8
After lunch the next day, I sit down and do a rough floor plan of the apartment. I use a tape measure Rolande had left in her room. I get to see the harpsichord when I look for the tape. It is enormous and painted a muted green, with gold ocher trimmings. It is really beautiful. I wish Mirabelle could see how gorgeous her instrument is, but she doesn’t have to see it, she lives it, makes it sing.
When I finish my plan, I explain what I’ve done. She seems to understand. Although I’m going to start with the room where I’ll sleep, I want to have an overall concept of what we’ll be doing.
Mirabelle wants the main room, the room where we eat and talk, to be light and filled with the colors of sunshine. I decide to paint the walls a pale but slightly warm yellow, something on the order of cadmium yellow pale, with a touch of white. I’ll paint the door frames and baseboard white, as well. All the woodwork now is a dim gray, or maybe it was once white. I’ll have to scrub the woodwork before I start.
She wants the music room to be a combination of the colors in water, sky, and something of spring. I decide to paint the wall with the window opening onto the court a grayed blue. The other walls will be a medium green but light in value and not too intense. I want to suggest the underside of leaves in the shade. I’ll put a darker green rug on the floor. These green walls will not be painted but will be covered with cloth. I’ll put something sound-insulating under the cloth. It’ll be a lot of work, but then I won’t need to do anything about the filthy walls already there, I’ll just pull off the sagging wallpaper and cover over it all. I’m going to put white acoustical tile on the ceiling. I’d love this room to be a good room for the sound of her harpsichord, without uncalled-for echoes and vibrations.
Mirabelle says she wants her bedroom to be an inside place, not under the ground, but as if inside something living. This sort of surprises me. She wants it to be in shades of red going almost to violet. I’m surprised she has all the names of the colors so well in her mind. I wonder if over the years her perceptions of the colors have changed, warped, slid into different percepts or concepts. But I try listening to what she’s saying. There’s an inner consistency to her ideas, as if she’s been thinking of them a long time. There’s a pause. I’ve been writing down her ideas and suggestions on a page of my drawing pad.
‘I think, Jacques, I am wanting to go back into the womb of my mother. I had not thought of it before this moment, but I think that is what I am doing. For sleeping, I want the comfort of warmth and lifeblood. I know, considering what happened to me, this is a strange thing to want, but it is the way I would like it. Do you understand?’
‘I don’t know if I really understand, Mirabelle, but you seem to know what you want, and what you want you shall have. Would you like the walls painted, or shall we do these walls in padded cloth the way we’re doing the music room?’
‘Oh, padded cloth, please, it should be like the inside of a jewel box. And I’d like so much to have the bed in the center of the wall, with the head between the two windows. And could my bed be all in white with a quilted cover in white, too? When I’m in that bed, I want to feel like a queen, a queen of light in my darkness.’
I look at her. This is the first time she’s really revealed the little girl, the early adolescent, in herself. It is so charming to see, to feel the radiance of her dream.
‘You are a queen, Mirabelle. If I’ve ever met a queen in my life, you are it, and so a queen’s bed you shall have.’
We agree my room should be a place where I can hang my drawings and paintings on the walls. I want it to be all earth colors, ochers, siennas, umbers. I am going to look for dark refrigeration cork and put it on the walls. That way I can tack or pin up drawings, drive in small nails to hang my paintings, without leaving ugly holes. I would prefer my bed to be a narrow single bed, but the bed in the room, the bed of Mirabelle’s parents, is so large, with a canopy over it, albeit a rotting, hanging, dust-laden canopy; I just can’t bring myself to throw it out. The mattress, oddly enough, is reasonably comfortable given that it must be over fifty years old.
I hang this mattress along with all the sheets and bedclothes out the window to air. My room has only one window, Mirabelle’s two. The music room has one window as well. There is a direct opening to the bathroom from my room, but the toilet is across the room next to the kitchen. It’s a classic old building, built before plumbing, with the plumbing installed later, according to where closets or pantries could be conveniently adapted. I think the toilet room was probably once the pantry. The bathroom has been carved out of the room where Mirabelle sleeps.
