Lila parks in the city center. The midday sun is hitting the pavement a bit too hard. I do my best to ignore the feeling that I would like a break from it all, telling myself that the museum is probably the coolest place to be.
“Have you texted Maxime?” I ask Lila as we approach the entrance, a wide stern door set in a neoclassical building flanked by the city’s river.
“No. Why?” She sounds distracted.
“His forgotten diary?” Perhaps I’ll get rid of her if I stick by the lie. Or it might conjure Maxime. Either way: win.
“Oh. Right. I’ll do it after this.”
“You know you really don’t have to come with me.”
As we approach the biggest public collection of Sorels, I’m excited in spite of everything. Constance will always have my heart. Not all the sculptures were visible when I last came for a temporary exhibit of local artists. The donated Viviane was kept hidden in storage; if I had known she was there, I would have played the “expert” card and requested to see it. The museum recently acquired a few other pieces when her life started to gather interest, and now she has her own small area for display.
Apart from Viviane, the real standout, the sculptures here are exquisite scenes of everyday life, typical of Sorel’s D’Arvor period. No nymphs or knights to be seen, but instead servants, local girls, and farm boys. I had fully intended to come and visit, I realize—I thought her room opened a few months ago, but it must have been about five years. Five years of working constantly, of not making or having the time; I abandoned Constance. I feel like she’s following me along the corridors, Lila in tow, through the rooms lined with deep red walls and arched windows, her apron grazing my legs as I hurry. I abandoned her while I got distracted selling other, more famous artifacts.
Perhaps Lowen had a point about me working so hard I lost sight of what was important.
She is sharing a charcoal-gray room with Boisseau. Lila and I have to tiptoe our way around his colossal Narcissus to find her. Lovers and muses, the sign says in her corner.
They should get it right here: she is a local artist climbing to international recognition. But this is no different from any other room she’s in. She is tucked away, still, while the world wakes up to her talent too slowly. I should have come earlier. Made some noise about it, demanded better. She’s still voiceless. I have failed her.
If I almost close my eyes, I can imagine it’s Night Swimming in the middle, drawing all the attention. The story it would tell the world. The way it would reclaim her agency, be the final letter she would have chosen to share. Through me. If I found it, I could make sure they saw her, heard her.
What flicked you off the road and made you derail, Constance? What huge piece of your life am I missing?
I hear Lila’s breath catch behind me as we enter the room, which softens me toward her. Now she is next to me, bent forward to decipher the small notice next to the works.
Constance Sorel’s work owes a clear debt to Boisseau, her master and lover. The way she plays with strength and fragility in her figures here shows a charming attempt to ape his signature style.
“‘A charming attempt,’” I hiss.
Lila turns to me. “I can see why you’re angry.”
“I’m not angry. I’m fuming. But I’m glad you see it.”
I see her catch herself and relax her fists; she was staring the sign down.
“Still, you must be biased,” she says.
“Excuse me?”
She weathers my outrage with a mischievous smile. “You’re obsessed with her work. Of course you’ll think the sign is wrong, that she was the genius. But all geniuses owe a debt to someone.”
I roll my eyes, point to the closest sculpture, a marble bust called Washerwoman. “Wrong. Try again. Now, Lila, really look at her.”
I should be annoyed, but there’s something in the way Lila provokes me, jousts with me, all the while revealing, in spite of herself, our points of connection, that sharpens my wits too. The room is quiet as we approach Washerwoman together.
We keep catching glimpses of each other behind the bust, faces of flesh playing hide-and-seek with a face of marble, someone long gone. The light shines through the woman’s plait, chiseled so thinly that it appears golden and fine, but I’m drawn to Lila’s big dark eyes catching mine, while Boisseau’s Narcissus ignores us.
“She’s happy,” she whispers. “I mean, Constance was happy when she made this.”
“Yes.” More flickers at me as Lila and I circle each other—droplets spinning around my ankles. Something I’d never seen in Constance’s sculptures before. A new dimension I yearn to go in.
