Bel didn’t sit. Instead, he stepped to a hanging portrait. It depicted a woman dressed in an aproned uniform from a different era standing in front of a gilded storefront. She must be a shop worker. A line of Verdanniere at the bottom said it was painted in Champilliers fifty years ago. But that wasn’t what caught my eye.
“It’s Béatrice,” I said.
“It’s not.”
“What?” I leaned in. It looked like Béatrice, but Bel was right; there were small differences. The eyes were closer together, the forehead too high. “A relative?”
“I believe it’s her sister. I discovered this painting when we stopped in this city years ago and I struck up a conversation with Margot, the woman playing the piano. Although she was younger then and I didn’t need the painting to tell me what was right in front of me. She looked a little older than Béatrice, but nearly identical.”
Slowly, I turned the words over. Margot was Béatrice’s sister. “Margot’s the reason you brought me here?”
“No. I brought you here to show you this.” He touched Margot’s right arm. She held it at an odd angle over an empty space.
“Why does her arm look like that?”
“I’ve seen a couple other paintings here and there with people posed similarly, as if they were holding someone’s hand, or their arm was slung over someone’s shoulder. Once I saw a portrait of a bride on her wedding day floating in the air above a chair, as if she were painted sitting on someone’s lap.” He tapped that empty space. “Originally I think there was someone painted right here.”
“Béatrice?”
He nodded. “Until she signed her contract and stepped inside the hotel.” Without missing a beat, he flicked out his switchblade and made a large slash across the bottom of the canvas.
“What are you doing?” I looked around, hoping no one noticed.
“The same thing I do every time I visit. Upward of twenty times now. Minutes after we leave, the painting will be back to normal, along with any evidence we were here. Margot will forget us by this evening.”
I glanced at the painting, the missing space. “We disappear,” I said. The words sounded hollow.
“From paintings. From minds.”
“Does Béatrice know? You could have brought her here, shown her.”
“I have. Many times. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t recognize Margot, and Margot doesn’t know her. They looked almost identical once, and yet they still refused to acknowledge the resemblance, like they couldn’t see it.”
“That means Bézier, all the boarders I lived with . . . No one I knew in Durc remembers me?”
Bel nodded. “I bet your old room is now bare and every spot you’ve worn on your furniture probably looks like new, as if you never sat on it. You may be immune to Alastair’s enchantments, but I’m willing to bet none of your old friends are.”
“Yesterday, when I asked about going back to Durc—”
“If I took you there, and you asked anyone to call the authorities, they would have laughed in your face. Trust me, I’ve tried it myself. I’ve tried nearly everything.”
I sat down because I didn’t think my legs could hold me up another minute. If what Bel said was true and Zosa left without me, I would have forgotten her entirely.
“No one is looking for you. No one is looking for me,” Bel went on. “No one keeps portraits of us hanging in dining rooms or hopes that we might drop in for afternoon tea or tears up when they think about us. No one ever thinks about us. Outside of the hotel, we’re not even a memory. We don’t exist.” The last word came out choked. He threw a few coins on the table. “Eat whatever Margot brings. I need some air. I’ll meet you outside in a few minutes.” He stalked out of the restaurant.
I turned to the painting and stumbled back. The slash Bel made in the canvas had already smoothed over, the evidence we were here disappearing before my eyes.
I couldn’t believe it. We were no better than ghosts floating through the world. No, that wasn’t true; people remembered ghosts. Outside of the hotel, our lives had no permanence, no meaning, no power.
“Here you are.” Margot walked up holding two plates of quiche. “Where did your friend go?”
“He left,” I said, and faced the painting before she could ask more questions. “Is that you?”
Her wrinkled mouth pulled into a wide grin. “It is. Painted back when I wasn’t as good-looking as I am now.” She winked. “I was all moxie then. Told my family off after they tried to strap me to a wealthy neighbor.”