― Lebo Grand
Margaux
The isolation endemic to the writing trade has gotten to me. I've fallen in love with my own Muse.
Oh, writers talk about their Muses, but in a tongue-in-cheek way that dismisses that they're real.
Well, not only is my Muse real but she has an actual name, Margaux Astor, and she manifests in the flesh and has a personal history that makes me feel she's more like a ghost of a deceased person than a blithe artistic genius.
I say all this as an apology of sorts to account for my predicament of having abandoned my apartment and getting blind drunk to stave off going home to my resident spirit.
But my luck being what it is, I've met a beautiful girl, Ashley Moore, who looks like Margaux, although she certainly doesn't act like her.
She's an investment banker and is far more vivacious and pleasant than Margaux, but just as alluring and enchanting.
She's worried about my getting safely home because I've drank quite a bit and although I live just upstairs in the same building, my excess drinking has left me a little unsteady on my feet.
She offered to help me up to my condo in the Flatiron Building and I willingly agreed. I mean, who was I to deny the universe?
When we got off the elevator and Ashley saw the view over the Saint Lawrence Market and the city lights beyond, she was enchanted. “It’s beautiful, Paul—you’re so fortunate to live here.”
I demurred. “I’m not wealthy—my friend Harry owns the floor and rents me the space.”
I clicked on the wall switch and she gave a gasp.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“The—the …the portrait over your fireplace,” she stammered.
I arched my brow inquisitively.
“It’s a Jean Dubois!” she whispered in awe.
“It’s his canvas,” I said, “he painted it for me. Why are you so astonished?”
She couldn’t take her eyes off the picture. “I have the same painting over my fireplace.”
“You mean, the exact, same painting?”
“Yes,” she said vacantly, “I don’t understand…”
She sat down opposite it on the love seat, staring, and allowing her handbag to slide to the floor while she sat back, in her black, cloth coat, mesmerized.
“Did you meet Jean Dubois?” I asked her.
She shook her head, while keeping her eyes on the canvas. “It was strange,” she said finally, “I was walking downtown and on a whim went into small art gallery and saw the canvas. The gallery owner remarked on its likeness to me, so I bought it—I have no idea why. It was pure impulse and quite unlike me.”
I looked at her and then, back at the painting. It was fascinating. As I compared the girl and the painting, I could see there were obvious differences —small details that weren’t apparent at first, but became clearer the longer I stared.
Still, it was eerie, the similarity. It seemed the artist had managed to capture their soul.
How alike were they, I wondered—certainly, Ash lacked the hauteur of Margaux but Margaux lacked the vivacity of Ash.
As I stared at the portrait, a remarkable thing happened.
The features of Margaux in the canvas seemed to waver and shimmer as if a stray breeze blurred her image in a reflecting pond.
The lines of Margaux’s face seemed to shape-shift as if a template were being impressed upon them, until her features finally resolved into the lines of Ash’s face.
Once the transformation was complete, I honestly couldn’t recall what features were Margaux’s and which belonged to Ash.
I looked over to Ash to see if she witnessed the transformation, but she appeared dazed, in a trance.
“Are you all right?” I asked as I held her in my arms to steady her.
Her eyes focused on me and then grew wide in recognition.
She smiled up at me dreamily, and whispered in Margaux’s voice, “I am now darling.”