‘No, Mirabelle, these are tears of happiness, of appreciation, tears shed for the magic of your knowing me so well.’
I straighten up and wipe my eyes. Mirabelle stands with me, closes the keyboard, goes around, and lets the sounding board down. I follow her out of the room.
When we come into the big room, the light in the ceiling, which had seemed so dull and dim before, seems bright as the sun. There’s nothing to say. I know it must be late. I’ve lost track of time.
Mirabelle sits at the table in her usual place, she motions with her hand for me to sit down.
‘We could drink some more of our Poire William but it is all finished.’
‘I should leave, Mirabelle. It must be very late.’
‘For the blind there is no time, Jacques. Except for the bells of the church, I would never know if it is late or early, day or night, it is all the same. You may stay if you want.’
‘There is nothing I can think to say after your beautiful music. But I would like to ask how you learned to play. How have you become one of the most beautiful harpsichordists I’ve ever heard and no one seems to know? I have every tape and record I could buy of the French, the German, the Italian music played by Americans, French, German, English, even Japanese musicians. I have tapes and records by Scott Ross, Blandine Verlet, Ton Koopman, Kenneth Gilbert, Huguette Dreyfus, Alan Curtis, just about everyone, and you are as good as or better than they. How have you done it and does anyone know?’
There is a moment’s silence. Mirabelle smiles at me. She looks at, or at least turns her head down to, her hands.
‘I am not so good. You were only surprised. I started playing too late and my hands are beginning to become stiff and too weak to play really well.’
She holds her hands out in front of me. They are small, with tapering fingers, pink, close-cut nails, but not knobby at the joints as most old people’s hands are. Her little fingers curve slightly in, the first beginnings of arthritis, but no more than mine. There are veins on the back, and liver spots. The skin is dry-looking, almost scaly, but they are beautiful, capable hands. I reach out and take them in mine. She turns her hands so they rest gently on mine. She seems to look at them and then into my eyes.
‘Fifteen years ago, when Rolande died, she left me a sum of money and her share of this apartment. I thought long about what I could do with the money. I was fifty-six years old. Except for the languages I have learned, I had no skills. I was already caring for the pigeons, but it was not much to offer in this world.
‘My greatest love had always been music. As a young girl I played the piano and was considered talented. But with my blindness I could no longer read the music and so discontinued. Rolande sold our piano to get it out of the room where she slept. I decided that, more than anything else, I wanted a harpsichord. I visited three places in Paris where they are made and decided on a place not too far from where you live now, on the rue de Charonne. I would take a taxi over there every day and listen to the workers as they gradually built it. For me it was like having a baby. I wanted to be near for every heartbeat, every new breath of it.
‘I’m sure, at first, the workers were not happy when I stayed so long in their atelier, but we became friends. They loved their work and knew I loved music and would make music from the work of their hands. It was a good time.
‘Then we had the exciting day when my harpsichord, my baby, was delivered here. They could not bring it up the stairs, so they brought it into the courtyard and then on ropes through the window into the room.
‘After it had rested in place several weeks and had been tuned, I approached it. For two days I only sat on the chair and rested my hands on the keys, feeling them, then feeling the strings, all of this magical music machine, this wonderful instrument of sound, without playing any notes.’
‘I have had a large collection of all Baroque music, Mirabelle, especially the harpsichord, but I have never played. The only way I have heard the music is through a very expensive stereo player system. I did not expect anyone could do what you have done.’
‘I listened carefully and hard to my tapes. I practiced, alone, without written music, until I knew where every note was on my harpsichord. I could sit, touch any part of the harpsichord, and know just what note my finger would play. I played until my harpsichord became a part of my body, my body part of the harpsichord.
‘Then I started listening really carefully to my records and tapes. I wore earphones to keep out distracting noises. I played small parts over and over, translating them through my mind to my fingers. I lived inside the music.
