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Louis is feeling restless once again. As if there were millions of tiny critters crawling beneath his skin, threatening to break out. He leaves the brightly lit rooms of the theater and ventures to the oldest and decrepit parts of the building. There Louis finds himself standing in front of the painting. It’s almost hidden and seemingly forgotten in a little alcove in the complex maze of the theater’s hallways. Louis suspects the heavy fabric that’s discarded on the floor had once been covering the painting.
Louis has never considered himself as an expert of the arts but he does appreciate fine and beautiful things. This painting is just that.
It is old, yes, and worn down. The wooden frame has cracked and the canvas has several stains on it. It smells of mold and damp wood. What once must have been bright colors are now muted and dirty. One corner is torn and one could easily peel the fraying canvas loose from its frame. The whole thing looks so fragile it would fall apart from mere touch.
But it’s not the flaws which draw Louis to it so often these days.
What has survived of the painting is beautiful. Even if it is in desperate need of restoration.
At the center of the canvas stands a young man, barely past the age of boyhood, looking over his shoulder, his eyes downcast. There’s soft, light colors in the background, casting a halo around him. Dark, long curls fall down his back like a waterfall. It’s impossible to tell anymore if the young man is clothed or not. The features on his face are delicate and his skin is untarnished and beautiful dark brown. He looks serene but not sorrowful. Louis can imagine the young man has simply been lost in his thoughts and if someone would just call out his name, he would raise his dark eyes and smile at his companion.
Louis has often stared at the painting these past months and tried to make a sense of it. Why is the painting here on its own, in this remote corner of the building, and why keep a painting that is in such a poor condition? There’s a signature in the bottom corner but Louis has never heard of the artist, this ‘Marius de Romanus.’ Not even once in all the books he had ever read. The painting’s monetary value can’t be that high, then. Had it been here from the start and merely forgotten as the time had passed? Louis could picture it once being a coveted piece of art but now its origins have been lost to time. That’s the thing he finds so fascinating in Paris. Pieces of the past just scattered across the city and no one knows where they came from. Not even Louis’ own kind, who have dwelled in Paris for centuries.
With his hands clasped behind his back he stands before the painting and tries to uncover the secrets it so clearly holds. He doesn’t turn around when he hears footsteps approach him. First he thinks it might be Claudia coming to look for him, not willing to let him out of her sight for long. But it’s not her heels clicking against the floor boards.
“I am pleasantly surprised you have love for the arts, Louis” Armand’s velvety voice asks when he steps into the alcove to stand beside him. Louis quickly glances at him from the corner of his eye. Armand’s shoulder length hair is curled behind his ears and he is wearing his outer coat. No doubt he is ready to head out into the Parisian night.
“I really don’t, no. Can’t tell my Monet from Renoir. But I find myself captivated by this one. I can’t help but to stop by it everytime I happen to pass by,” Louis shrugs and feels a little silly to admit it. What did he care about an old painting that was ready to fall apart? Armand probably didn’t even remember it existed at all.
“And what do you like about it?” Armand questions further, almost impatiently. His apparent impatience makes Louis feel hesitant at first. Deep inside, he wants to sound impressive so he has to think for a moment how to put it into words and save himself from sounding like a fool.
“It feels almost alive. As if someday, when I walk past this alcove, the young man has raised his head to look straight into my eyes,” he finally manages to say and Armand hums thoughtfully in response.
“And has he?” he humours Louis.
“No, and I don’t think he ever will,” Louis shakes his head. He lets out a long exhale as he takes in the sad state of the picture of the painting: “He seems to be frozen in time, just like the rest of this place. Shame about its condition. Many of the details have been lost and the colors have been drained. What’s the story behind it, do you know?”
Armand is quiet for a moment before he gives an answer:
“It’s a very old painting. I acquired it from an impoverished French noble in the 1840’s. It had been in his family for generations. The man was seeking funds to immigrate to South America and was selling his extensive collection of art, so I paid the man and brought it here. I admit I have rarely looked at it since.”
“Why did you buy such a frail and decaying picture then? Is it famous?” Louis scoffs. He glances at the heavy fabric pooled at his feet. It really did seem like Armand had bought the painting on a whim and then it had been left to rot in the stuffy theater, hidden beneath a veil.
Armand’s eyes darken for a second before he schools his face again. He shakes his head:
“No, it’s not famous, I’m afraid. Maybe during the time it was painted it would have been worth something, but the artist has fallen into obscurity in our time. Many nobles in the 16th century fashioned themselves as artists.”
“I figured. Never even heard of an artist named Marius de Romanus,” Louis says as he looks at the blood red signature again.
“Not many of his paintings have survived to this day,” Armand responds quietly.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Why did I buy it anyway?”
“Yes,” Louis confirms and watches as Armand steps further into the alcove and gazes up at the painting.
“I guess it intrigued me? Like I said, not many of his paintings survive and for its time period, you too have to admit, it is a very unique painting.”
“It’s not a portrait of a noble lord, no,” Louis admits, wondering what Armand is leaving unsaid.
