Last Lovers

by William Wharton

  That night we make love long and lovingly, slowly becoming each other. I’m over her, my weight on my elbows and knees, my hands on the side of her face; Mirabelle is fondling my penis, my testicles, softly stroking them. She’s already tasted me, brought me to a soft sweeping conclusion, but now she’s bringing me back again. She pushes the head of my penis gently against her vagina. She tenderly tucks me in, as if she’s making a bed, tucking in the covers, and then I feel myself start to harden and simultaneously slowly slide into her. Mirabelle pulls the lips of her mouth tight, her eyes are open, staring past me.

  ‘Do not move, Jacques, dearest! Do not move, please!’

  I try to hold still but can feel the incipient, insistent engorgement, the warm tightness of her surrounding me. I hold still. Mirabelle is breathing shallowly, short breaths, almost gasps. It excites me even more. She moves her head back and forth on the pillow.

  ‘Oh, Jacques, I could never have imagined it would be like this. How can anyone ever feel alone when they have known this closeness? No, do not move! Please, stay still!’

  ‘Does it hurt, Mirabelle? I don’t want to hurt you.’

  ‘No, it does not hurt, it is only more than I can bear, the sensation, the feeling, is so strong. Stay, please.’

  I stay. I try holding still but the flood of energy is building inside me, concentrating, forcing, and then I can’t stave it off any longer. I come. I come without moving, feeling the soft flow through me, the strong spurts of my semen pumping themselves out. Mirabelle is quiet under me. She seems pale in the dim light of the candle I have left burning beside my bed. I gradually become soft but I don’t come out. I lower myself gently from my knees onto her. She’s crying.

  ‘We did it, did we not, Jacques, loved one. You planted your seed in me. I am no longer a virgin, am I? I am a real woman.’

  ‘You’ve always been a real woman, Mirabelle.’

  ‘Oh, how I wish I had something in which your seed could grow. Oh, how I wish I could have a child with you. Is it not foolish? I am always wanting more, even what is impossible. But I want to be honest with you.’

  I lift myself away, settle beside her, and hold her close to me. Her heart is pounding so fast, so hard, I can feel it against my chest.

  ‘Are you all right, Mirabelle? Do you feel all right?’

  ‘I shall be fine in a minute, only hold me tight.’

  We stay like that a long time; just when I think she’s asleep, Mirabelle speaks.

  ‘Dearest, there is something I must tell you. It is a secret I have kept from you.’

  I wait in the near darkness, smelling the clean smell of her hair, she has the smell of a baby.

  ‘Just a year after Rolande died, I had some trouble with my heart, also. I needed to be taken to the hospital. I was told by the doctors that my heart is weak. This is why I do all my yoga and exercises. It is also why I play my harpsichord, to calm myself.

  ‘I have never again had any more trouble, but I just felt it now. It was not bad the way it was the first time, but there was a tightness in my chest which was frightening. It went away, perhaps I am cured.

  ‘Jacques, I tell you this because last month I made my testament. With Rolande gone, my parents gone, there is no one in this world I know of who is my family. I want you to have this apartment and any money of Rolande’s that is left when I go. I hope you do not mind. Perhaps your wife will come and live with you here. I do not know. I only wanted to tell you this, in case something happens.’

  I’m frightened deeply. I can’t think of anything happening to Mirabelle. I don’t want to know she is not strong, that her heart could fail. I know I could never live in this place after she is gone. I really don’t know what to say that won’t hurt Mirabelle.

  ‘Please, Mirabelle, don’t talk about those things. I don’t want to be here after you are gone. You know that. And nothing is going to happen to you anyway. We’ll just live each day as it comes and hundreds of days will come, one at a time.’

  ‘Yes, Jacques, you are right. I only wanted you to know. Are you angry with me?’

  ‘How could I ever be angry with you? I love you. You’re the most wonderful person in the world. And I’m so happy you are not a virgin anymore. Now we’re both full-grown people, happy with each other.’

  And we go to sleep.