I look across to Viviane a few paces away. I came here for her, but this sculpture exudes the excitement of something new, of a fresh hit. Something much easier, purer than I recently felt at D’Arvor. I breathe deep the scent of my upside-down world where everything is in its right place. I have craved it like the dream of a perfect relationship.
“Who was this woman?” Lila asks, and I hear myself say, “Would you like to come with me to find out?”
The pond is there, waiting. It seems like everything is back to normal, like I can control the process. The relief is immense. It feels safe here. With someone else.
Lila nods. My throat tightens. “It’s unlikely to work,” I warn her.
She smiles. “As you know, I’m good at sneaking into places I’m not invited.”
It’s the glimpse of mischievousness that does it. I take her hand as the water rises, bring my mind to what we both saw in the sculpture, that moment of connection. Lila gasps at the coldness of the pond, but I keep my focus. I gesture for her to follow me. “We need to swim through—down.” The parquet of the museum sinks deep. Lila approaches it with that recklessness that I really admire in her.
The swim is easy, swift, as natural to me as breathing, and Lila keeps up with me. I feel the water her body is displacing, catch her determined expression as she pushes down to the rays of light signifying the world below. Doing this makes me feel dizzy, powerful, and somehow—alive. Lila chose to trust me.
We emerge from the lake on D’Arvor’s grounds. The sun lands, soft, on my hair, and I bask in the peaceful quiet of the grass and water. A blue dragonfly skims past Lila’s hand.
“What the hell?” she whispers.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes.” She looks like she’s about to cry. “It’s so beautiful.”
I’m in Avalon, interacting with someone. I never thought it was possible.
“Come,” I tell her. “Let’s go meet Constance.”
We both approach the woman by the pond, standing mid-thigh-high in water, washing her hair so it obscures her face. The sun shining through it makes it copper, almost white. But it’s not Constance. She is tall, fair, her skin translucent, whereas Constance is shorter, with wiry dark hair. The woman startles, reveals her face, her eyebrows so pale they’re almost invisible. She smiles widely.
It’s you.
I thought she was addressing me, then Lila, before I realize that Constance has walked up behind us, her hands deep in the pocket of her working apron. I’m so happy to finally see her that I start to run to her, but Lila stops me.
Do that again. The way the water fell on your face.
Splashing my face, the woman snorts. Elegant indeed…
You’ve got something perfect. Will you pose for me?
She laughs, throwing a wet cloth in jest, which misses Constance. Lila tries to pick it up, but can’t. I know this world is not for us to grasp—I observe; I don’t change it. It welcomes me as a place of rest where I can do nothing but witness. But today, I’m burning with all the questions that I’ve never been able to ask her directly.
“Who is that?” Lila whispers at my side.
You mean I’m so good at standing still, doing nothing.
She grins, walks out of the pond, drying her hair with another cloth.
No. You, you are…
I see the way Constance jitters, how she is looking at her. At once some kind of openness takes hold, a sweet ache. I look at Lila’s face, her widened eyes reflecting the sky, the light dancing on the pond.
And then, as the woman puts on her red dress, I recognize her finally.
The lady in red. Viviane. The same woman I met when I was nine, the first time I went to Avalon, in D’Arvor’s attic. Why is she here when this sculpture isn’t about her?
You, Anne…you are my friend.
Friendship is everywhere in the landscape of Constance’s dreams, this memory of hers distilled into inspiration, trapped in a block of marble. This moment mattered enough for her to pay for the stone, spend hours designing, sketching, and chiseling. It was so important to her and took me totally by surprise.
Likewise.
I startle as a child runs past us, toward them, a head of wild blond curls, holding an armful of daisies, calling Mama… I feel dizzy. The cloth Viviane threw at my feet dissolves in a puddle of mud. I got it all wrong, all those years, I misinterpreted who Viviane was. I thought she was a fantasy, a metaphor, but she was real. What else about Constance’s life did I get so utterly wrong? How else have I failed her?
