Last Lovers

by William Wharton

  She eases herself onto the bed beside me. Her eyes are open in the dark. I can just see them. It really is hard, here in the dark, to believe she’s blind or that she’s seventy-one years old. Her hair is braided and comes down over her shoulder on the left side, as before. She has a slight smell of roses and a pale scent of lilac. She’s wearing a different nightgown. This one has lace trim at the end of its long sleeves and is not quite so tight around her neck. I reach out and take her hands.

  ‘Do you want to explore me some more, Mirabelle? Is there more you want to know about me?’

  ‘Do not tease, please. I want to know as much about you as I can. I want to know you not just as a man but as yourself. Is that wrong?’

  ‘No, it isn’t wrong, Mirabelle. I understand very well. It must be terrible for you being so alone.’

  ‘But I am not alone now.’

  I let go of her hands and she reaches across to put both hands over my ears. She holds each ear between her thumb and fingers, her thumbs blocking the holes, so I feel deaf. Slowly her hands slide down my neck, as if encroaching into foreign territory. She’s lying across my chest again and her hands meet at the back of my neck. She interlocks her fingers there and pulls up gently, as if checking the weight of my head.

  ‘Your head is so big. It must be twice as large as mine. I know you are taller than I am by at least thirty centimeters but I never thought your head would be so big, so heavy.’

  While she’s saying this, she’s drifting her hands over my head, across my face. It’s so light, it feels like butterfly touchings and at the same time, because she enters every indentation, every crack and crevice, it’s as if she’s sculpting me, shaping my head. Her hands stop across my throat, her thumbs in the hollow above my sternum, between my clavicles.

  ‘Would you speak, please, Jacques? I want to feel you speak. I know my neck vibrates when I speak, I think yours must, too.’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘Oh yes, it vibrates beautifully, more than my neck vibrates. Please, speak again, say anything.’

  I’m silent. I don’t know what to say at first, then I know.

  ‘Mirabelle is in my bed. She has her hands on my neck, exploring me. She is a wonderful woman, the most incredible woman I’ve ever known. She is making my life more exciting every day and I hope I can make her life better.’

  I stop. Mirabelle has dropped her head onto my chest, her ear against my heart, keeping her hands on my throat.

  ‘That was beautiful, Jacques, both what I heard and what I could feel as you spoke. I can also hear your heart, it beats very strongly and very slowly. I’ve never heard a heart beat before. Sometimes I can feel my own heart beating in my head or on my wrist, or I can feel it in my chest, but I’ve never heard a real heartbeat. It doesn’t sound like a beat at all. It is like a quiet roaring, a rolling, bumping sound, and it isn’t the same each time. It is like Bach, with two voices, or maybe even three or four. It is so lovely, better than listening to water or even the bells. It is the sound of life, of things continuing in the dark, the way I do, living without seeing, without being seen.’

  I bring my arms up and rest them lightly across her back.

  ‘I see you, Mirabelle, and I feel you, and I smell you. You are here with me this night in this bed.’

  She stays a long time like that with her head on my chest until I begin to think she’s asleep. Should I lift her into the bed with me? No, that would be taking advantage. I budge a bit and she shifts her head. I put my hands over her hands on my neck. We intertwine our fingers. She begins gently to explore my fingers now with her head still on my chest. She takes one of my hands in both of hers and slowly rubs down the length of each finger, resting lightly on the ridges of the joints, pressing down into the webbing between the fingers. She holds each finger in turn in her hands, squeezing lightly, then squeezing two fingers at a time, starting with my thumb and little finger. She searches the inside of my palm, running her fingernail exploringly down the lines in my palm to my wrist, almost like a palmist. She does this with both of my hands, each of her hands moving independently, caressing, gliding on my palms. Then she turns my hands over and does the same on the backs of my hands, tracing the veins and knuckles, brushing lightly over the hairs on the backs of my hands, on the backs of my first finger joints. She, in the dark, is discovering for herself and for me things I didn’t really know about myself, and it is so comforting, so healing, so relaxing.