This room of Mirabelle’s, because of the bathroom’s intrusion, has an L shape. Her bed, if we fit it between the windows, will have just enough room for passage between the corner of the bathroom and the bottom of her bed. There is no opening to the bathroom from her room. If there were, since there is a direct opening from the main room, and from my room, there would be no place to put the tub. I could take the tub out and put in a shower so she could have direct access, but that would probably be beyond my limited skills.
I spend that first day just knocking down cobwebs in the room where I’m going to sleep, using Mirabelle’s broom and a small ladder. I brush the worst dust and dirt from the ceilings and walls. There’s dust everywhere. I leave the window wide open and close the door. Mirabelle is still nervous about coming in and stays outside in the main room.
Before I’m finished, it’s getting dark and I’ve turned the overhead light on. Also, I’ve gotten one of the small end-table lights working now. I gather a set of sheets and pillowcases from those I’ve been airing out the window, plus some towels, and head for a self-service laundry down on rue des Canettes. Mirabelle says she’ll have le souper ready when I come back.
It’s dark when I come struggling up the steps with the wash. I’ve also washed most of my own clothes. Mirabelle has the door open and is waiting on the palier for me.
‘Are you all right, Jacques? I began to worry.’
‘I’m fine. There was a line for the dryers.’
I ease past her and put the laundry in the bedroom. Most of the dust smell has gone, so I pull the rest of the bedclothes inside, along with the mattress, and close the window; from now on, they’d only get damp in the night air. I’m feeling bushed. I collapse in the chair at the table.
‘Jacques, you did not do any painting today. I feel terrible about that.’
‘You’re right, Mirabelle, but this was just to get things going. From now on, no matter what, we take off at least three hours to paint. I can paint by myself in the mornings while you’re with your pigeons, then I can paint after lunch. In the late afternoon, I’ll work on the apartment.’
She’s bringing in things to eat from the kitchen. This time it isn’t soup at all, it’s small crepes with different jams, melted butter, and sugar. There must be ten or twelve crepes. I can’t help but wonder how she makes these things. Can she do it by feel? She’d burn her fingers. I look into the kitchen and, sure enough, there’s one of those flat, sideless, thick sort of frying pans they use to make crepes, and one of those wooden batter spreaders. I’m not even going to ask, just enjoy, appreciate the miracle, the miracle of Mirabelle.
After dinner we talk some more about the things we’re going to do. I’ve brought along two of the canvases I’d stretched. Getting started on them is my first concern. I’ll also look around for some wall paint and maybe cork for my walls.
It isn’t even nine o’clock when I catch myself drifting off. Actually, Mirabelle catches me.
‘Jacques, are you falling asleep? In my mind, I feel you slipping away.’
‘I think I am, Mirabelle. I’m sorry.’
‘Do not be sorry. You worked hard today, you deserve your rest. Go to bed and have a good sleep. I will clean up the kitchen, then go to sleep myself. I like to wake with the noises in the street. It is wonderful listening to Paris waking up, the first buses, the men sweeping the water in the gutter
s, the automobiles buzzing, the sound of people walking, and then, at six o’clock, the bells. It is the way I love to wake. Now you sleep and sleep deeply, we shall have a wonderful day tomorrow.’
I stagger off to bed and just barely get undressed and into my sweat suit, which I’d brought over with me from the attic, and washed with the bedclothes, before I stretch out on that overly soft bed and fade away.
The next morning is glorious. I decide to run in the Luxembourg Gardens. It’s something I’ve never done. I’ve been there when others were running but it’s the first time for me.
I dress in my running suit just as light is coming through my window. I feel great, not even stiff from all the reaching the day before. I step out into the main room, quietly, on my way to take my morning pee, when I’m stopped in my tracks.
There’s Mirabelle, in black leotards, standing on her head in the middle of the floor.