“Camille.” I turn to Lila. She’s trembling. Where a minute ago, white butterflies were twirling around us, now they’re a flurry of snowflakes, big like moths.
I’m cold too. Through the snow, the loop starts again, the hair being washed, Constance like a twitchy fawn, approaching…
“Camille! Take me back, please.” Lila’s eyes are half-shut, her face drained.
What if I keep her here for too long? What will happen to her? This spurs me to action and I take her hand to guide her back.
We are welcomed to the museum by hushed voices: a young couple, both with dreadlocks, and a group of ladies with short white hair and colorful scarves, holding maps of the museum, all absorbed in Boisseau’s masterpiece at the center of the room.
The air is warm but Lila and I shiver while we look at each other, thoughts swirling in my head like the butterflies of Avalon. All this time, the lady in red, Viviane, was Anne Foucault.
“Camille…”
“It wasn’t only peace that Constance found at D’Arvor, it was friendship. And it changed everything. I always thought she was a loner”—like me, I choose to leave out—“but then, she…” I start looking around, and sure enough, I see Anne’s face in every sculpture, her portrait branding Constance’s inspiration.
You are the key to unlocking it all.
I startle as Lila grabs my upper arms and shakes me. “Camille! Stop this. You took me in—you took me into Constance’s sculpture! You actually did!”
Then her grip loosens and she nearly collapses. I catch her just in time, help her to the bench. That sobers me up, along with how cold her skin feels. “Shit. Lila, I’m so sorry.” I rummage through my bag to find a light jumper, wrapping it around her shoulders. “Are you OK?”
She nods, her eyes shut tight. As the adrenaline recedes with the last of the sculpture’s hit, it dawns on me, really dawns on me.
I took someone in with me, deliberately. Lila walked around in Avalon, seeing what I was seeing. She was in there for a long time.
When she opens her eyes, I swear there is some of that golden afternoon trapped in her irises.
“I’m fine,” she says. She looks a little better and I’m relieved.
“Lila…” I need to know. “What exactly did you see? I need to know if I’m going mad.”
“Two women, one in the lake. And the boy calling his mother. Then you got all weird and it started snowing. So if you’re going mad, I guess I’m going mad too.”
We sit like that, on a bench, watching the sculptures from afar, warming our bones in Rennes’s August for a while. I know we’re both replaying what just happened, both working our hardest to make sense of it.
“I can’t believe you wanted to come with me,” I say.
Lila’s seriousness melts, and she mock scowls. “Does this mean we have to be friends now?”
Friends. Some of the warmth of Constance’s emotions lingers in the air. We snigger at this, a little awkward, as the retired ladies examining Narcissus a few paces away whisper excitedly about his private parts.
Then Lila’s serious again. “I didn’t really believe it would happen. But then…here, when you—when I really looked at that sculpture, I wanted to know her so badly…”
She understands. My heart flutters in my chest. “Was it how you expected it?”
She shakes her head. She still looks quite shaken. “He wasn’t there.”
“Who?”
She points at the Boisseau in the middle of the room. I’m about to launch into another diatribe about the way Constance’s story is presented on those damn labels, but she seems to decide to change the subject. “Was the snow normal? Is it always that cold?”
I shrug to mask the unease. It was warm and sunny, and then… Then you got upset, Camille. But that’s impossible. I’ve never been able to move anything in Avalon, let alone change its fabric. “I suppose that’s what the weather was like in that memory.” I’m so happy to have seen Constance, to have found her intact and happy. The euphoria is strong. However, there’s also the revelation of what I had managed to miss all those years ago.
“I’m not making it up, right?” I ask Lila. “Did you feel it too—how important Anne Foucault was to her?”
Lila nods. “Was this all new to you, then?”
“I’m afraid so. Now I think she was Constance’s muse while she was at D’Arvor. Friend, inspiration, model certainly. I just can’t believe I never noticed this before. It was like—hidden from me. Perhaps she wanted to hide it?”
