Canvas of Blood

The wide windows painted black blocked out the sunlight. It was practical and went unnoticed, given that it was an artist's studio. The neighborhood usually overlooked an artist's eccentricities. Yet, this was no ordinary artist.

Upon entering the spacious studio, I saw the beautiful red-haired girl gracefully dancing to the music of Tchaikovsky, the Nutcracker was the piece. The music was loud, and Laurent was so absorbed in the leaps, developpés, pirouettes, and fouettés of the lovely young woman that he didn't even notice my presence. He attacked the canvas on the easel with frenzied strokes. The paint splattered against the canvas and spread in every direction.

I observed several canvases of different sizes, all depicting the redhead in motion, her expression one of sublime delight. The vast amount of paint splattered from floor to ceiling turned the studio itself into an abstract work of art, where one could read thoughts and emotions. Pleasure, joy, and euphoria. Sadness and despair. Apotheosis? Perhaps. It had been centuries since I last saw Laurent so enraptured. Obsessed, maybe.

I carefully crossed that artistic installation, mindful not to soil the work, and reached Laurent. I remained silent and watched them for a few more moments. The music stopped, the girl gradually ceased her movements, and Laurent applied his final brushstroke on the canvas. To my astonishment, the beautiful girl appeared on the canvas in still-wet paint, holding the same pose with which she had concluded her performance before us.

Laurent was profoundly connected to the girl; his thoughts and feelings were intertwined with hers. I already knew the tragic end of this story. I needed to speak to him. Finally emerging from his trance, Laurent noticed my presence.

— Are you there, mon chéri? — he was sweating, and his pupils were dilated. Physiological reactions rare among those who have not been alive for some time. — It's been a long time; it's good you came. I must introduce you — his voice sounded affectionate.

— Mademoiselle Camille. Danseuse de ballet à l'Opéra de Paris.

— Monsieur Isaac, I presume. — She approached with quick, graceful steps, her posture impeccably upright, and extended her hand. She was a charming young woman with a delicate appearance and a commanding presence.

As I kissed her hand, I sensed the musky perfume mingled with the sweet aroma of the blood pulsing strongly through her body after the dance. I inhaled those intoxicating scents deeply from her delicate wrist before releasing her hand. I struggled to maintain control over my desire. Before me was a rare specimen; I immediately understood Laurent's apparent madness.

— You're quite right, mademoiselle. It's a pleasure to meet you. — I gave a slight bow.

— The pleasure is certainly all mine. Laurent has spoken so much about you that I am eager to understand the source of his admiration.

— I hope I don't disappoint you. Perhaps Laurent has overstated my qualities. He is a very kind man and a long-time friend.

— You will not disappoint me, Monsieur Isaac. I usually make a good judgment of people from our first encounter. — She could not have been more mistaken.

— Isaac, mademoiselle. We are on familiar terms.

— Very well, Isaac. I'm sorry I can't stay longer. I have rehearsal with the company in a few minutes, and I need to hurry. You haven't seen each other in a while, so I'll leave you to it.

— Rehearsal at night? — I asked.

— That's the price of being part of the greatest ballet company in France, Isaac. — She smiled at me. — Laurent, we should have dinner together, the three of us. I'll be expecting your call. — She approached Laurent, bidding him farewell with a lingering kiss, and then, with a delicate gesture, brushed my lips with a light kiss, standing on her toes. The warmth of her body ignited my cold one. She turned and walked away with the same swift, graceful steps toward the elevator. Laurent and I watched her in silence.