From across the table, Émile glanced at me. He was excited that he’d been permitted to do what no other artist has done—paint Le Cirque Secret. There were two more paintings to complete, and Man was telling him how to frame the next one. There was a part of me that felt a sense of dread for Émile, like he had agreed to something before he was fully aware of the consequences. As always, with Father there is the fear he has struck some terrible, mortal bargain. Émile doesn’t know how the world—my world—works. There are always consequences.

While our dinner companions dined on oysters, I chose boeuf. Overhead, I heard the fan cycling above me and felt its cool waves of air as they hit my forearms.

“You need to push yourself.” Man lit a cigarette and dismissed him with the shrug of his hand. “You are an old romantic.”

Like in a tennis match, they volleyed ideas back and forth, trying them on. What is surrealism? Who is a true surrealist? What role does art play in a mad world?

I realized the idea was to shock or subvert with art. To my horror, it occurred to me that this is what they think we do with Le Cirque Secret. What we do isn’t a performance—what they see each night is not some dream of Hell. It is Hell. That I come and go freely makes it seem like I’m an actress who dons a part and shakes it off cleanly each night. But for Doro and the others, their Hell is hardly metaphorical, and their costumes are not so easily tossed.

Halfway through drinks, Man began to chastise Émile for being too much like a man named Modigliani, saying he hasn’t pushed against the vein enough. At the mention of Modigliani, Émile became quiet, almost forlorn.

When they were talking among themselves, Émile leaned in to whisper to me. “Amedeo has been dead for five years, but I feel as though it were yesterday.”

I must have registered confusion on my face because Kiki leaned in and whispered, “Amedeo Modigliani was Émile’s mentor. Terrible shame about him. He died of tuberculosis. His pregnant wife, Jeanne, leapt to her own death two days later. Her family won’t even let her be buried next to him.” Kiki touched my arm for emphasis, her blood-red nails lightly tapping my forearm.

From across the table, Émile picked up the saltshaker and rotated it with such intensity, that the little glass shaker hit the table, causing it to vibrate.

June 2, 1925

Today I found Émile painting Sylvie. I stood behind him to admire the many sketches of her standing by the steed—an old horse who might have been a king in his previous life. Naturally, the horse couldn’t tell us anything, but Father has alluded to his true identity several times.