The Art of Vanishing, page 1
Copyright © 2025 by Morgan Pager
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Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1: Jean
Chapter 2: Claire
Chapter 3: Jean
Chapter 4: Jean
Chapter 5: Claire
Chapter 6: Jean
Chapter 7: Jean
Chapter 8: Jean
Chapter 9: Claire
Chapter 10: Jean
Chapter 11: Claire
Chapter 12: Jean
Chapter 13: Claire
Chapter 14: Jean
Chapter 15: Jean
Chapter 16: Claire
Chapter 17: Jean
Chapter 18: Jean
Chapter 19: Jean
Chapter 20: Claire
Chapter 21: Jean
Chapter 22: Claire
Chapter 23: Jean
Chapter 24: Claire
Chapter 25: Jean
Chapter 26: Jean
Chapter 27: Claire
Chapter 28: Jean
Chapter 29: Jean
Chapter 30: Jean
Chapter 31: Claire
Chapter 32: Jean
Chapter 33: Jean
Chapter 34: Claire
Chapter 35: Jean
Chapter 36: Jean
Chapter 37: Claire
Chapter 38: Jean
Chapter 39: Jean
Chapter 40: Claire
Chapter 41: Jean
Chapter 42: Claire
Chapter 43: Jean
Chapter 44: Jean
Chapter 45: Jean
Chapter 46: Jean
Epilogue: Five Years Later
Acknowledgments
About the Author
_151996574_
For Grancy, who taught me the magic of museums and the power of my imagination
It is required
You do awake your faith.
—William Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale
Jean
The final visitors of the day were ushered out of the gallery and I reached both arms above my head, stretching away the stiffness of eight hours spent sitting in one position. I put one hand on my chin, pushing it back in an effort to crack my neck. I heard a slight pop and felt that usual rush of relief, repeating the same on the other side. With another day of work in the books, I let myself bask in the sheer sense of achievement, even if I wasn’t sure what, if anything, I’d accomplished today.
Nevertheless, I felt lucky to be here; I was sure there were many who would do just about anything for a job in the hallowed halls of an institution such as this one. Sure, we weren’t as large or as prestigious as the massive museums of New York, Paris, London, Madrid, et cetera. But the art world was an exclusive one. I knew how hard it could be to get a foot in the door, or to have the means to try in the first place.
Some days I worried I’d become too accustomed to this space and would forget to take in how special it was. I challenged myself to take a real look today. I surveyed the room around me as I continued to stretch. It was unchanging in its day-to-day, mustard-colored fabric coating the walls that lay beneath multitudes of artwork. Every square inch of available hanging area was covered; these panels were heavy with paintings. In any blank space that remained, eccentric items were affixed: door hinges, sketches, coat hooks, rusting kitchen utensils. Wide wooden baseboards connected the overstuffed walls to the floor, which was scuffed from the constant steps of that day’s patrons, trying to get a closer look.
I peeled my eyes from a particularly curious hinge hanging on the wall opposite where I sat and looked back out into the gallery. I saw her, standing directly in front of me. I wondered if she could see me too, the real me. She was staring straight at me like she knew what I was thinking. But that was impossible, wasn’t it?
I quickly lowered my arms to my sides, but she maintained eye contact. She asked me a question with her eyes, and I was tempted to speak aloud to answer it.
Our mutual reverie was interrupted by the sound of plastic wheels clattering against the wood floor. Linda, a fixture of the museum, pushed a bucket into the room, steering its trundling mass by the handle of a mop. Linda was dressed in her typical uniform: a navy blue jumpsuit with her name embroidered in white script just beneath her left shoulder and a pair of graying athletic sneakers.
“Come on, Claire—it’s Claire, right? We’ll get started in my rooms today. Once we’ve got that down, we’ll move on to your assignment. I know they call it training, but you better be prepared to work tonight because if we don’t get my portion done in half the hours it normally takes me, we’ll have no time for yours.”
