“Tell us something so we may know it is you,” Anna cajoled the sprit.
The voice that came from the medium when next she spoke was no longer hers. We heard a man’s muffled voice, as if he were speaking from behind his hand, and he spoke quickly, as if he were in a great rush.
“Thank you all for being here.”
“Erik?” Madame whispered. “Is that you?”
“You require more proof than me raising the volume on my music, Emma?” He laughed. “Let me remind you that I prefer only to eat white food: eggs, sugar, veal, salt, rice, pasta, white cheese, certain fish, chicken cooked in water. And that you served none of that tonight to honor me. Or that I boil my wine and drink it mixed with juice, which you didn’t have on hand, either. Or that I was so afraid of strangling myself I never spoke while eating, but you were all quite querulous tonight with food in your mouths, weren’t you?”
“Of course it’s Erik,” Jules said. “Who else could that be?”
“Dear, darling Erik. We were so sorry not to have said good-bye while your body was still on this plane,” Madame said.
“I’m not sorry that I’ve left. It was time. I’m only sorry that you are all still grieving.”
While the words continued pouring out of Anna’s mouth, her eyes remained shut. Her face showed no animation or consciousness.
“We want you to feel our love, Erik. And take it with you on your journey.” Madame’s eyes were wet, and she dabbed them with her handkerchief.
There was a sudden shift in the temperature in the room then. It had been cool, the rain outside having taken away the summer’s heat. But now the air turned freezing. In my thin chiffon dress and bare shoulders, I felt it instantly and shivered. Looking around, I noticed everyone else had felt it, too. And strangest of all, the window panes appeared frosted over with ice crystals. But it was the middle of the summer. How was that possible?
The music came to an abrupt halt, and the needle skidded across the disk with a shriek.
“Eugène, I’m here.” Anna’s voice had changed again. No longer was she speaking for Satie, but now a woman’s voice came through her, a woman older than Anna, a voice ragged and out of breath. As if this woman had been running, rushing to get to us.
Eugène Leverau’s head jerked up. “Thérèse?”
“I’m here.”
“Thérèse? Oh, God!” The archaeologist let out an animal’s wild cry of anguish.
The name Thérèse held unpleasant memories for me. I couldn’t help but think of Thérèse Bruis and her devastating letter. My shame and Sebastian’s reassurance. The reason I’d given him for leaving Paris and the shadow portraits, if only temporarily. Almost five years had passed since then, since Sebastian had told me he’d cleared up that unfortunate misunderstanding and removed her portrait from his gallery.
Across from me, Eugène’s face had lost all color. He’d opened his eyes and was staring at Anna as if what he was hearing was impossible.
“Please close your eyes.” It was Anna’s voice now.
Eugène did as requested.
Once his eyes were closed, Anna resumed speaking in the older, out-of-breath voice. “Eugène, you can’t do what you’re thinking.”
“Why did you leave me? Why didn’t you come to me and tell me?” Eugène pleaded. “We could have worked it out.”
“Everyone believed what they saw. You believed it.”
“You didn’t give me a chance.” His voice broke.
“I was wrong. I am sorry. But you have to accept what’s happened. Your wife and I . . . Eugène . . . we’re both worried for you now. We’re here to warn you. We know what you’re thinking. No good will come of it.”
“You should have told me.” He was weeping. His agony was difficult to listen to.
“Don’t do this, Eugène . . .”
I began trembling. Of course, I didn’t know what the woman talking through Anna was referring to, but the disjointed conversation still made me afraid. The air around me began to grow even cooler and to swirl like a vortex, as if I were caught in an unrelenting current, the way it sometimes did when I was drawing the shadows and uncovering a secret that was buried deep for a reason . . . a secret that shouldn’t be excavated.
“I have to,” Eugène whispered. “I waited so long . . . and now . . . don’t you see it’s fate?”
“I can’t help you from the void.”
“Help me?” Eugène had gone from bereft to angry. “No one can help me anymore. Sophie abandoned me, then you. What’s left for me?”
“You still have a future—”
Eugène cut her off. “No!” he shouted, and stood, disturbing the circle of hands, breaking the psychic’s fragile tether to the other world.
The cold that swirled around me disappeared quite suddenly. The room was flooded with the scent of orange blossoms. And then that, too, was gone.
Confusion reigned. In standing so quickly, Eugène had upended the table. The dish of burning leaves slid toward Jules, who moved so abruptly his chair fell backward, landing on my foot. I let out a little yelp. Mathieu turned and stepped forward to help me. Carmen, Madame’s terrier, came running at the sound of my cry and started barking.
Eugène ran from the room, straight into Sebastian and Yves, who had come to see what the melee was about.
Madame ran after Eugène.
“Is your foot all right?” Jules asked me. “I am so sorry.”
“It was hardly your fault. And yes, it’s fine.”
“What happened?” Sebastian asked me.
“We had an unexpected visitor. Erik Satie was interrupted by a woman from beyond, who arrived to warn Eugène about something he is planning. He was more than surprised. He was acutely disturbed, and it was awful to witness. The poor man.”
“Don’t let it bother you, Delphine. Emma will console him. She’s wonderful at that,” Sebastian reassured me.
“I think it’s time for some brandy,” Picasso said, as he walked toward the bar. He poured out glasses and then distributed them. We all retired to the living room and sat around discussing the séance and the spirit who’d visited Eugène.
Finally, Madame came back. Alone. “I’ve put Eugène to bed with a glass of port.” She looked at our glasses. “But brandy is a better idea.”
“Let me get it for you, Emma,” Jules said. “You need to sit down.”
“What was that all about?” Picasso asked. “What terrible thing happened to Eugène?”
I noticed my brother was still staring at the door, as if he were watching Eugène running past him again.
Cocteau, who’d been quite silent until now, explained. “Thérèse was Eugène’s fiancée. A few of us knew her. She came with him to the Librairie du Merveilleux several times. Poor man—first his wife died and then, a year later, Thérèse. I know how devastated he was, but it’s been four years. I didn’t think he was still so cut up about it.”