  She places her two palms against my two palms, her left hand against my right, her right against my left. She lifts her head from my chest.

  ‘I think your hands are twice as large as mine. It, too, is something I had not thought about. Do you sometimes find them too big to do certain things? And they feel so strong, as if you could crush my hand without even noticing, if you wanted. Men are certainly different from women, are they not?’

  ‘I don’t have particularly large hands, Mirabelle. I’ve known several women with bigger hands than mine, more graceful, with longer fingers, too. I do not have artistic hands, they are more the hands of a worker, it’s just that my work is painting. People are usually disappointed to see I do not have long thin “artistic” hands.’

  ‘I am not disappointed. I think your hands are perfect. I did not know hands could be like yours.

  ‘Oh, I have learned much tonight, Jacques, thank you. I shall leave you now so you can sleep.’

  Still holding our palms together, she leans over and kisses me on the lips, gently but with a slight lingering. I try to kiss her back but she is gone. She stands by the bed a few minutes, then leaves the room. I feel myself slipping into sleep. I feel wonderfully cosseted, comforted in this big bed.

  At breakfast the next morning, we decide we’ll go out to paint in the afternoon. That morning we manage to mount one wall of cork, on the side of the room away from the court. It looks good. At first, I have a hard time matching the grain and getting the squares fitted level, without running mastic over the front, but I work it out after a while. Mirabelle helps again the same way, spreading mastic, handing me the tiles. I ask if she’s stiff from all the crouching and standing up but she says no, all her yoga and stretching make her quite strong and flexible. I have to admit that when I go up on that ladder the first time, that second day, I ache in a few places, but as soon as we get going at it, I don’t feel anything.

  So, after a great lunch, we go out to paint. This time we’re going to be on the rue des Canettes looking up into the Place Saint-Sulpice. It’s one of her favorite memories. She wants us to be on the sidewalk about thirty yards away from the Place, on the other side of where rue Guisarde ends at the rue des Canettes. I set up there and am disappointed I can’t see more of the Place. I’d like to get in something of the front of the church and the fountain, but they’re blocked by the buildings in the foreground.

  I sit a minute trying to figure it out, trying to think up a composition that will work. Mirabelle starts speaking.

  ‘Is it not beautiful, with the columns of the church and the water splashing in the fountain and the light with the new trees. You know, they are some of the only chestnut trees in Paris with red blossoms.

  ‘Why I like seeing the Place from here is looking down the line of dark buildings and then the Place opening up with all the light and water. It is like coming out of a tunnel into the sunshine, is it not?’

  I wonder if I should tell her. But if I’m going to have the kind of view she’s describing, I’ll need to walk about fifty yards up the street closer to the Place.

  ‘Mirabelle, are you sure this is the location you want to be, away from the Place on the other side of rue Guisarde?’

  ‘Why yes, is it not beautiful?’

  ‘Well, Mirabelle, to be honest, from here I can’t see the Place very well at all. I can only see the towers of the church over the buildings and an open place between the columns and the fountain. Are you sure this is the position from which you want me to paint?’

/>   ‘Oh, I am so sorry; in all the years, perhaps I have mixed things up. I thought I could see rue Guisarde in my vision. I know I can see it, but it cannot be, can it?’

  ‘Maybe you’ve mixed up different views in your mind, Mirabelle. These buildings all look over a hundred years old, at least, and I don’t think they’ve really moved anything. I’m convinced we need to go up closer to the Place.’

  ‘All right, if you say so. Would it be possible for you to change things? Could you paint the buildings from here, leaving a space for the Place, and then we can move up closer so we can see the whole Place and you can put it in. Can you do that? That way, in the front we can have the rue Guisarde going off to the left.’

  It’s a wild idea. She’s actually composing a painting without being able to see anything. At first it seems crazy, a real violation of the way things are. But then the possibilities begin to grow on me. There’s nothing to stop me from doing it. If it exists in Mirabelle’s vision, I can make a vision of it for me, for others. Why not?

