Page 30 of The Art of Vanishing

Jean

Our interminable isolation dragged on, no patrons swooping in to save us.

I went searching for Odette. I didn’t know where I’d find her.

I started with her own gallery, but there was no trace of her.

I walked through landscapes, still lifes, bedrooms, avoiding spaces where I heard the noise of a crowd gathering.

The sheer amount of artwork in this museum was daunting; I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen so much of it in one day, but I pressed on, avoiding the crowd.

I found her in front of a fishbowl, watching a troubling of goldfish swim in lazy circles.

She spoke to me without looking up: “I used to come here because I thought they might be the only creatures in our world more constrained than we are. But now I don’t know.

I wonder if confinement is relative; who’s to say this gallery isn’t just one big fishbowl and we’re all swimming in circles for some other viewer’s distraction? ”

“I think my father aspired to that kind of absorption in something else, the kind only being painted in place could ensure.”

“Do you think he ever thought that we’d have another life in here? Could he imagine something close to what this is really like?”

“No,” I replied. “I actually think he imagined the opposite. That painting, or creating, was a way of freezing time. Of making absolutely sure that his subjects would be protected and safe forever.”

“Until now, I would have said he was wrong, but with no way of knowing what’s happening out there, maybe he was right.

Maybe we’re safest in here, together,” Odette mused.

“I don’t spend much energy keeping track of how much time has passed; I lost interest in that long ago, but I do know it’s been long enough that no one I knew in that life is still out there.

I don’t have anyone out there to be worried about.

” A physical pain the size of a fist rose up in my chest and attempted to strangle my heart.

“Oh my goodness,” Odette said quickly. “I completely forgot myself. I didn’t mean to say that, to draw attention to your, oh my goodness. I’ve really put my leg in my mouth, haven’t I?”

“Foot,” I said as I took a deep breath.

“Excuse me?”

“The Americans say, ‘put my foot in my mouth.’?”

“I’ve always thought that was a ridiculous turn of phrase anyway.”

“And about that, you are right.” I sighed, putting my palm to my heart as if it could push back against that pain.

“I don’t want to talk about it tonight. I physically do not think I am capable of talking, or thinking, about it anymore.

” I walked around the table to the side where she was sitting and reached for her hand.

She watched me as I took it in my own palm.

It felt smaller than I’d remembered. It had been decades since I’d held it.

We’d split for the most predictable of reasons: I was not in love with her and she was not in love with me.

We were attracted to each other and, over time, came to care deeply for each other.

But with the possibility of forever stretching out in front of us, it was impossible not to admit, after many years had passed, that we both wondered if there was something else out there. We’d mutually agreed that it was time.

I held her small hand in mine. If time shrank memories, there might be hope for me in the future.

When I walked into our living room later that evening, Marguerite was draped across my seat again, flipping the pages of my book. I couldn’t remember Odette returning it before tonight.

I shuffled a bit farther into the room, making my presence known. Marguerite spun around to face me and tossed my book to the side.

“ There you are; I have been waiting for you for forever. Wait, what’s going on with you?”

“Nothing is going on with me,” I refuted half-heartedly. Something was clearly wrong with me.

“Anyway! It doesn’t matter!”

“You’re right about that, at least.”

“No, no more of your ‘nothing matters anymore’ thing. I have news.” She was practically vibrating in her chair. She stood up.

“Oh?” I said, opposing her energy as I sank onto the piano bench.

“Yes,” she repeated. “I absolutely have news.”

“Cut to it, Marguerite.”

“People have been in the museum,” she blurted out. “Today.”

“What?” I said sharply as I snapped to attention. “You saw them? Who was here?”

“Well, no, I haven’t seen anyone yet, but Andromeda came running in today and said she’d just seen the other custodian— not Claire, the one who normally works downstairs—what’s her name?”

“Linda,” I whispered.

“Yes! Linda! She was here with Jamie, the museum director. Anyway, apparently they were walking through the galleries and discussing a big cleaning job. And then!”

“And then what?”

“Oh, I don’t actually know, that’s all Andromeda heard them say before they walked out of our wing. But! If they’re cleaning, don’t you think that could mean people are coming back?”