  Usually, when I wake, Mirabelle has already left my bed quietly. I have become accustomed to this, it is what makes everything seem so new, it’s not as if we’re married, but as if I’ve had a visitation in the night or that I’m a child and my mother is up heating the house, making breakfast for me.

  This morning I wake and Mirabelle is gone as usual. I put my hands behind my head on the pillow and slowly open my eyes, remembering the night before.

  At the foot of the bed I see Mirabelle sitting on the floor, in her nightgown, her legs folded in the lotus position, staring at the wall.

  I have the walls in my room covered with our paintings, from ceiling to floor. I like to look at them. I like to run them through my mind as if I’m counting gold or diamonds, gold I mined and refined with Mirabelle. I learn from them and gain great pleasure. And here is Mirabelle staring at our walls of paintings in the early morning light. I clamber across my bed to the foot and come close to her. She speaks without turning her head.

  ‘They are beautiful, Jacques, more beautiful than I could ever have imagined or dreamed. You are a great artist.’

  I’m stunned. I slide down to the floor beside her.

  ‘What do you mean, Mirabelle. What is it?’

  ‘I can see! When I woke this morning and the light came into the room, I could see the paintings on the walls. I have been here looking at them for a long time. I had forgotten how beautiful it can be for eyes to see, and I am not frightened at all.’

  I can’t believe it. But Mirabelle wouldn’t do a thing like this to me, she wouldn’t pretend, it’s not her way to play tricks, or tease.

  ‘What are you seeing now, Mirabelle?’

  She speaks in a very low tone but with great emotion, there are tears on her face and tears are still coming from her eyes.

  ‘I see the wonderful invention you made of the Place Saint-Sulpice for me. It is so true, so much more beautiful than anything only real. Thank you.’

  I find myself speaking in a low voice, also. Part of me is confused, trying to integrate my amazement that Mirabelle can actually see. I can hardly believe it.

  ‘And the one beside it, can you see that one, too?’

  ‘Oh yes, it is the place where the pigeons come down to eat in the little streets near the Place Furstenberg. I remember very well when you painted it. And these are even more beautiful than my own vision. You truly have put us together in these paintings, have you not, Jacques? I can never thank you enough.’

  We sit for a long time there on the floor. It is a warm day, so we are not cold. She tells me about all the paintings. She makes no mistakes, she remembers the painting of each one, she can tell me where I have made her vision even more clear to her. I move my head in front of her.

  ‘And me, Mirabelle. What do you think of me? Are you disappointed in the way I look? I know I’m not a handsome man.’

  ‘I am certain you are beautiful, Jacques, but I cannot see you.’

  ‘What do you mean, Mirabelle? What is it?’

  ‘I can see nothing but the paintings. When I turn my eyes from them, toward the window, or toward you, or anything else, a fog starts to rise and all is red, then black again. I am sorry, I know how much you would like me to see, and perhaps I shall, someday, but not now. I do not think I am quite ready, my mind is still frightened.’

  At first I can’t accept it. I keep making her focus on the paintings, gain her sight there, and then turn slowly or quickly, with her eyes open or closed to look at me, but there is nothing. She’s still not prepared to see me or anything else.

  But it’s a big step. I hope it will last. I’m interested to see what happens when we go out to pai
nt together and I tell her what I’m painting, when will it be that she will see a new painting. I lean forward and put my arms around her.

  ‘Are you all right, my love? Is all this too much of a shock? Maybe you should go back to bed and rest.’

  She stands and I stand with her.

  ‘No, Jacques, let us get on with our normal lives. It is what I think we must do. Things will come as they must, we cannot force them.’

  She goes into her room. I pull off my sleeping suit and slip on my running togs. My hands are shaking. Having her able to see my paintings is like losing some blindness myself. She comes out and takes a half-lotus position on the floor, one leg out, smiling toward me as I cross in front of her, go out the door, and down the stairs.