  I walk up the street till I find a place where I can see all that Mirabelle’s described in the Place, then walk back to where I’ve set up. It’ll be a good trick but it could be done. After all, I’m not trying to make architectural drawings of Paris. These are works of love, love for Paris, love for Mirabelle, her love for me. I sit down beside her and explain what I’m going to do.

  ‘That will be marvelous, Jacques. This way you will make it so everyone can see my vision even though it is not really out there for people to see. It will be our private view of Paris, a Paris we created ourselves. This is wonderful.’

  I start. I widen the street a bit, leave out a few of the buildings so there’s more space for the Place in the background. It’s harder than I thought it would be. I don’t want to distort the perspective and the proportion so much it’s disturbing in the painting itself. This is for painterly reasons, not just verisimilitude. I finally get the ‘forward’ part done to my satisfaction and we move up closer to the Place. I paint in all I can see there, the façade of the church with its columns, the towers of the church, each different, one looking like a mad spool of thread built with massive stone.

  I draw in the Place, knock out the cars, squeeze in half the fountain. I’ll have it gushing water even though it’s dry now. I explain what I’m doing to Mirabelle as I go on. She also is describing things to me, what she remembers, the games she played here, ice skating in the water of the fountain one winter during the war. She tells me about the towers, how there had been a competition for the building of the second tower, after the first tower had stood alone for many years. The man who won the competition, upon whose design the stone spool was actually built, was so severely criticized by all when they saw it, he climbed to the top and jumped off. Mirabelle says his grave is just beside the ambulatory outside the church. Because he committed suicide, he couldn’t be buried in holy ground. At least, this is what Rolande had told her.

  It reminds me of the man who designed the opera house in Vienna. He forgot to put steps under it and in his disgrace killed himself, too. Architects are a screwball bunch, half artists, half craftsmen, caught between the imaginary and the real.

  I carry my box and our chairs back to the location where I started, deeper in the street of rue des Canettes, and squeeze out paints to start my underpainting. It’s nice having in my head a broader, more complete view of the Place as I’m working, looking up this long street with a slight twist to the left. Mirabelle tells me that the name of the street on our left, rue Guisarde, comes from when the Due de Guise had his stables here and his personal bodyguard lived above the stables. It’s hard to think of this old but posh little quartier being a place where horses lived.

  Mirabelle asks what the sky is like, if there are any clouds. It’s a pale blue sky with small streaks of white. It must have rained overnight because everything seems so clear. Even the buildings have a cleaned-down sparkling look, or maybe it’s just me, I’m feeling sparkling and clean myself. Mirabelle is sitting in a little spot of sunlight coming through the buildings just behind me.

  I do the foreground in dark, rich, high chroma colors, as I did the shadow under the lights of my Place Furstenberg. Then I move my box and chair up again so I can do the opening to the Place Saint-Sulpice. It’s so light up there it’s almost blinding. The fountain has started playing and there are people taking advantage of the sun at the little café on the corner where this street comes into the Place. People stop to watch, then move on. I wonder if they can figure Mirabelle is blind.

  I use light yellow ocher and some burnt sienna with a pale almost-wash of the sap green for the trees. The contrast, even at this stage of the painting, is great.

  All the while, Mirabelle is sharing with me her vision, as she did the last time. It isn’t too far from what I’m seeing, except for the dislocation of place. Or maybe I’m beginning to see the way she does, her vision is displacing the mere vision of my eyes. I don’t care.

  Again, the paint seems to flow. The only interruption is constantly having to squeeze out new colors onto my palette. I find I’m painting with much more impasto, painting more quickly, knowing always what to do next, not having that fear of mistake which has been haunting me in other paintings. Something inside me is definitely changing. I feel less controlled by Mirabelle and more going along with her, pulling in tandem, working together at an even pace.

  I work until five o’clock. The time seems to have disappeared. I’ve gone up, back and forth, to the Place several times, almost automatically, with Mirabelle following me. There’s much foot traffic and too much auto traffic, but I’m almost ignoring it, they work their way around us. Then, when the bells ring five, I feel the light touch of Mirabelle’s hand on my arm.