‘I had a second window put on the window in this room so I would not disturb anyone else with my practicing. Sometimes I would play all through the night; as I said, night and day are not so different for one who is blind. I so wanted to be alone with the music.’
‘And you play without music, then, Mirabelle, I mean written music. You play directly from the sound. Of course you must. My God, I hadn’t really realized!’
‘Yes, Jacques, but remember, the music is sound first, the notes are only a way of sharing it. Now, with the tapes, we can share these things more easily, I can know the music for what it is, sound. I do not need notes.
‘Sometimes, especially with Bach, with the polyphonic pieces, two, three, or even four voices, playing with and against each other, it is very difficult. It would be easier, perhaps, if I could see it written out, but if I listen carefully, I can separate the voices. They are quite different, you know. I learn to play them independently, then put them together. It is a wonderful experience. It is almost like writing music myself.’
I look at her with renewed awe. It’s hard to believe the music I just heard was played ‘by ear,’ by someone who has never seen the written music. Like so many other people, I’d somehow become convinced that the written music was the ‘real’ music and what I heard when someone read it and performed was only that, a performance. But Mirabelle’s right, the real music is the sound, the sounds that came into the composer’s head, the written music merely a notation, a way to share the sound from one musician to another, or from composer to performer. I wonder if there’s anything like that in art of which I’m not aware. It could be the base of my problem in painting. It relates to something I’ve been thinking about.
If Mirabelle can’t see because she’s afraid of what she will see, would it be possible for me to paint from her descriptions of the pictures in her mind, as we did in the Place Furstenberg, so she would be satisfied, convinced, that what she would see, if she allowed herself to see the paintings, would be something she could accept? In a certain way, the paintings would be like notes of music, I would be the performer of the original images in Mirabelle’s head, the same as sounds in the composer’s.
Mirabelle is smiling at me, her hands are still resting lightly in mine.
‘What are you thinking, Jacques? I can feel the turning and spinning of your mind, it is almost like something physical, I can feel the slight twitches in your hands, also. What is it?’
‘Would you try something with me, Mirabelle? The painting we did of the Place Furstenberg: the combination of your memories, the strength of your vision, combined with my painting skills helped us create something I could never have done myself. It was almost the same as you listening to the tapes and then playing them. I was listening to your vision and painting it, combining it with what was before my eyes. You opened my eyes in some special way.’
I stop. She’s still staring sightlessly at my face. I go on, hoping what I want to suggest will not be considered by her a violation.
‘Mirabelle, perhaps if I can paint paintings so much like the visions of places you carry in your mind, it might come to a time when you would have enough confidence in what we’ve done that you could allow yourself to see. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, I understand. I would like very much to be there when you paint. I have twenty different places near here, all in my memory. We could sit together and
make beautiful paintings. Also, we should paint again the Place Furstenberg. It is so beautiful and I have such wonderful memories.
‘Now, Jacques, I would like to make a proposition to you, too.’
‘Okay, here we go again, another proposition. First it was a proposition about the colors of the pigeons, the way they looked in exchange for a wonderful meal. Then there was the proposition about me painting your portrait with you paying me a thousand francs. Then there was the proposition that we tell each other about ourselves, our past. So what’s the proposition this time?’
I hope she can feel the smile in my voice. I hold her hands more firmly. God, I don’t want to hurt those magical hands.
‘You forgot one proposition, Jacques.’
‘What did I forget?’
‘I almost proposed myself. Do you not remember?’
For one of the first times, I’m glad she can’t see me. I think I actually blush. She keeps her eyes on me. Sometimes I’m convinced she must see.
‘No, Mirabelle, I didn’t forget. I didn’t realize it then because I didn’t know you so well, but it was the kindest proposition of all. But, as I said, I’m married. You know all about it now, I would feel wrong. I cannot live, yet, with the idea I would deceive my wife, my children, myself. Also, I think I would be taking advantage of you.’