  After breakfast, she goes into her music room. I pack my box and prepare to go out and paint. I hope to paint a scene up on the rue Mabillon, where there was once a bear pit, where bears used to be exhibited in the nineteenth century. There’s a tree growing in the pit and a beautiful projection of a concierge’s loge with steps down into the pit. Mirabelle turns to me.

  ‘This morning, I want to work some more on a special concert I am preparing for you. Tonight, I would like to play it for you as a special thank-you for your paintings. Then I shall go take care of my pigeons. Can you be back here when the bells ring?’

  ‘Sure. If you’re doing the cooking I’ll crawl back on my hands and knees if necessary. Just because you can see my paintings now, you can’t get rid of me.’

  She smiles her quiet smile and turns away. I go down the stairs. It’s a great day to paint, warm and not humid. It’s tremendous painting when there isn’t so much smell of automobiles as there is the rest of the year.

  I get the drawing and underpainting done. I wonder if Mirabelle will be able to see it. I hear the bells ringing just as I’m putting the caps on my tubes. I’m home, going up the stairs, before the bells stop. Mirabelle opens the door for me. I put the box just inside the door with the painting visible. I watch her. I can see her looking but can also see she isn’t seeing it.

  It’s another great meal. But too much has happened. We don’t seem to have the same easy relationship. I miss it. I don’t know what to do.

  ‘I’m over painting the fosse des ours on rue Mabillon, Mirabelle. I think I have a good painting started. Do you want to come with me this afternoon?’

  ‘I should work on Monsieur Bach some more this afternoon, Jacques, I am trying to tie in the third and fourth voices to the first two I can now do, and it is not easy. But, yes, I would like very much to paint with you. Will you tell me what you are doing as you go along, as you always do?’

  ‘Of course, I need your help, you know that.’

  ‘No, I do not think you need me to paint anymore. You are quite a complete and wonderful painter by yourself now. But I would like very much to be with you.’

  So, after we get the dishes done, we go over to the rue Mabillon with our two folding chairs. It’s very close by, not more than three small streets away. I’ve set up for my painting on a narrow foot-bridge across one end of the fosse; I find a place for Mirabelle and get back to work. While I’m setting up, I describe what I’ve done so far.

  ‘You see, Mirabelle, more than half the painting is the fosse itself with the deep hole, the tree growing up and out, the leaves blocking out most of the sky. Coming down into the center of the fosse I’ve painted the stairs from the concierge’s loge, making them bigger and more solid than they really are. I have a deep, exaggerated perspective along the wall of the fosse next to the street. On the left side I don’t show much of the wall, except behind the loge.

  ‘Up on the street level, I have people walking away from me, not developed much, more shadows of people so far. I don’t have any automobiles. The student restaurant across the street I’ve only roughly sketched in.

  ‘At the back of the painting, and with the most light, is the rue du Four. I’ve worked that up with bright yellow, Indian yellow, and some ochers and I’ll make it even brighter with direct paint at the end.’

  I go on describing the painting until I’m ready to start the impasto. I tell her exactly what I’m trying for, what I’m actually doing with the paint, what I’m hoping will be the overall effect, the contrast of the two levels with the sky, the enclosing effect from the leaves of the tree, blue and green, light blue and violet, like the Furstenberg trees, only these leaves are older, beginning to get tired, even having some touches of yellow and orange as they begin to feel summer ending. But they’re still big, soft; casting slow-moving shadows. I tell her how I’m treating the shadows, differently in the fosse, smaller, darker than on the street.

  I’ve gotten so I can paint and talk about it at the same time, as in all the paintings I’ve done with Mirabelle. In fact, my talking about it makes things clearer for me, helps me know what to do next.

  When Mirabelle doesn’t quite understand something, she’ll ask a question and that helps, too. I would never have believed I could paint this way. I’m hoping it will help Mirabelle see the painting. I think if she can see it here, where it’s actually happening, instead of on the wall of my room, it would be another great step forward.

  Toward six o’clock, just when I’m listening for the bells to start ringing, and I’m beginning to think the painting might even be finished, she leans forward and whispers in my ear.