  ‘You are working so quietly, Jacques, only once in a while I hear your chair squeak, or you whistle softly. I am certain you are painting something beautiful.’

  ‘I think we are, Mirabelle. This might even be more beautiful than the Furstenberg, it has so much light and space on such a small canvas.’

  I’m astounded to hear myself call a 25 Figure a small canvas. Only a few weeks ago, it seemed like an immense space to cover.

  ‘Perhaps you should stop now, while you are still not too tired. It is a mistake to work until you are tired, then you will not want to start again. Let us go and sit in the cafe for a few minutes, have a nice cup of Viandox, and listen to the bells ring at six o’clock. You have worked hard, you deserve a reward.’

  I stand up and look at the painting. This is as good a place to stop as any. What I have to do now with the shadows of the buildings cast onto the walls of other buildings willneed the light of the earlier afternoon, the light in which I designed the painting.

  ‘You’re right, Mirabelle. I want to have my concentration when I finish this one. It is easy, when one is excited, to rush and not do it right.’

  I fold up the box, the chairs, and give Mirabelle my arm. We walk right into the painting, up the street, the Place unfolding in front of us as we go. I’m sorry Mirabelle can’t see it. How I wish she could share with me what I’m seeing and feeling.

  We find a place outside at the Café de la Mairie. There is still a bit of sunshine, cool sunshine now. But it feels good.

  ‘Are you warm enough, Mirabelle?’

  ‘I am fine, but let me sit close to you. Maybe the coolness is only an excuse, I like to sit close to you, to feel your warm body and sense your movements. It makes me not so alone and it makes me happy.’

  She snuggles up next to me and puts her arm through mine. The waiter comes and I order two Viandox. Viandox is a broth like a bouillon. It’s usually served with a shaker of celery salt.

  The waiter comes with it quickly and wants to be paid right away because the shift is changing. I give him the money, and a slight tip. He tears our little chit in half, sliding it under my Viandox. The Viandox is steaming and smells great in the early evening air. I watch as Mirabelle gets all her bou
ndaries established. She lets go of my arm and finds the edge of the table, the location of the cup. I pass her the celery salt and she shakes a little in. She takes her cup by the handle, the fingers of her other hand lightly guiding it, and lifts the heavy white cup to her mouth. I lean forward over my cup and check the box beside me. It’s okay, the painting, face against the wall.

  ‘It is so nice and hot, Jacques, almost too hot for my lips. My lips are very sensitive.’

  I taste. It’s warm, not hot to me, but then I can drink practically boiling coffee. It feels good going down my throat and warming me inside. I shake in more celery salt. I hold the shaker over Mirabelle’s cup when she puts it down.

  ‘Do you want more celery salt, Mirabelle?’

  ‘No, this is fine, it is only too hot.’

  She twists her head around, sniffing, feeling the air, I guess.

  ‘Do you think anyone passing by would know I am blind as I sit here, Jacques?’

  ‘I’m not so sure myself sometimes, Mirabelle. I think you’re experiencing more than almost anybody here, they all seem so locked up in themselves, I don’t see a single smile around us. We’re the only ones smiling.’

  She smiles up at me.

  ‘Perhaps that is how they would know I am blind; also, perhaps, that you are an artist.’

  ‘With these dirty paint-splattered clothes and that beat-up box behind me with a canvas hung on it, they’d know I wasn’t working in the Trésor across the Place there, that’s for sure.’

  We sip away, the Viandox getting cooler as the air gets cooler. When Mirabelle is finished we stand up, I shoulder my box, and we start home. On the way down rue des Canettes, Mirabelle is humming. I recognize the Bach prelude she’d played for me.

  ‘Yes, Jacques, it is going around in my head. I must listen to it again, there are parts I still haven’t heard and played right.’

  Blind Reverie

  Last night we were so close. I never thought I would, could, ever be so close to anyone. His hands became mine, mine his. It was all so clear. It was more than seeing or even feeling. Jacques is such a kind man. Sometimes I almost begin to think he loves me, too. But that is impossible. I must remember I am an old, blind woman.