“No, I can assure you it’s not,” Armand graces him with a soft laugh and his signature shy smile.“Tell me, Louis, why do you think the artist painted this painting then? If it’s not there to honor the church or a wealthy patron, why did he use his skill and countless hours to paint this?” Armand presses on with the questions. His curiosity to hear Louis’s reasoning is seemingly so intense that it extends beyond the usual need for small talk. Louis almost asks Armand about it but something in the other vampire’s eyes halts his tongue.
It takes Louis a few moments but then he thinks he is certain of how to answer:
“The man who painted this knew this young man. He wasn’t just some stranger he paid with a coin to sit for him. He knew his model well. He had touched him… tasted him. Knew every inch of his body and how it moved.” Louis lets the words surge out of him and for a moment the painting seems to come alive in front of his eyes. “The artist knew how the shade of his skin looked in the first light of the dawn and in the candlelight illuminating the darkest of rooms. He had the opportunity to watch him every single day for hours and memorize every miniscule detail.”
Louis expects Armand to smile in amusement at his enthusiasm and lead him out of this crypt to the crisp night air. Instead, Armand looks at him with wide eyes full of wonder. His mouth slightly ajar and he wets his lips with the tip of his tongue before he asks quietly:
“Do you think he loved the young man?”
“I think so. But not in the traditional sense. Not as equals and companions in life. No. He loved him as God once loved Adam and was eager to see him being molded as his own image.”
“You surprise me, Louis.”
“I surprised myself. I’m not an art critic,” Louis says sheepishly and stares at the tips of his shoes. He stands here lecturing about another man’s possessions and feels relieved Armand has entertained his ideas this long and taken no offense.
“Maybe it speaks of the skill of the artist. Just with mere strokes of the brush he was able to pour his feelings and desires onto the canvas. So plain for everyone to see.”
“I don’t think it was for everyone’s eyes,” Louis interrupts him suddenly and their eyes meet. “Feels like the artist must have wanted the painting all for himself. Sort of a sweet reminder, company when they were apart from each other?”
“Perhaps you are right, Louis,” Armand sounds amused. He cocks his head and holds Louis’ gaze. “Are you sure you have no interest in the arts?”
“I didn’t have much time for it. My sister taught herself watercolors when we were kids. Seemed like a waste of time to me,” Louis says and immediately his eyes turn sorrowful. He doesn’t know why the memory of Grace’s paintings came upon him now. It has been decades since he had last seen her paint and wonders if she had kept any of her paintings. Louis remembers she had been quite good at it.
Armand tilts his head, his eyes unblinking:
“A delicate subject? I apologize”
Louis waves his apologies away. It is fine. Not much reminded him of his family anymore. The sudden painful memory would soon pass again. Armand then continues:
“I was taught to paint in my youth and have found joy in the arts ever since. I find it often comforts a troubled mind and gives idle, restless hands something to do.”
So Armand is actually an artist and much more knowledgeable of the subject than Louis. The fact he still desired to hear Louis’ opinion makes him feel seen. It replaces the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach with giddiness. He is only left to wonder whether Armand meant his actual youth as a living man or if painting was something Armand had picked over the centuries he had spent in Paris. Seems like there couldn’t have been a better place for a vampire to hone his artistry over the years than here.
Before he can ask though, Armand swiftly changes the subject. He steps so very close to Louis, that he can see the pupils of his dark eyes. Armand lays a hand on his shoulder and then slides it downward, where it comes to grasp his upper arm, and says with a low voice:
“I don’t much collect art myself. There are enough galleries and museums in Paris where one might take an uninterrupted stroll during the night – but I do keep a small studio in my personal apartments, if you would like to see it someday?”
“Sure. Why not,” Louis manages to answer, his arm tense under the soft caress. “Seems like I might possess some talent as an art critic,” he tries to crack a joke but all the humor drips away from his voice as Armand lets go of him.
“You possess keen eyes, Louis, and a great sense of empathy. It makes you observant in ways very few people are.” Armand’s eyes are gentle but they harden as he reaches behind Louis and plucks a splinter off of the painting’s frame.
“To be honest, I don’t know what to do with this one here. I think it might be time to get rid of it. Maybe too much time has passed and there is no saving it anymore,” Armand says wistfully and flicks away the splinter between his fingertips.
“A damn shame.”
“Yes, but that’s how it sometimes is. These pieces can be delicate and fall into poor shape at the hands of careless owners.”
They leave the alcove together and Louis is about to head back into the theater to look for Claudia. He hears laughter coming from the theater and her presence on his mind is peaceful but she wonders where he has gone.
“Go to your Claudia, Louis. Maybe you’d be free some other night to accompany me? We could stroll past the Petit Palais together and see if we could slip inside,” Armand sounds nonchalant but Louis notices how he quickly hides his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. Armand is nervous. Louis finds it endearing and for a moment he is tempted to go with Armand right away. A nightly stroll through streets of the city of lights together sounds appealing. Claudia would be fine without him for one night.
“Yeah, some other night,” he finally manages to say. Armand doesn’t look disappointed and only nods. They part in the hallway. Armand heads to take one of the many exits of the theater and Louis heads back to Claudia and the adoring court gathered around her.
In the coming weeks, Paris swallows Louis whole. Gradually he ceases to think about the painting of the young man hidden in the depths of the theater. Next time he happens to walk past the place, there is only a pale spot on the wall marking the place where the painting once had been.