the help of a surprisingly friendly waiter, and ended up with a rustic pâté platter, served with toast and tiny sour pickles, along with enormous mounds of crispy pomme frites.

“They’re way better than at home,” Shayla said, gobbling them down, “I never knew that they’d have french fries in France!”

I laughed, “Uhm, think about it…”

She burst into sudden raucous laughter, and then stopped, whispering conspiratorally, “I don’t get it. How are you s’posed to eat them without catsup?”





Shayla remembered that it was Cruz’s birthday, and we called him, passing the phone back and forth between us. He’d already seen some reporting on the Paris shows and was excited about Shayla’s success. I heard them bantering back and forth, and she promised to appear in his debut show no matter how famous she became, thinking she was joking. Only I knew how close they both were to realizing their dreams.

After lunch I decided to shop for a birthday gift for Cruz, figuring that something from Paris might take the sting out of being left behind and missing out on fashion week. We prowled around until I finally settled on a designer messenger bag, crafted in the most beautiful chocolate brown leather.

“Ooh, let’s look in here!” Shayla cried, pulling me into a lingerie boutique. Evie had always professed a specific fondness for French lingerie, and I could see why. The quality of the construction was unquestionably fine, and the array of different styles was overwhelming. Undergarments of every shape and color were displayed on headless mannequins.

“More missing heads,” Shayla laughed, “You’d think the French have something against them!”

“You have no idea,” I said acerbically.

“Try this on,” Shayla thrust some hangers at me.

Some of the skimpier bustiers and garters made me blush, but Shayla was delighted, pulling out piles of teddies and bra sets to try on.

“We better get going,” I said nervously.

Shayla looked down at me with amusement, “Oh puh-leese! This stuff is sooo cute! You should at least pick up a nightgown or something.” She held up a lacy chemise in black, waving the hanger at me, “Ethan might like this better than a stretched out old T-shirt.”

I snorted, but she did have a point. She’d seen my sleeping attire on all the nights she’d taken refuge at Abby’s house, and it wasn’t exactly what you’d call pretty. I took her advice and started snooping around for something I could see myself in, quickly getting myself lost in a sea of silk and satin. I finally chose a beautiful slate blue peignoir set; a short nightgown trimmed in lace with a matching robe as sheer as liquid smoke.

I was giggling at some of the get-ups Shayla was unearthing, the council meeting completely off my mind, when a movement in the window caught my eye. I looked up to see the man from the Louvre, and the instant our eyes met, he looked away and kept walking. It could have been a coincidence, but the mere thought that we were being followed was enough to ruin my fleeting moment of lightheartedness.

“What’s wrong?” asked Shayla, noticing my frown.

“I think that guy followed us here from the museum,” I said, nodding to the window.

Her eyes narrowed, and she stormed out the door to look up and down the street. She came back in with a shrug, “He took off.”

“We need to go,” I announced, rushing to pay for our purchases and peeking out of the store cautiously.

Once we were safely in the cab she patted my arm, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I turned to look behind us, setting my jaw determinedly, “I will be.”

Once I got through this day it would all be over. I could just go home and focus on school, painting, and surfing. I vowed to spend more time with Ethan; to stop wasting my precious energy on petty jealousy and focus on building our life together. I’d learn how to manage my anger, and maybe even find a way to put my unwanted muse powers to their best possible use. Yes, I vowed, if I could just get through this one meeting it would all be smooth sailing from now on.

I really wanted to believe it, and if I closed my eyes and concentrated, I could see Ethan standing in front of the beautiful home he’d build someday. I just prayed that I was fated to be the one standing by his side when that day finally came.