I had little idea what anything meant anymore. Marguerite absolutely might be on to something, but I didn’t feel hope brewing inside me. Not yet, not until I could see it with my own eyes.

“It’s got to be that,” she continued giddily.

“We’re going to spread the word, let everyone know they should start returning to their posts in the mornings.

It might be too eager, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.

I doubt everyone will listen to us, but at least they’ll have it in mind to be somewhere nearby.

We’re all a bit out of practice, I guess. ”

“Did they not notice you were all in the wrong spots today?”

“Oh, they weren’t looking at the art, just the common spaces and talking about the air filtration system or something.

But I guess we ought to be a bit more careful.

Though I’ve never known what they would do if someone noticed.

They can’t come in here and force us to do anything, Claire aside of course.

” Pins and needles pricked my skin at the mention of her name.

“They could take us down.”

“I guess you have a point there. I’d never considered that as an option for punishment.

After all these months, I can tell you I definitely would not like that, not one bit.

Well, in that case, all the more reason to spread the word.

Can you believe it!” she exclaimed, her question rhetorical.

“The end might be here.” Marguerite paused for a moment, studying my expression, or lack thereof.

“I thought you’d be more excited, to be honest.”

“I think I’m in shock,” I said. The emotional hurricane brewing inside me pushed back against the walls of my rib cage. I needed Marguerite to leave so I could begin to pick through this storm of emotions by myself.

“Okay,” she said suspiciously. “If you say so. I think I’ll find Pierre first. Do you have any idea where he is?”

I did not. I never thought of anyone but myself, did I?

“I see you transitioning into self-loathing and I’m going to ask you to not take this there,” Marguerite commanded. “I’ll find him. If you see your mother, please pass along the news.” I nodded, reassuring her that I would. She trotted out of the room in a rush.

Claire might be coming back here. To our museum. I walked to the edge of our frame and sat on the floor facing the gallery, where I used to wait to be as close to her as possible while she cleaned.

“Oh! I forgot.” Marguerite hurried back into the room, straightening the black ribbon across her neck. “Andromeda did say one other thing. Apparently, they were wearing masks.”

“Who was?”

“Linda and the museum director.”

“Masks? Like the kind you wear at a ball?”

“No,” Marguerite corrected me. “Like the kind a doctor might wear at a hospital. The ones that cover your nose and mouth.” She shrugged, offering no more thoughts on what that might mean, and left in pursuit of her mission.

As I considered this news, the first image that came to mind was Claire’s face, partially obscured by a cloth covering. I could see only her eyes, and they were staring right back at me, knowing all they needed to know.

“It will feel so different,” a voice said behind me.

I turned to see Pierre standing next to the piano.

From my position on the floor, his silhouette was backlit from the light coming in through the window, making him appear three times his normal size.

“For these rooms to be full again. For so long, it felt like we were a part of their space. Now this feels like it belongs to us. I wonder how the power will shift again when we’re no longer alone. ”

I marveled at Pierre’s maturity. I still thought of him as a boy, as older brothers always do, but I was reminded that he had more than a century of wisdom stored up in there.

“It’s like,” he continued, “we finally had a kind of control, the kind we have at night, but whenever and wherever we wanted it. I wonder how many people in this time did things they would never have done otherwise.”

“Are you speaking from personal experience?” I asked.

“I’m not looking to confess, just proffering a theory.” He sat on the bench, not in his usual seat but on Marguerite’s side, closer to me.

“Which do you prefer? Our life on our terms or the other version with the constraints of belonging to the public eye?”

He considered my question, answering, “I think I crave the structure a crowd gives us. With too much free time on our hands and no physical need for sleep, we are pushed outside our limits to try to fill the endless hours.”

“I wonder if you’d feel the same if we’d had such options from the start.”

“A fair question, but we have never lived in that version of the world. We were created for this. And before it was this, we were never truly free either. We still had the expectations of family and of society out there, so I hesitate to romanticize that.”

The sun descended in the sky. The light crept away across the gallery floor, eventually pulled back out the windows through which it came as day faded into night.

There was an unspoken invitation from the darkness that seeped its way across the room, a final hurrah being offered to those who wished to take part in it.

“What will you choose?” Pierre asked. “How will you spend what might be your last night of this thing that feels like freedom?”

“I think I’ll just wait here.”