Free The Green Muse by Jessie Prichard Hunter Page A

weak about them, as there was nothing weak about her. But her face possessed a great softness, a tenderness, belied by the deft, nearly mannish way in which her hands pulled at the corkscrew as she twisted the cork from the bottle. I knew that I was seeing something of a hidden self, and that not everyone would have been able to see it; she looked up and directly at me, and I knew that she had intended me to see it.
    Then she turned to the poet, and it was as if a light had gone out.
    â€œHere you are, Paul,” she said sweetly.
    â€œAh, V,” he said, caressing her name. Again jealousy bit, and I knew I had to possess her, to make her my own in such a way that the whole world would know, in such a way that we would never be parted.
    â€œShe is an angel,” Verlaine said to me. “An angel indeed,” I said. She could be no ordinary mortal. But she was looking tenderly at the poet, and my jealousy evaporated, forever, because I saw in that moment a way that she could be mine. I saw that indeed we need never part.
    â€œDrink, Paul,” she said, “and say for me my favorite poem.”
    â€œWhich one is that?” I asked her. “I know them all.” I did. In moments of weakness I recite poetry to myself, slaking a thirst for energy or wisdom with other men’s words. Poetry is a better drink, almost, than absinthe. Almost.
    â€œShh,” said V, because Verlaine had begun his ritual. Each absinthe drinker has his own way with the liquor, the sugar, and the spoon. The ritual is almost as important as the effects of the drink itself.
    The waiter had presented the poet with a fresh glass, a new carafe of water, and a full small plate of sugar cubes. Apparently Verlaine liked to start afresh after a certain amount of time, or liquor; that is one way. The waiter also replaced the volcano-­shaped plate that held upright wooden matches. Perhaps the poet must start out with a completely clear table each time, a tabula rasa of marble and glass. I was leaning over the table in anticipation; V touched my arm and I found myself looking with sadness at Verlaine’s disheveled hair and dirty cravat. He had been publicly repenting his actions with the poet Rimbaud for twenty years. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to regret anything I’d done. But I was young; I had not yet reached the age of regret.
    He picked up one of several slotted spoons the waiter had brought and turned it about in his hands. “Too narrow,” he said dismissively. He held up the next with a mischievous look: “What do you think, my dear?” It was an odalisque, a sinuous nude form in silver.
    â€œI think it’s lovely,” said V. “May I see it?” It glinted as he passed it across the table. I was acutely aware of her next to me, the faint smell of green rice powder and rosewater, the musk of her hair. She took the spoon in her fingers and it became for a moment a living thing.
    â€œIsn’t it lovely?” she asked me, and her eye flashed deep into mine, and I felt she knew every trivial and base thing I was thinking.
    â€œYes,” I said without thinking. “It looks like you.”
    Verlaine burst out laughing.
    She was biting her lip to keep from laughing as well. Verlaine turned to the next spoon and chose it, a simple one shaped like a slotted poplar leaf.
    He placed two cubes of sugar on the spoon, after first examining them in his fingers. He lifted the carafe of water and slowly poured, a shiver of water, over the sugar and into the glass. I watched the tiny green whirlpool, and felt again the pull of my own desires. When I looked up, the poet was watching me. The liquor, the woman: He knew. He knew everything, and for a moment I was afraid. Then he looked back to his potion, and his eyes went soft, as for a lover, and I knew that I was safe, that he did not really know. The liquor, the woman: He only thought he knew.
    â€œToo little water spoils