“Do you think that an artist could deliberately hide things from you? Even with your gift?”
I think. “I guess they would have to know how the gift works to set out to deceive me. I usually see through regular forgeries immediately. But that’s not Constance. I’m starting to think I’ve failed her. That all those years I just looked for what I expected to find in her sculptures and missed what really mattered to her.” It pains me to admit that I might have been biased, looked for the tale of someone who needed nobody, who was stronger by herself. It hurts and puts me to shame. What else might I have missed?
“Sometimes we’re not able to see what’s right in front of us,” Lila says.
But now something else is bothering me. How the sculptures in D’Arvor’s attic are so completely different from these. How they’re resisting, dark, deliberately playing games with me. Attractive, opaque. How unsettled they’re making me feel. Not like Wrong Night Swimming, but also not like this. It’s what Lila asked—Do you think that an artist could deliberately hide things from you?
“Lila,” I start, “what do you know about the sculptures at D’Arvor? What did Maxime tell you?”
There’s a sudden change in the air we are breathing, and the whole room turns toward him, as if caught red-handed. Maxime walks over to us briskly in his blue suit, the face of his watch catching a stray ray of spotlight, blinding me for a second. You shouldn’t look straight at him for risk of being petrified, of course.
“Sorry I’m late.” He seems irritated. Or has he been rushing?
“I wasn’t aware you were joining us,” I say.
I give him a smile, which I hope for him to reciprocate, but he seems on edge. “I fucking hate this room. How can it be of any help?”
I try to hide how taken aback I am by his tone. This is certainly not the moment to give away my doubts about D’Arvor’s sculptures. I don’t want to be responsible for France’s most eligible bachelor’s heart attack. And also…I realize I want more time to talk to Lila. “I think we can get some useful stylistic comparisons to locate your sculptures in her timeline.”
At this, he seems to mellow. “Ah yes, very well.” A pause. “I’m so sorry, Camille. It’s just… Don’t you think she isn’t best served here?”
I’m relieved to know his mood was in fact based in some righteous anger we share. “There are a few things in this room I wish I could smash up, that’s true.”
“Well,” he takes a step back and puts his hands into his pockets. “Surely that’s enough hard work for now. I have some time before my evening engagement. Shall we all go for a drink?”
“Actually, Max, I’d like to stay here a bit longer if that’s OK,” Lila says.
“Are you sure? You hate these artsy places.”
She nods. “Camille might have started to change my mind.”
The look he gives her, then me, is peculiar. I can’t make sense of it.
Does this mean we have to be friends now?
“I’m busy this evening, actually,” I say.
Maxime turns back to me. “What?”
“I’m meeting a friend. In an hour.”
“And what’s her name?”
“His name is Lowen.” I have to force it out of me, as if his name doesn’t belong here, in this dimension of Maxime in his white shirt surrounded by sculptures stretching their arms out to him in lust. I would rather stay here. My head is ringing with Anne, with questions about Constance, this new side of her life. And Lila. All the people in this room seem to escape me, whatever they’re made of.
“I see,” Maxime says, and I turn back to him. “Where are you meeting?”
“He suggested a bar not far from his venue.”
“Well, let me take you there. I want to be the first to buy you a drink today.”
I glance at Lila but she’s turned away. I nod.
“Splendid.”
I follow him back through the museum, doing my best to shut all the works out. Maxime speeds to the exit like a man on a mission, his elastic step perfectly regular. Until he stops, just in front of Boisseau’s Anticipation in the hallway, a life-size marble of two lovers frozen in the split second before their lips meet, with a throwaway comment over his shoulder:
“Reminds me of the last time we were together in a museum.”
I blush, hastening my pace. In the V&A, he had bent toward me, his hand knotting my hair, time stopping between Constance’s yearning and ours. Then I remember how I threw myself at Lowen in my flat, some weeks ago that feel both like years and yesterday. I cringe at both memories of missed kisses.
Maxime and Lowen, colliding in the same space. Well, this promises to be interesting.