Page 36 of The Art of Vanishing

Claire

Jean was moving fast. He kicked the door of the cabin closed with his foot, putting me back down on the ground but grabbing my hands to pull me close.

He spun me, pulling me in and backing me up against the wall.

I laughed into his kiss from the thrill of it all.

I had spent so much of the past few months feeling old, my responsibilities adding years to my life. Jean made me feel my age again.

We kissed like we were doing it for the first time, sloppy with enthusiasm, not a drip of self-consciousness.

My fingers tightened in his hair and I bit down gently on his lip; I could feel his heart rate spike as he moaned.

He put his hands under my legs and picked me up again, wrapping me around him.

I was desperate to get my uniform off; ironic, as I’d been so excited to put it on a few hours earlier.

“What’s so funny?” Jean asked as he kissed my neck. “You keep giggling.”

“I’m just”—I gasped as he nipped at my neck—“so happy to be back.”

He smiled and lowered me onto the couch, keeping his kisses going as he undid my jumpsuit buttons as fast as he could. I sat up to help him undress me, shimmying out of the top and freeing my arms. He pulled the whole thing off from the ankles.

And then he paused. Where he had been frantic and frenzied, he was now slow, taking his time to step back and look at me.

I knew what he was doing but I was impatient, my body craving as much of his touch as it could get.

He ran his fingers along my calves, drawing small, slow circles.

I wished I could take a picture with my memory.

“Jean,” I begged when the anticipation was too much.

“You’re beautiful,” he said as he lowered himself to his knees and pulled my hips up to meet his mouth.

He was so different from anyone I’d ever known before, both in the way he spoke to me and in the way he treated me.

He was the one who asked me to show him what I needed.

He was generous and attentive, uninterested in climaxing himself until he was sure I was taken care of.

I wondered if he had an ex-girlfriend to thank for that education.

I could tell it was what turned him on above all else.

I cried out in pleasure. Jean didn’t stop until I physically sat up and drew him by the shoulders to meet me.

I was shaking and he was so aroused, I thought he might rip his pant seam.

I wanted today to last forever and also to move so quickly.

I began to strip away his jacket, his shirt, his pants; he was fully clothed compared to my complete and total nakedness and I made quick work of leveling the playing field.

I switched our places and he grinned in surprise as I pushed him down onto his back. I lowered myself onto him and he immediately reached down to that spot that made me shiver, rubbing in slow circles. He couldn’t hold out for long and came quickly, and moments later I did again too.

I collapsed onto his chest, trapping his arm between our bodies.

Again, I got to smell his perfectly distinct scent, one I had tried so hard to keep ahold of in my memory: a little tobacco, a little oil paint, a little of that classic guy smell.

I inhaled as he kissed the top of my head, and I heard him whisper, “I love you.”

“I know,” I said. “I love you too.”

“I know,” he echoed. I rolled ever so slightly to the side and laid my head on his collarbone. I could feel his chin on the top of my head. We fit together like a puzzle and I never wanted to leave.

But Linda had freaked me out earlier, and I knew it was possible she’d come back to check on me soon. As much as I didn’t want to get up, I didn’t want to get fired even more. I forced myself to sit up. I didn’t even have to say anything, Jean just followed my lead, passing me my jumpsuit.

“It’s always too short,” I said as I got dressed again.

“But we have so many more nights ahead of us,” he reassured me.

As I helped him do the buttons on his shirt, I remembered he had mentioned the journal earlier. I reminded him of this.

“Oh!” he exclaimed as he pulled his shoes back on. “So you’ve heard of it?”

“Of course I have,” I said. “It’s everywhere on the news, online, everyone’s talking about it. They said it’s possible the writer is one of the anonymous models on the walls.”

“I heard the same,” he confirmed.

“Don’t you feel like we could figure out who it is?

” I asked. I’d been puzzling over this mystery ever since the announcement—the chance to reunite the journal with its true owner.

A genuine historical riddle, and I was perhaps the only person alive who could investigate from within the paintings on the walls—the only one I knew of, anyway.

I hoped the journal belonged to Antoinette, my occasional professor and favorite person in the museum besides Jean, but I didn’t want to reveal my theory yet, in case I was wrong. Jean knew her much better than I did.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Jean mused. “There are so many figures in the museum, I think it would be impossible. Or if the person wanted to be found, then they would reveal themselves.”

“Can we at least go try?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, we absolutely can.” Jean draped his tie around his neck, to be tied later, and left the top buttons of his shirt undone.

I loved seeing him like this. I knew he wouldn’t age, not like I would and had in the last few months, but when he was mussed up like this, I could picture a Jean two or three decades older, growing hotter and hotter in middle age.

“Ooh,” I cooed. “It’s casual Jean today.”

“Only for you,” he said, stealing one more kiss.

We walked together out into the daylight of this painting’s bucolic scene. Jean led the way through parlor rooms, estates, and seascapes until, in a matter of minutes, we were in the painting that stood above the journal. We crouched to better inspect the page beneath us.

