My grief over Monty’s death, mixed with my anger at Tommy and my self-loathing, overwhelmed me. Because of a secret I had sketched out, someone had died, and my life was forever altered. Although the signs had been there all along, alerting me to the possible dangers involved in revealing the secret lives of others, this marked the first time my work had truly betrayed me. Never had it caused such tragedy. Could I even go on? What other damage would I create by continuing?
I’d known that the potential for disaster existed. I’d had two warnings. First when I drew Mathieu’s portrait and then when I received a letter from a woman named Thérèse Bruis, who had sat for me weeks before. I’d already decided to leave Paris by then—to save Mathieu’s life—when her plea to remove her painting from Sebastian’s gallery arrived. I had never received such a missive before and was ashamed and appalled that I’d contributed to this poor, lovely woman’s sorrow. But it was her unhappiness that gave me the excuse I needed to explain my departure to Sebastian, who assured me that he would take care of the situation. He was my beloved twin, my savior, and as shocked and disappointed as he was at my leaving, I knew he would follow through on his promise.
Once I arrived in New York, why hadn’t I stuck to my resolution to give up drawing secrets? Why couldn’t I instead just paint what I saw with my eyes, not my mind, as my contemporaries did? Didn’t I have proof that my ability was not always a source of good and light but could be a dark and dangerous thing?
Why had I allowed Sebastian to cajole me, via his letters and visits, into taking on more shadow commissions? Mathieu had disapproved of Sebastian selling my gift. But even the thought of his disappointment wasn’t enough to dissuade me.
Had I succumbed because I desired success and notoriety and knew it would be easier to attain through magick? Had I agreed to please my twin? Sebastian basked in being my manager. He was so proud of my success. Had I continued to paint for his gratification and squelched my own concerns?
Or was it that while I had fled to New York in anguish, the move gave me a surprising dose of freedom? As much as I missed my family and the ease with which I had entrusted all aspects of my career to Sebastian back in Paris, I experienced an independence in New York that I’d never thought possible, especially for a woman. While our roles had evolved during the war, once it ended and men returned to the head of the table, women all over the world were soon enough sent back to the kitchen, literally and figuratively.
While Sebastian visited twice a year, an ocean’s distance kept him from insinuating too much. I was getting more and more of my own commissions, and I destroyed any paintings that my clients didn’t want made public—not that this happened very often. I thought I was becoming liberated from Sebastian’s protection—and I reveled in it—until the Monty and Clara incident.
For the next three days, I kept the curtains drawn. I draped a black chenille throw over my beautiful couch, stripped the coral silk off the rickety table, and hid all the pillows under the bed. I shrouded the studio in darkness and sat in front of my easels staring at the work I’d done before the accident.
A month earlier, the owner of the Saperstein Gallery had expressed interest in a surrealistic shadow portrait I’d done of a woman turned into a flower—or a flower turned into a woman. He’d said that if I could bring in a series, he’d consider including me in a group show. For years, my work had been shown in my brother’s gallery in Cannes, but I’d never had a New York or Paris exhibition. Since January, the dream of the show had kept me up night after night working on the Petal Mystique paintings, as I had named them.
But after the accident and Tommy’s departure, I couldn’t pick up where I’d left off with the series. I didn’t know if I could paint at all or if I should even be allowed to paint. I had done irreparable damage with my talent. Didn’t I have to pay a penance? Serve my time?
Whenever I reached for the blindfold, it burned my fingers as if it were on fire. I worried that if I put it on, the heat might hurt my eyesight. My worst fear was returning to a sightless state. I still had a recurring and troubling nightmare of swimming in the sea, alone, no longer tethered to my brother, not knowing if I was swimming out farther or toward shore. I’d wake up in a sweat, filled with panic.
It wasn’t just a bad dream. During the year when I was blind, Sebastian was my eyes. Because we both loved to swim and spent our summers by the shore, he’d devised a way that I could still enjoy the water. He’d tie a rope around his waist and then around mine. Long enough to give me the freedom to swim, it also gave me security.
One afternoon, in seas that were a little rougher than usual, the rope broke. At first, I didn’t realize that I was no longer tethered to Sebastian. When I did, I panicked. Just as I screamed for my twin, a large wave crashed over me. I took in a huge mouthful of water. Twisting and turning in the surf, I didn’t know what to do. Terrorized, I struggled, fought the waves. Feared they were winning.
“Sebastian!” I shouted over and over, but every time, the crashing waves swallowed his name.
And then, finally, I felt his arms pulling me to him. Holding me. He was only eight years old, but his little-boy arms were strong enough to save me that day. Seconds later, there was sand underfoot. I hadn’t drifted far out at all but had been caught up in a rough current close to shore, where it was just deep enough that my feet hadn’t reached bottom.
That was the last time I went swimming. The last time I stepped into any body of water other than a bath. Even after my sight returned.
Lonely, melancholy, unable to work, I still hadn’t gone out on the fourth day after Monty Schiff’s funeral. Barely hungry, I was managing on what I had in the studio: black coffee, a few eggs, a half dozen apples, a wedge of cheese, and bread that became more stale with each passing day. I drank what was left of the red wine my brother had brought over from his last visit. And then started on the white.
Sleep was my only escape from the nightmares I lived during the day, as I replayed the scene at the party as if it were a film reel. Another Society Scandal but starring Clara instead of Gloria Swanson. The drawing of Clara and Monty refused to fade out of my mind; it became even more lurid and frightening.
On my fifth afternoon of isolation, I finally picked up a brush and tried to paint the scene but with changes, as if I could reverse what had happened by altering it.
After an hour, I dropped my brushes into a jar of turpentine to clean them and then stared at the hideous mess I’d made. This was nothing like my style. The quality was subpar. I couldn’t bear the sight of the blood-red, muddy brown, and gray chaos.
Running into my kitchenette, I grabbed the sharpest knife I had. Returning, I passed by the mirror and saw my image. And I froze.