The Cat Who Walked Through Canvas

Marie twisted a lock of hair around her finger. The paint on her apron had dried to cracked rust. She stood in Foujita's doorway, heart hammering against her ribs.

"Come in, come in." Foujita adjusted his round glasses. His formal phrasing always made her feel like a guest rather than a neighbor.

Marie stepped across the threshold. Japanese screens divided the spacious atelier into intimate corners. The scent of linseed oil mixed with something ancient she couldn't name.

"My work is... I suppose it lacks balance." She rubbed her paint-stained fingers against her sleeve. Eyes downcast, unable to meet his gaze.

Foujita smoothed his distinctive mustache. He moved toward the small kitchen alcove.

"Tea helps. I will fetch some."

The door clicked shut behind him. Marie turned to study the artworks lining the walls. Elongated figures with milky-white skin met her gaze. Each portrait seemed to breathe.

Moustache rose from his velvet cushion. The black cat stretched, arching his back in a slow deliberate curve. His golden eyes fixed upon a small cubist study near the window.

Marie held her breath. The cat approached the painting as if it were simply another doorway.

His paw touched the canvas.

The painting rippled like disturbed water. Colors swirled where black fur met painted surface. Moustache stepped through. Vanished completely into geometric planes.

Marie's knees trembled. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a cry.

The painting surface still shivered. Faint ripples spread outward from where the cat had disappeared.

She reached out. Fingers trembling. Heart pounding so hard she could hear nothing else.

Her skin brushed against still-wet paint.

The world tilted. Spun. Fragmented into angular shapes.

She stood on wooden floors worn smooth by countless footsteps. The air smelled of turpentine and sunlight and something timeless. Ageless.

Before her, a man worked at an easel. Picasso. She knew it without being told. His hands moved with supernatural precision. Each brushstroke carried absolute certainty.

Marie watched. Breathless. Unable to look away.

He mixed blue and yellow on his palette. The color sang. Vibrant. Alive. He applied it to canvas with deliberate confidence. Not guessing. Not hoping. Knowing.

She understood. Suddenly. Completely. Every choice had purpose. Every stroke served the whole.

This wasn't technique. It was vision. The paintings she'd copied in museums had been shells. This was the living truth inside.

Moustache wound around her ankles. His purr vibrated through her shoes. Into her bones.

Picasso turned. His gaze passed through her as if she were made of light. Of possibility.

The workshop dissolved. Geometric planes reassembled into walls. Into Foujita's studio.

Marie stumbled back. The painting hung solid and innocent on the wall. Not rippling. Not glowing.

Her fingers smelled of turpentine. Something ancient lingered on her skin. Something that had never known time.

"Tea." Foujita entered carrying a porcelain tray. He noticed nothing amiss.

Marie pressed shaking hands against her thighs. The world looked different now. As if she'd been seeing through cracked glass her whole life.

"Thank you," she whispered. Her voice sounded strange. Far away.

Outside the window, Montparnasse rooftops stretched toward the horizon. Below, she could make out the tiny figure of a man pausing to stare up at Foujita's building.

Henri. Watching. Waiting.