‘Good morning, Jacques. It feels like a beautiful day. You have a good run.’
I walk around her. She’s steady as a rock in the yoga headstand position, her forearms on the floor, her fingers intertwined behind her head. I ease myself toward the toilet.
‘I’m going to run in the Luxembourg Gardens, Mirabelle. It’ll be the first time there for me.’
‘It should be lovely. There are still some crocus, and the spring flowers are in all the flower beds. The trees should be coming into blossom, too. I have not smelled them yet, but it cannot be long.’
I step into the toilet room, close the door. I scrunch close and pee against the side to keep down the noise. I flush and come out.
Mirabelle is still on her head. I wonder how long she stays up there. I don’t want to bother her, she might be trying to meditate. I’ve tried that headstand, but the only way I can do it is by having my feet braced against a wall. I cross past her to the door.
‘I’ll be back in about forty minutes, Mirabelle. I can buy croissants on my way home. Is that all right?’
‘That would be fine. I will have some filtre coffee made for us and we can enjoy a peaceful breakfast.’
I have ten francs and the key in my running-trunks pocket. I hurry down the stairs and run through the streets toward the park. There’s practically nobody up and about on the streets. I run up the rue des Canettes, through the Place Saint-Sulpice, along Vaugirard, and into the park. Here there are quite a few runners going along the inside of the fence. There seems to be a regular route they take. I join the pack. It feels strange running with others; running has been such a solitary thing for me. I’ll have to admit I’m guilty of pride when I pass some younger, obviously trained runners. For me, running has been a new lease on life. It starts each day as if I’m being born again. I wonder if I’ll be able to run through the winter. I could run in my sweat suit but it’d be hard to dry out. I’ll need to think about it some more.
The flowers are beautiful. I especially enjoy running in the less used parts of the park where there are espaliered trees and beehives. I look into the trees, and sure enough, the thrusting stalks of the blossoms are visible, just bits of pink and white showing, sometimes a few blossoms. Spring is really coming on. I can’t wait to tell Mirabelle. I look into the center of the park and the fountain is spurting, blowing in different directions.
I listen to the clock on the Médicis Palace, now the Sénat, until I’ve heard it ring three times, that is, every fifteen minutes. Then I go out the same gate I ran in and back through the streets the way I’d run before. I stop at Mabillon and buy two croissants. I’ll have to find out from Mirabelle what she prefers, croissants, butter or not, apple roll, raisin roll, pain au chocolat. For now, I just get two simple croissants.
I run up the steps to the room and Mirabelle is there to open the door. I’m dripping wet from sweat and still breathing hard. I hand the croissants to Mirabelle, the thin paper of the bag is already beginning to get wet from my sweat dripping.
‘I need to take a quick washup, Mirabelle, then I’ll be ready.’
‘I have drawn a bath for you. If it is either too hot or too cold you can put more water in.’
God, she’s too much.
‘That’s really nice, Mirabelle, but you don’t have to do things like that. It must interfere with your exercises and language lessons. I can take care of myself.’
‘I know, but I enjoy taking care of you a little bit. Is it all right?’
‘It’s wonderful. I’ll hurry right out.’
‘Jacques, would you hand me out your wet clothes before you get into the tub? I have some hot sudsy water for them here.’
I go in the bathroom. It’s steamy and warm. I don’t know how long it’s been since I actually took a bath in a tub. Even when I lived at home in Le Vésinet or anywhere, I usually only showered.
I strip off my running clothes, pass them out the door to Mirabelle, who must have been waiting for them because she takes them right out of my hand. Am I ever getting spoiled! I ease myself into the gigantic tub, trying not to think of Mirabelle’s mother. It’s just the right temperature, a shade too hot, but as my body adjusts it’s tremendous.
There’s good, strong-smelling soap and I suds myself down. I feel like a Roman senator. I lower myself down till I’m completely covered with water except my head. I wash my hair, there’s no shampoo. I feel guilty, keeping Mirabelle waiting, but I can’t drag myself out of that tub. I loll in it, long past any normal washup time should take. I’m having a good, old-fashioned soak.