‘Some of those things are true, but those are not the real reasons, are they? It is because I am so old, is it not?’
‘That is part of it, Mirabelle, yes. But every day I know you, you seem to become younger.’
‘But actually, Jacques, I am becoming older. May I make my new proposition now?’
She smiles the broadest smile yet. Her speech is so measured, subtly modulated, and her smile so radiant. How can such an old woman have such beautiful teeth? They can’t be false, they look so real. There is nothing of the tight-lipped smile which so often comes with false teeth.
‘Yes, proposition away, Mirabelle.’
‘Does that mean you do or do not want me to make my proposition? I have never heard the phrase “proposition away.” It seems to say two things at once.’
The smile has left her face, the lines of concentration between her eyes deepen, her hands lie limp in mine.
‘It means yes. Please make your proposition. I’m listening.’
‘Since you have been here, Jacques, I have become aware that my home is a shambles. All I can reach I have tried to keep clean, but be honest, the rest of the house, the parts I cannot reach, is terrible, is it not?’
‘Well, Mirabelle, yes, it is dirty. The ceilings are gray with old dirt and the wallpaper is falling off in pieces. The woodwork around the doors is dirty where you cannot reach it, but you do very well keeping your home clean.’
‘No, Jacques, I would like my house to be beautiful. Could you help me? Do you know how to do these things, painting, putting up wallpaper, all it takes to make a house clean and beautiful? You are an artist, you should know those things.’
‘It’s been a long time, Mirabelle. I did much when I was young, but then twenty years have passed when I have done almost nothing.’
‘The proposition I would like to make is that you move away from your cold, dirty attic and come live with me. There is the bedroom of my parents which I never use. You could sleep there, it has a good bed and closets. I never go into the room, but I remember the way it was. The room of Rolande is for my music, but the room of my parents you could have if you would help me make this home beautiful again, even more beautiful than it was when I was young. Perhaps that, too, if it was beautiful, would help me see.’
It’s her last sentence that makes me reconsider my automatic resistance to this idea. I’ve earned my freedom, my privacy, and, as much as I’m enjoying the time with Mirabelle, I don’t want to give up what I’ve gained. All the same, maybe if she could feel her home was beautiful, a place of joy and delight, it would help her want to see.
‘Are you sure about this, Mirabelle? Remember, you have developed habits of solitude, as I have. We treasure our aloneness, much as we sometimes dread it. Do you think you could put up with having another person living so closely with you? Think about it.’
‘I have thought. You are right, we should only try this to see if it is comfortable. If either of us is unhappy, we can always go back to where we were.
‘I need only the early mornings free for my language lessons, my music, my yoga and exercises. You tell me you run in the morning. We should not then be in each other’s way. Next I go take care of my pigeons. During that time, you could do your morning painting. Then, perhaps in the afternoons, after our déjeuner, we could go paint together as you said. It sounds quite reasonable to me. What do you think?’
I can’t help but smile and I can hear the smile in my voice and know she hears it as she smiles back.
‘You have it all figured out, haven’t you? What kind of scheme do you have in mind this time?’
‘No scheme, you are quite safe with this blind old lady. But I do hope you can make this apartment more beautiful. I hope you can find time for that. I have the money to buy what you think it would cost for paint or rugs or even some new furniture. I think it would be wonderful to do together.’
‘Okay, Mirabelle, you’re on. But I’m not going to move my things from my “cold, dirty attic.” I want to feel it’s there. Could you show me the room where I would be sleeping?’
As I say this, I realize she can’t ‘show’ anything to anybody. She can ‘direct’ or ‘present’ but never show. ‘Show’ has the idea of vision built into it. She stands and walks across the room to a door behind me, a door beside the door where she led me to hear the music. She turns the key which is in the lock of the door.
‘See, Jacques, you can be completely private.’
She holds out the key to me and I take it. She stands to let me go past her, into the room. I flick the switch, but, of course, there’s nothing. There’s a musky smell and the smell of dust even more than in my attic.