  ‘I can see it, Jacques. It was so strange. I stored it all in my head from what you told me and then I began to see my painting on your easel and gradually, almost without my knowing it, my painting blended into yours and then became the painting you have been painting, not just the one you were telling me about. It was magic. It is a beautiful painting. I shall never know how you do it. I know you tell me everything but I still do not know. It is like a dream.’

  ‘You can really see it, Mirabelle? Tell me about it! Can you tell what kind of light we’re in? Tell me!’

  ‘The bells are about to ring, so the light is not bright here now. I do not think there is any sun, it feels too cool, but there is sun in your painting, especially in the distance, on the rue du Four just as you said. The sky is blue in the painting but it does not feel blue now in the real sky. There are few people in your painting but I hear many rushing past us now, going home to souper.

  ‘Do not ask me if I can see you, Jacques. I know I cannot. I cannot even see the real scene you have been painting, right in front of my eyes. I can smell it, hear it, almost feel it, but I still cannot let myself see. I am sorry.’

  I swing around in my chair, wipe my hands clean with a paint rag, and take her hands in mine.

  ‘Don’t feel sorry for me, Mirabelle. I’m only disappointed you can’t experience with me all this which has brought this painting into life. I would so like to share it with you.’

  ‘You have, in the best way possible, in your painting. Can you not understand, I do not need to see, especially with you to see for me.’

  ‘Mirabelle, that makes me feel part of your blindness, part of the reason! Try! Would you please try some things for me! Let me help you to see!’

  ‘I shall do what you ask, Jacques.’

  ‘All right, I want you to see just me, it should be easier than this whole street. I want you to look at the painting until you have it focused in your mind, then close your eyes and open them again.’

  She stares at the painting. I can see her tracking the picture. Then she closes her eyes. I shift so my head is in line with her face and the painting.

  ‘Open your eyes, Mirabelle. What do you see?’

  ‘I see nothing. I felt you move and I see nothing.’

  ‘I know the mind is quicker than the eye, Mirabelle; but this is too much. Next time we’ll try it slowly.’

  As I finish saying this, the first resounding bells of Saint-Sulpice, just up the street, begin.

  ‘This time, look at the painting until you can really see it. Move your eyes around it as if it were the real world, let yourself go into the
deepest and farthest-away places on the painting. Pretend it is a real place you’re looking at, not just some canvas I’ve spread paint on. Look at it as if you’ve done the painting yourself and have only now finished it. Can you do that?’

  ‘I can try.’

  I sit quietly beside her, listening to the bells, hearing the bells of Saint-Germain-des-Prés answering from farther away. Mirabelle is really concentrating. I wait. I start speaking softly.

  ‘Now, Mirabelle, slowly turn your head toward me, try to relax, just let me become part of the painting; don’t force yourself.’

  She slowly turns her head until she’s facing me, looking into my eyes. She holds her head still, then slowly smiles.

  ‘It is so strange, Jacques. As I turned my head, at first it is as if there is a fog again, then at the edge of the painting it is red and then there is only darkness. I am sorry I cannot see you. But it does not matter. I do not need to see you.’

  The bells have stopped ringing. I don’t want to press. It’s so strange.

  ‘You’re just not ready yet, Mirabelle; I’m sure you’ll see me and, afterward, everything. We can wait.’

  I start packing up. I look at the painting myself. It’s a good one. It’s almost as if I can’t fail. I’m not sure if I’ve lost my critical faculties and don’t see what I’m doing wrong anymore, or if these paintings really are as good as they seem to me. After all, my only critic is blind. It doesn’t say much for objectivity when I painted them myself, and the person who loves them with me can’t see anything else and loves me to boot. I have her eyes prisoner, prisoner to our love.

  After dinner that evening, Mirabelle leads me into her music room. I sit down in my usual chair. I watch Mirabelle go over to her harpsichord. I’ve rigged a small light where the music would normally be, as a part of my desire to have her living as if she had sight. She takes her cover off the harpsichord, makes a few other adjustments.