“I hope you don’t think I take this as a form of payment.”
I laughed and pulled him on top of me, not finished with him yet.
Fifteen
Days fell into weeks that melded into months as René, now a steady fixture in my life, continued working on his pieces.
I hadn’t expected or wanted anything serious.
When I’d started with René, I’d thought it would be a simple, if intense, affair, destined to burn itself out, but I’d come to rely on my time with him, as his passion sparked my creativity, allowing my writing to flow. Being with someone after so many decades, no longer feeling alone, eased the burden of my work for Death. All I had to do was not fall too deeply in love—not care too much.
But it endured, our time together spanning into years.
Being with René offered entrée to another world and the invitations to literary salons and art showings became endless. We were the toast of Paris, and now I was gaining access to all sides of the city, from society circles—where I was now a celebrated guest rather than an attraction—to the hidden places few knew about, exposing me to a prism of love that extended through an array of people and expressions. I’d never before considered this a possibility. René’s sensuality was a force that attracted followers. After an exhibition or a show, someone would usually be willing to join us in bed. We experimented with other lovers but always found our way back to each other, so much so that I stopped waiting for the end, for him to fall for another muse and move on.
Eight years passed. We’d settled into a routine, him with his painting and his shows and me with my writing. I thought I wouldeventually have to confess my secret. But René always claimed that he had known I was a goddess from the moment he saw me.
That I retained my looks, he said, was only further proof of my divinity. But if we continued, I couldn’t stay young forever because it would raise too many questions.
I’d begun to form a plan for us to leave the city as I’d done in the past, perhaps traveling across Europe until I could return. It would’ve worked too, but life didn’t let us get that far.
The first tremor came in 1879—a subtle shake in René’s right hand made him drop his paintbrush.
“Merde.”I found him retrieving the brush, paint spattered on his white shirt, a glob of royal blue marring the center of his painting.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” René said, staring at the blob. “Clumsy, I guess.”
He wasn’t clumsy. René was one of the most precise men I’d met, from setting up his paints to lining his shoes in the closet. “Clumsy” was the last word I’d use for him.
But clumsy he became.
Dropping paintbrushes.
Knocking over glasses.
Making mistakes on pieces.
At first, it happened only once a week.
Then once a day.
Eventually, sharp spasms shot through his hand consistently, smearing paint and destroying hours of work.
We consulted with doctors, healers, and eventually quacks, anyone who promised a cure, but none came. Tonics, elixirs—anything that anyone could sell, René would buy them, downing one after another and watching and flexing his hand.
Nothing worked; if anything, it grew worse.
It took a toll on him. My brilliant René, once active and joyful, began to spend his days in bed, staring out the window, wrapped in heavy sheets, binding himself to still his quaking body.
I did my best to distract him. I kept him company. I read to him and brought books and other entertainment, but he remained unmoved.
“Maybe you can switch mediums?” I suggested one day in early September.
“What?” His tone should have warned me off.
“Make art in another way. I know you need to create.”