She, Claire presumably, was dressed in a matching navy jumpsuit. It was the wrong size, the fabric bunching around her calves. She had cuffed it as well as she could at her ankles, but her pant legs still skimmed the ground behind the heels of her sneakers. Claire said nothing in response, just nodded and followed Linda out of the room. I craned my neck, rising out of my seat to attempt to watch them for as long as I could, but the canvas held me back and I lost track of where they had gone. I sank back into my chair and heard my older sister, Marguerite, snort as she passed behind me, heading out into the garden. Alone now, I strained my ears to listen to any sounds of their progress. The sun set through the grand windows, and I waited in the darkness.
I was used to it, the waiting. I am the foremost expert in a single page of an unremarkable French novel from 1917. Time and repetition have dissolved the words from a segment of story into an indiscernible pattern of lines and curves. Within a small margin of error, I can confidently say I could re-create this page so precisely, you wouldn’t be able to tell it from the original. After all, I’ve been staring at it for more than a century.
It wasn’t always just me and the page. For decades, I whiled away my days watching the passersby for the fraction of their lives that they shared with me. Until one day I stopped. To be completely straight with you, I was bored. The constant progression of people, all similar in their inherent differences, felt so incredibly predictable. Which is how I came to waste my time looking at the same piece of paper, hearing my younger brother plunk out the same melody on the piano under my sister’s perennially patient stare. Now it is only at night, when we are freed from the duties of the day and can stretch out within the relative comfort of our own home, that I peel my gaze from the page and take in life as it stands in front of me.
What felt like an eternity later, Claire and Linda reentered our room, the lights snapping on as they registered the women’s movement.
“Dear lord, it’s like you’re doing all of this for the first time,” Linda moaned as she sank the mop’s sopping tentacles back into the dingy water.
“I am,” Claire responded. The sound of her voice struck a chord dangerously close to my soul. Now that she’d returned, I was eager to have the chance to study her. She was beautiful; there was no other way to put it. But it was more complex than that. After one hundred and two years of life like this, I had seen an inestimable number of people, so many of them beautiful. She was enchanting. It was as if something magical emanated from her fingertips, dripping off her in each enthralling motion.
I wondered if I was already in love with her, laughing at myself as the thought entered and exited my mind.
She was small in stature, but then again, so was I. Her eyes were a rich brown, not the kind that seemed flecked with light but a much darker brown, one that seemed to go on forever, nearly blending in with her pupils. Her hair was piled on her head in a towering loose construction of a bun; it was nearly the size of her small head. As she watched Linda demonstrate the proper technique, she nervously scratched behind her ear.
“You have no cleaning ex
“I didn’t go to the agency. I just came to the museum and asked if there was something I could do and they gave me a number to call. I thought I was coming in to interview or something, but when I got here yesterday, they just handed me a uniform and told me to come back tonight. I think they got confused and thought I’d already been hired.”
“Well, aren’t you a lucky one.” Linda passed Claire the handle of the mop. “Come on, you’ve got this room. This doesn’t have to take all night.”
As Claire pushed the mop along the floor by our frame, she breathed in so deeply, it was like she could smell our garden through the open window. Linda, already tired of waiting, sat on a bench and pulled out her cellphone.
“You play Candy Crush?”
“No, never got into it.”
“Oh. Well, I’m, like, really good at it,” Linda said.
Uninterested in and unable to understand what it was they were talking about, I simply watched Claire push the mop around the room. Linda was right, she worked incredibly slowly, unhurriedly looping back to reach the sections she’d missed while she’d been staring up at the pieces on the wall. In Claire’s defense, there was a lot to look at. The walls were brimming with art of all sizes and styles. I had grown accustomed to the congestion over the years, but I did remember that not all museums were so full.
“Do you have a favorite?” Claire asked.
“A favorite what?”
“The paintings and stuff—do you have a favorite?”
“I don’t really look at ’em. Since the mop is on the ground, and everything,” Linda said with a pointed glance at the floor. “I just try to get done as fast as possible.”
“Oh, yeah, makes sense, I just thought, since you’d been here for a while, you know—”
“I only took this gig because you don’t have to talk to people. I was at a hotel before this, and there are always people around and they always feel like they can always ask you for something even if it isn’t your job to help them with whatever BS they need.”
“That totally makes sense,” Claire said, mopping a bit more furiously.
“Nope, don’t care about the paintings. It’s all the same to me. Just, like, random colors and people and stuff on a wall.”
“Yeah, I don’t really know anything about art either,” Claire claimed, but the glint in her eyes as she scanned the room said otherwise.