Finally, I get up on my knees, run some cold water over my washed hair, and pull the plug. The water goes down fast and I clean the tub with a washcloth as it drains. When it’s empty and clean I step out. There are big, heavy-pile white towels and I dry off.
I use the direct entry to my room and quickly dress in my painting clothes. I’d washed them the night before and they smell fresh and clean. They’re spattered with paint but they’re clean. I comb my hair and go out with my shoes in my hand.
Mirabelle comes from the music room.
‘Did you have a good bath, Jacques? Do you feel bumpy and clean?’
‘I feel like a new man, Mirabelle. My body is clean and refreshed, my clothes are clean. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so clean.’
I lean over to put on my shoes. These shoes are beginning to wear out, the soles are losing all their tread and are splitting away from the uppers on both sides. I can never replace them and I’m so spoiled I could never wear the kind of shoes I used to wear. Maybe I’ll find an old pair of tennis shoes in the marché. I’ll keep an eye out.
‘You do not need to be a new man, Jacques, the old man is quite good enough.’
She brings the hot pot of coffee and pours for the two of us. This time, the coffee is so hot she doesn’t allow it to reach her finger but just hovers one finger over the edge until the steam and warmth let her know she’s poured enough. She sits across from me. She has the two croissants in a blue-and-white bowl between us. There are also some quartered pieces of orange on the plate before me.
‘You’re ruining me, Mirabelle. How can I ever go back to being a bum-type street painter after all this luxurious living?’
I bite into the oranges, peeling the flesh away from the skin of each quarter with my teeth. The taste is so strong, so fresh. After running, everything tastes good, and these oranges are outstanding.
Mirabelle holds her orange slices like a piece of watermelon and eats each slice sideways. I watch her. One great thing about being with a blind person is you can carefully watch what they’re doing without being embarrassed, or feeling they’re embarrassed. She nibbles slowly at her orange slices. I wonder what she’d think if she saw how I crudely rip the orange flesh out of its skin with my teeth. I’ll bet she probably knows, from the sound.
The croissants aren’t the best but they’re good, especially with the butter and blackberry jam Mirabelle has set out on the table.
‘I didn’t know what you like, Mirabelle, so I just got these ordinary croissants. What do you
like?’
‘Oh, usually I only have some fruit and a slice of bread with my coffee. It is too difficult going all the way downstairs to buy croissants. Thank you, these are lovely.’
‘But what would you really like?’
‘I like to be surprised, and these croissants were a wonderful surprise, thank you again.’
After breakfast, I pack my box and canvas along with my turp and varnish bottles. I thought I’d go back to the Place Furstenberg and just do a careful drawing this morning, maybe get into the underpainting. Then, in the afternoon, if this great weather holds up, Mirabelle can come join me and help with what she’s seeing, feeling, the way she did before. It sounds like a perfect day.
I have all the measurements for the walls in my room to buy cork, or whatever I can find, as well as the paint. Mirabelle’s already told me she has no brushes or rollers, so I’ll get those at the same time, probably at the BHV department store over on rue de Rivoli. The best thing there is, I can see what I want, just pick it up and line up at the cashier to pay, no long explanations.
I’m out working before nine o’clock. The light is beautiful on the Place. I decide I want to take another position than the one I took the first time. I still want to paint downhill, the Place is on a slight hill, but I place myself on the other side and closer yet to the lamp in the center. I find just the spot, out of car’s way, but still with a great angle. I set up the box, hook on the canvas, pull out my little canvas chair I borrowed from Mirabelle (she had two), and start. I do the beginning of the drawing with a 4H pencil to get things laid out, starting across the bottom of the canvas so I can see just what I’ll be including. I’m working on a 25 Figure again, same size as the one I sold. I sure hope I can get as good a painting this time as I did with that one. Without Mirabelle, I feel almost like a kid sent to the store for the first time alone to buy candy.
Last Lovers Page 16