‘I have not been in this room for many years, Jacques. I still have such terrible memories. It was a long time before I could take a bath in the bathtub. You do understand, yes?’
The light from the main room slightly lightens the dark dustiness of the room. I can just make out a large bed and a chest of drawers beside it. There are end tables on either side of the bed. I stand there with my memory of the story Mirabelle told me from so long ago. It’s almost like Miss Havisham’s dining room in Dickens’s Great Expectations. Can I actually sleep in this room? I turn my head to look at Mirabelle. She has not passed through the door and stands silhouetted against the light in the ceiling of the main room.
‘Is it so terrible? It is a dead place, is it not? Can you bring life into it?’
‘I think I can, but not tonight. Tonight I’ll go home and sleep in my “cold, dirty attic.” Tomorrow I’ll come in the light, buy more light bulbs, and begin to clean this room. I’ll start here first, so I’ll have a place to stay. Is that all right?’
‘Thank you, Jacques, you are a most considerate man and I love you dearly.’
She says it so naturally, with such a calm feeling, I know she’s serious. I take it that way but don’t respond. I know it must be very late. If I’m going to get a good night’s sleep, I should leave soon. I can catch one of the last 86 buses going to my quartier.
‘You are right, Mirabelle. It will be fun fixing up this place into our private nest. But now I must leave. Tomorrow I’ll run, then prepare some more canvas to paint. I’ll meet you by the statue of Monsieur Diderot.’
Mirabelle turns from me and goes to a board with cup hooks hanging beside the front door. She feels on the board and takes a key off the board.
‘Here, Jacques. This is a key to the apartment. I want you to have it.’
She wipes the key off on her apron.
‘This key has been hanging there since Rolande died. It is strange how time passes so quickly, how things stay in one place, alone, un
used, when you live such a limited life as mine. It will be so good to have someone “seeing” like you, really “seeing” in this place. Good night, Jacques, do not let the rats bite you.’
She puts up her face for a kiss. I lean over her.
‘There are no rats to bite, Mirabelle. I hear them sometimes but they are only going about their own business.’
I kiss her slowly on one cheek and she kisses me at the same time on the other. I kiss her slowly on the other cheek and she holds her soft, thin lips against my cheek near my ear, above my beard. I hold her by the arms and she rests her hands on my arms.
‘Good night, Mirabelle, à demain.’
I just catch a bus and ride to the Bastille. For the two extra stops after that, it costs another ticket and I enjoy walking down rue de la Roquette, still alive at this time of night. Also, I’m still not so flush with francs that I can tolerate paying another bus ticket for two stops.
Inside, I’m feeling confused. I hadn’t realized how attached, how homed, I’d become to my attic, to this area, to the routine of the life I’ve been leading. I think Mirabelle and I can help each other, ease the emptiness and lone quality of our lives, but what will we lose? It will only be known with time.
Blind Reverie
It was so horrible listening to Jacques tell of his fall into the life of a clochard, of alcohol, of cold and dirt. I could not help but cry.
I was so happy to have my little gift of music to offer. It is wonderful that he, too, loves music, even the music I most enjoy playing, Baroque. That was a precious gift for me. So often, when I want to give to Jacques, it turns into a gift to me.
It was impossible that I asked him to come live with me. I cannot even think what Rolande would think, or my parents. But I am old now. I have this big apartment going to ruin and Jacques has nothing. I am sure he can make it into a beautiful place. Just having him living here, if he changes nothing, will make it beautiful for me.
I hope that living together, working together on the apartment, on the paintings he wants to do with me, will bring us closer. I want to be as close to him as possible. Never have I had such strong feelings. It must be terrible for an old woman like me to be like a little girl throwing herself at a grown man, a married man at that. I am becoming quite a hussy. I should be ashamed of myself. But I am not.
Last Lovers Page 15