I read aloud as best I could. The handwriting was loopy and blurred with age.

“ April 15, 1918. To begin in a sincere place, life has not been all I’ve imagined.

After so many years of just scraping by in Paris, I’ve decided to leave.

I want to work on my art and my own music.

I’ve always thought I’d get to make some sort of stamp on the world, instead it’s been keeping me in place.

So, I’ve escaped. I’ve just arrived in Nice, with Pierre and a few others of his cohort.

This is supposed to be a place for… What does that word mean? ”

Jean looked closer. “That’s the French word for ‘storytellers,’ if I’m reading the letters correctly.”

“ I’ve made it clear to all that I’m here to pursue my work but I’m not sure Pierre’s been — Is that French again?”

“?‘Amenable,’ I think she means.”

“Who do you think Pierre is? Your brother?”

He shook his head. “Renoir, maybe? He would have been pretty old. It was a common name. Keep reading.” I could tell Jean was getting excited about this too. We had a front-row seat to art history.

“—Amenable to my message. We’ve settled in amongst a series of apartments in a neighborhood that seems to be favored by others of our sort.

A man stopped me on the street today and asked if I would sit for him.

I’d anticipated this kind of thing and said I’d do so only for a trade—I’d take a canvas and the other materials I needed to get started.

He agreed. I’ll sit for him tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’m going to start to make the life I always thought I would have. ”

I heard a noise and stopped abruptly. It was the red-haired woman that we’d seen in the gallery downstairs during the first of Jean’s art history lessons.

I thought she was stunning then, but I had underestimated her.

She was so beautiful up close it overwhelmed me.

While Jean had come to feel human to me, she felt like a real work of art.

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you”—she looked at Jean as well—“I mean, anyone would be here.”

“Hi,” I said, somewhat starstruck to see her in person. I didn’t know why; it wasn’t like she was any different from anyone else I’d met in this world. “How are you doing?” I asked, trying to seem normal.

“I’m well, thank you for asking,” she said as she backed out of the room. “I’ll let you have your time; I’ll come back later.”

I started to tell her that wasn’t necessary, but she was already gone. “Oh, I do really need to get going,” I admitted to Jean. “Are you okay?” I asked. He looked sad, so sad.

“I’m going to miss you again,” he confessed.

“I know, but I’ll be back tomorrow. And tomorrow, we’ll talk. I’ll tell you as much as I can.”

“No rush,” he said. “We will take our time.” I planted a light kiss on his lips and went to slide out of this frame when Jean cried, “Wait!” I’d never heard him shout before; it startled me.

“The floor here by the new installation,” he explained, “it’s got a motion-sensor alarm. I don’t know if they turn it off at night like the others. It’s probably safer to go around.”

“Good call,” I said. Now that Jean had reminded me, I remembered Jamie mentioning something about that. I walked until I was within the world of the painting just to the right, and I successfully dropped to the ground, outside the alarm’s radius.

I turned back to him to say good night and he waved in response. I hustled over to my mop, but my hustle was more like a skip tonight. I was so happy; my legs couldn’t contain themselves.

I felt a wave of guilt in that moment. How could I be this happy without Luna?

This was the first night in months I hadn’t been there to tuck her into bed, a ritual I’d fallen right back into the rhythm of.

Could I ever be a good mother if I could find such happiness while I was pretending my kid didn’t exist?

Would my life ever feel complete if I always had to choose between the two of them?

I had just slopped my mop onto the ground when Linda reentered the room, the jump scare of her unexpected appearance nearly knocking me to the floor.

“My god, Linda, you scared the shit out of me!” I all but yelled. I remembered I’d taken off my mask in Jean’s world and dug around in my jumpsuit pocket for it. Thankfully, it was there, and I looped its strings over my ears as quickly as I could.

“Sorry,” Linda said, clearly not sorry. “I didn’t hear any sounds coming from here; I thought you’d moved on.”

I couldn’t quite figure out her motives—was she there to inspect my work? Was she there to read the journal herself? I realized just how dirty the gallery must look to her detail-oriented eye.

I tried to cover for myself. “Slow start is all, getting back into it. I was looking at the art,” I admitted, hoping that would atone for my rate of work tonight.

I caught a glimpse of Jean out of the corner of my eye.

He had taken a seat in the painting above the journal, trying to look like a natural part of the setting.

“Just checking on all the familiar faces,” I rambled on.

Linda nodded but gave me a disapproving glare. She took one last look at the journal before she told me she’d see me downstairs and left me alone. I turned to Jean and wiped an imaginary line of sweat from my brow, smiling to let him know we’d survived that close call, and finally got to work.

When the room was immaculate enough to pass muster with Linda, I blew Jean a kiss.

He had stayed right where we’d parted and watched me work.

He pretended to catch my kiss, pulling it into his heart.

I forced myself to leave, which was only possible with the knowledge that I could come back tomorrow.

But I also knew that tomorrow, it was time for me to come clean.

My stomach turned at the thought. Once I told Jean, there’d be no going back.