I’ve always felt people expect too much from the experience of looking at a painting. They think if the meaning of life doesn’t leap off the canvas and into their minds, they’re not doing it right or, worse, the art has failed them and the whole thing’s been a waste. Who says a painting is supposed to do all that work for you? You look at it and you see what you see and you feel what you feel, and it might be transcendent or it might be just another moment in your life and all those things are okay.
I can say this with confidence because I’ve spent my whole life around art, my father being who he is and all. My father, Henri Matisse, has art hanging on nearly every wall of this museum. If you were to count the paintings in this building, he’s the creator of fifty-nine of them, but that’s just scratching the surface of that calculation. If you go a layer deeper, you’ll find that so many of his paintings contain allusions to or even direct copies of other work he’s made. Even within my own frame, the painting in the corner above the head of my brother, Pierre, is a rendition of another of his own paintings. They say copying is the sincerest form of flattery and my father loved nothing more than to be flattered.
Claire returned the mop to the bucket and Linda reluctantly dropped her cellphone into her pocket. She picked up a small cloth and showed Claire how to run it along the tables and the sturdier frames. Claire hesitated before coming close enough to the paintings to touch us. She held her breath as she gently dusted our edges. The intensity of her eye contact intimidated me.
Linda looked at her phone again. “Shit, it’s nearly midnight. We’re good here; let’s go back downstairs. Tomorrow we can do the windows.”
When she reached the doorway, Claire turned all the way back and gazed around the room one last time.
“Claire! Come on…” Linda’s voice trailed off as she bustled away from our gallery.
Claire walked backward out of the room. I sat there long after the automatic lights turned off again, thinking of the sound of her footsteps.
Marguerite startled me when she returned to the piano bench. In my fluster, I dropped my book. I snatched it up off the ground.
“What’s got you all in a tizzy?” Marguerite asked with a grin that was greedy for gossip.
“I never said I was in a tizzy.”
“You didn’t have to; it’s painted all over your face.” I waved her off, hoping she’d drop it but knowing better than to expect that. She lit a cigarette, taking her time with the first drag. “Not this again,” she said as she exhaled.
“Not what?”
“Not you falling for someone out there. I thought you’d given that up after last time.”
“I had. I have.”
“Life inside here is great. Everyone else gets that, apart from you. You can’t see it because you’re too busy living with one eye on them, as always. You would give up our whole world for one room.”
“Marguerite, give me a break. It’s been one night.”
“I’m not being cruel. I’m only saying this for your own good. You could be happier.”
“I’m plenty happy.”
Pierre’s return sealed Marguerite’s lips, trapping whatever snide retort she’d had planned against her vocal cords. He climbed up onto the bench next to her. He was the youngest of us, and they had that bond that is so common between the eldest and the youngest siblings, leaving me, the middle child, out.
“What did I miss?” Pierre asked. His question was greeted with silence. “That’s fine; don’t tell me.” As the sun’s rays began to creep in, I could see my mother returning to her seat in the garden.
The gallery filled once again with a stream of patrons, young and old. Unable to focus, I watched them all day. I didn’t even realize that, in my haste to regain my composure, I’d opened my book to a different page.
Claire
This was without a doubt the most magical place I had ever been, and, dear lord, was I exhausted.
I flopped onto the bench in the break room, torn between which needed my attention more: the back of my neck or the bottoms of my feet. Those wood floors had been tough on my heels, standing for hours on end without a break, but my neck was putting up a fight from the odd angle at which I’d been forced to bend it over the mop all night. I understood now why Linda sat down so much—it was going to take some time to get my body used to this. I decided to rub my feet; they were having the worse go of it. I didn’t want Linda to catch me like this; I was afraid to give her any reason to tell them I wasn’t up to the job. I listened closely to hear any sign of her coming back from the bathroom.
One night of work done. I’d never worked nights before. I thought I might get tired since we normally were asleep by nine in our house, but the adrenaline pumping in my body had made it easier than I had expected to power through.
It was the art; I knew it. Being close to so many paintings made my heart beat so quickly, I thought it might even be unhealthy. They’d all looked incredibly real up there in their frames, as if they were breathing and blinking just like I was.
