He was enamored of it the moment he saw it, the photograph of a young woman on the back cover of a book lying on a table amid hundreds of other such picked-over books for sale at the annual Jewish ladies' book sale. He reached for it and took it up, jostling the sweaty, smelly man to his left. "Pardon," he said. The man ignored him and reached to the far end of the table for a book that appealed to his own taste.

She must be French, he thought, regarding the young woman's photo again, this time up close. French, and probably of the last century. As he turned the book over to look at the title, he felt a tinge of guilt for ceasing to look at the photo on the back. It was a biography of Camille Claudel, the French sculptress, mistress of Rodin the master sculptor, a woman who spent the last thirty years of her life locked away in an asylum.

He had heard of her before, had seen some of her work at the Rodin museum in Paris; if his memory served him, he had even seen some photographs of her, but certainly nothing like the striking one on the back of this book he held. He turned it over again for another look. It showed only her head and shoulders, not unlike the busts she created. Her dark hair was disordered but not unattractive, and her bangs were a lovely touch; due to the dark background of the image, the exact dimensions of her coif were unclear.

He told himself the top she wore was known as a peasant's blouse, and that if her shoulders were bare, they would surely be dotted with pretty freckles, and he was certain there must be a thousand and one other such nice things about her.

The expression on her face was one of great pride and dignity, and it seemed to be daring the photographer--and the man now regarding her one hundred years later--to know her better.

Difficult as it was, he got up the will to place the book in the grocery sack he had had the foresight to bring along with him in which to place his books, and he once more felt the small guilt of taking his eyes off that bewitching photo. He hurried up to the cashier to pay for his several books, all but one of which were now far from his thoughts.

Back home he took out the book and began to read, becoming caught up in Miss Claudel's life story, so much so, he stayed with it till he finished it, which wasn't hard, because dozens of the pages were photographs of Miss Claudel, her acquaintances, and her artwork. Still, avid reader that he was, it had been a long time since he had read a book at one sitting; had he done otherwise, he felt he would have been insulting Miss Claudel.

Then he lay down to sleep. When he awoke the next morning he felt somewhat guilty for not having dreamed of her. He would remedy that.

He took the book from his night stand and regarded her photo more closely than ever, branding her image into his brain for all time. Hour after hour he watched the book until once more it was time for bed.

That night she appeared in his dream--not walking up to him but looming up, like some giant placard, another two-dimensional version of the photograph he had committed to memory, only so much bigger. The image just hung there, fixed somehow in the space before his eyes, unmoving but for the occasional swaying caused by the gentle breezes of that dream day. Oh, how much more satisfying this was than merely gazing at the jacket of a book!

He awoke feeling refreshed, in love, in love with a mere specter of a woman dead some forty years. For the first time in his life he was content; he wanted, needed, nothing else: he had discovered he could dream of her at will.

It wasn't long until his few but neglected friends began to drift away from him one by one. It seemed he was no longer available to them. Whenever one of them would get in touch with him, hoping to meet with him for dinner or drinks, it seemed they never caught him at a good time. He was, as he always said from then on, "Just off to bed." All text copyright J. W. Turner, 1997-Present. All rights reserved.