Mr. Blomqvist hasn’t moved from my side, even though he said he came down here for something. “Oh?”
“Everyone remembers that Perseus cut off Medusa’s head, because he’s the hero and she’s the monster. But they don’t remember the part before that when Medusa was a beautiful maiden, and why Athena transformed her into this.”
Poseidon raped Medusa in Athena’s temple, and the virgin goddess was supposedly furious at the sacrilege and took her revenge on the young woman.
Mr. Blomqvist must know the story, because he says, “The gods were never fair.”
“I don’t know. Maybe turning her into a gorgon wasn’t a punishment. No one was able to look upon her again without being turned to stone, let alone hurt her. She was free.”
Until Perseus came along and killed her. I play with the blue and white Nazar beads on my wrist as I talk, dropping them one by one through my fingers like prayer beads. They look like eyes, and they’re meant to protect you. Medusa is carved on shields because she’s meant to be protective as well. I believe it, looking upon her ferocious gaze.
I’m aware that Mr. Blomqvist is watching me silently and I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s a strange preoccupation, but the idea of sight having power has always appealed to me.”
Gaze being evil or malevolent. Gaze giving strength, too. I suppose I like the idea power from nothing when I feel so weak. That’s why I chose it as a thesis topic.
“Some people seem to have powerful gazes even without any supernatural ability,” I say, and when I glance up at him, my gaze becomes snagged on his blue one.
Like you.
I remember how his eyes bored into me that night when I nearly fell down the stairs. I felt like he was trying to burn through my soul. I can still feel it.
He considers this for a moment. “It’s not so strange a preoccupation. Power is alluring. So is influence. Control.”
He speaks like he knows what he’s talking about.
Changing the subject, I say, “Dad told me about the trouble you had getting the Laxos exhibition here. I’m glad he was able to help.”
“Yes, your father was instrumental. I am grateful to him, despite what I said the other day about his art.”
I shake my head, smiling. He can not like dad’s art and still be grateful for the help. “But surely there were collections that you could have acquired more easily?”
“Of course. But it’s good for the museum to obtain unusual artifacts instead of the same ceramic jars and sculptures everyone else does.”
Everyone else being the nearby British Museum, I suppose. I wonder if Mr. Blomqvist feels a little professional rivalry with that institution. Or a lot.
“It’s a risk, too,” I point out. “If anything goes wrong, the Laxos Museum will probably be extremely vocal about denouncing you in the press. I know how protective they feel toward the Laxos Disc.”
He nods in agreement but doesn’t seem particularly bothered by this.
“Hiring me was a risk,” I go on. “I might have hated you and sabotaged things in worse ways than keying your car.”
He leans back against a counter, arms folded, but there’s a small smile on his lips. “Am I being psychoanalyzed?”
I smile back. “Maybe.”
It’s a side-effect of being in therapy, I suppose. I have to do so much self-reflection, and it gets me wondering what makes other people tick.
The silence stretches between us, and his gaze holds mine. He’s expecting me to become flustered and drop the subject, but I’ve had months of practice at this with Doctor Loftin. Being looked at doesn’t scare me. In fact, from Mr. Blomqvist, I rather like it.
Finally, he says, “I like a challenge. Occasionally things blow up in my face, but when I take a chance and it works out, it’s extremely rewarding.”
And so here we are, working on an exhibition that could ruin his reputation if anything goes wrong, with me, the highly strung and mentally unstable assistant. It could be an incendiary combination, but so far so good, I think?
And yet he must be wondering as much as I am, what’s around the next corner?
Mr. Blomqvist holds out his hand for the cotton gloves, and I pass them back. I enjoy figuring people out, and I’m glad he’s not one of those people who get touchy and offended if you try.
“What did you come down here for, anyway?” I ask, glancing around.
“Hmm? Oh, just a piece that I thought might fit with the Phoenician objects,” he says vaguely. “I’ve changed my mind.”
My attention is snagged by a ceramic jar on the other side of the room. It portrays a man being pursued by three winged women with wild eyes and terrible faces. The man must have committed a blood crime or lied under oath, and now he’ll be hunted into madness by the Erinyes. I can hear their hateful screams and feel his torment.