THE SCULPTOR'S MUSE

THE SCULPTOR'S MUSE Chapter 1: The rainy audition The first time Mr. Kapoor looked at me, I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was deciding whether I belonged in his studio or should never have been allowed through the door. Rain streaked the tall windows of his Manhattan studio. I stood on the black marble floor with water dripping from my coat and a folder clutched against my chest. Inside were my photographs and the last piece of hope I could afford to bring. My mother’s hospital had given me three days to arrange the next payment. Without it, her treatment would be postponed. I had searched for work until dawn, applying everywhere that promised quick money. The private modeling position at Mr. Kapoor’s studio paid more in one day than most temporary jobs paid in a week. The advertisement had been brief. No agency required. No experience necessary. Private appointment. Applicants must be comfortable posing for extended periods. I had nearly turned around twice before reaching his building. Mr. Kapoor stood beside a long worktable, his sleeves rolled to his forearms. He wore a charcoal shirt and dark trousers, with pale clay smeared near one wrist. He was younger than I had expected, perhaps in his mid-thirties, with a stillness that made the room seem louder whenever he moved. His sculptures appeared in galleries across the city. Articles described him as brilliant, secretive, and difficult to understand. You are Myra Sen, he said. Yes, Mr. Kapoor. You are late. I glanced at the clock. I was four minutes late because the rain had brought traffic to a standstill. I am sorry. The roads were— I did not ask for an explanation. Show me what you brought. I placed my photographs on the table. He studied them without touching them. I had chosen simple pictures and no heavy editing. Have you modeled for sculpture before? he asked. No. I have done a few fashion shoots and catalog jobs. That is not what I asked. I shook my head. No, I have not. Then why apply Because I can hold a pose, and I take instructions seriously. His gaze lifted to my face. That answer sounds rehearsed. It is still true. Something shifted in his expression. It was not quite amusement, but it came close. He walked toward a covered sculpture near the window. The shape beneath the cloth was tall and narrow, with one shoulder raised as if the figure were listening. Beside it stood a finished clay portrait of a woman. Her mouth was calm, but sadness had been worked into the lines around her eyes. Mr. Kapoor noticed me studying it. You can look at the work. You do not have to pretend you are not curious. I thought sculptors preferred silence. Some do. I prefer honesty. Honestly, I said, the woman looks as if she has just heard something she wishes she could forget. He studied the portrait. Perhaps she has. His answer left an odd chill behind. I looked away first. Mr. Kapoor returned to the table and picked up my application. This is private modeling. Sessions can be long, and you may be asked to change poses or clothing depending on the sculpture. You can refuse anything that makes you uncomfortable. If you do, the session ends, but you will still be paid for your completed time. The directness surprised me. I had expected vague promises. I understand. And you know the rate? Yes. Then tell me why you need the money. My fingers tightened around the folder. That question was not part of the agreement. No, he said. It is not. I could have refused to answer, but the hospital bill seemed to rise between us. My mother is ill. Her treatment is expensive, and I need work that pays quickly. Is that the whole truth? It is the truth that matters to this job. I wondered whether I had lost the position. I needed the money, but I was too tired to perform for another stranger. At last, Mr. Kapoor put down the application. Good. I dislike people who invent tragedies to make themselves interesting. I dislike people who ask questions they do not want answered. This time, he smiled. It vanished almost immediately. You may be more trouble than the others. There were other applicants? There have been. He offered no more information. He led me to a raised platform near the worktable. A stool stood beside it, with a screen dividing one side of the room from the rest. He explained the first pose: seated, shoulders relaxed, hands resting loosely on my knees, face turned toward the light. I removed my wet coat. Underneath, I wore a fitted black lace top and dark jeans. A small golden sun-shaped piercing rested at my navel, half hidden by my waistband. I had considered removing it before the appointment, but I had decided not to arrive pretending to be someone else. Mr. Kapoor noticed it briefly, then returned his attention to my face. Sit, please. I settled onto the stool. He adjusted a lamp and stepped back to study the angle of my shoulders. He never touched me. When he wanted me to turn, he described the movement and waited for me to follow his instructions. Only rain and the scrape of his tools disturbed the silence. Relax your left hand, he said. I did. You are holding something back. I almost laughed. I am trying to sit still. That is not what I mean. His quiet voice made it difficult to dismiss him. I looked toward the window. My mother says I make a face whenever I am worried. And are you worried now? I have a hospital bill waiting for me, and I am sitting in a stranger’s studio while he studies every expression I make. What do you think? He put down his tool. I think you are frightened and doing your best not to show it. His accuracy unsettled me. Is that useful for your sculpture? Sometimes, he said. The truth is useful. He worked for another ten minutes before ending the session. He handed me an envelope with the agreed payment and a form to sign. I checked the amount, embarrassed by my urgency. You can return tomorrow at five, he said. Wear the same outfit. We will continue with a standing pose. I looked up. You are offering me the job? I am offering you another session. The position depends on how we work together. It was not the certainty I had hoped for, but the money would cover part of the hospital payment. I will be here. Be on time, Myra. At the door, I glanced back at the covered sculpture. For one foolish second, I thought the cloth had shifted, though the windows were shut and nobody stood near it. Then Mr. Kapoor spoke behind me. Do not come here because you think you owe me something. Come only if you choose to. I met his eyes. I need the money, Mr. Kapoor. But I still know how to say no. His expression became unreadable again. Good. Keep that certainty. Outside, the rain had weakened to a mist. I walked two blocks before checking my phone. The hospital had sent another reminder about the payment deadline. Beneath it sat a message from an unknown number. A photograph filled the screen. It showed me on the platform in Mr. Kapoor’s studio, my face turned toward the window. The picture had been taken from behind the covered sculpture. I stopped beneath the awning of a closed shop. I had seen nobody standing there when I arrived. Mr. Kapoor had never mentioned anyone else in the room. A second message appeared. You should not have accepted his invitation, Myra. My mouth went dry. I stared at the photograph, then at the dark windows of the building across the street. I could not tell whether the picture had been taken that afternoon or whether someone had been watching me long before I entered the studio. Another message arrived. Tomorrow, look behind the covered sculpture near the window. Do not let Mr. Kapoor see this message. I read it twice, then locked my phone. I had taken the job because my mother needed treatment. I had told myself that whatever happened inside that studio, I could leave whenever I wanted. Now a stranger had sent me a photograph taken inside a locked room. Whoever had taken it knew exactly where I would be tomorrow.