Last Lovers

by William Wharton

  ‘Trente-cinq francs, monsieur, avec le chapeau. Vous serez comme le roi d’ Angleterre.’

  I could probably bargain some more but I can’t resist; it’s the hat that does it. I take it off my head. It’s impeccable, one of the kind that can be collapsed and snapped out, silk. I put it back on, look in a little cracked mirror he has hanging on the side of his truck. I wish Mirabelle could see me.

  I reach into my pocket and pull out three ten-franc bills, and a five-franc coin. I give them to him and take the suit with the hat. We move away.

  ‘I am so glad you bought the suit; you will be beautiful in it.’

  I have the hat on my head still. I lean down.

  ‘Mirabelle, I bought the suit to go with my hat, feel my new hat.’

  She reaches up and touches it quickly with her fast, sensitive hands.

  ‘Mon dieu, Jacques, you could be le ministre des finances himself, not just le roi d’ Angleterre. You must look most impressive. Are you doing this so I will want to see you so much I must just let myself? Is that it?’

  ‘Maybe, partly, Mirabelle. Now the minister, or the king, whichever, must look for a pair of shoes. I’ll not pay more than ten francs and they must fit comfortably because, after our “gala,” I shall use them for painting shoes.’

  We find an old pair of what look like dancing shoes, the kind Fred Astaire used to wear, thin-soled, patent leather. I could never use them for painting, but they fit and cost ten francs. One can’t have everything, so I buy them.

  We get back from our shopping expedition and enjoy a great lunch. Mirabelle makes me put on my suit and measures me for alterations like a tailor. It’s another skill I didn’t know about.

  ‘Do you not know, Jacques, all blind women can sew? It is one of the things we are supposed to do, like making baskets or repairing the paille in chairs. Oh yes, Rolande always claimed I had les mains d’or, golden hands, master hands. You shall be very handsome.’

  When she’s finished measuring, I dress in my comfortable painting clothes, heft my box on my back, pick up a stretched canvas, and head out to paint. I can probably only get the drawing done, but I don’t want to lose the day completely. There’s a spot just on the street where the Place Furstenberg comes out, on the high side, where, by looking up and to the left, I can see a whole pileup of buildings, with a complex mix of windows, rooftops, walls, indentations, mansards, and chimney pots at all different angles. It could make a good vertical painting on a 25 Figure.

  The next days we are busy readying our costumes. After Mirabelle has altered my tuxedo, I have it dry-cleaned. This costs more than the suit, but Mirabelle insists. I sold that painting, the one looking up at the buildings, straight off the easel, for another fifteen hundred francs, so I’m feeling flush.

  I call Le Grand Vefour, an incredibly fancy restaurant, one of the best known in Paris, which is located in the archways of le Palais-Royal. I make reservations for two on the ninth of September. We do much talking about what we hope to order. For a wine, we settle on a simple Côtes du Rhône. It’s here, with the wines, they can really blast you away in a place like this.

  At night, every night, we make love. It’s gotten so natural and we don’t lose any of the other pleasures we had before we could actually have intercourse. I’m wondering if Mirabelle is having any orgasm. It’s difficult, maybe impossible for me to tell. I could never be sure with Lorrie. I decide to ask.

  ‘What is orgasm, Jacques?’

  Jesus! How do I tell a woman what’s orgasm? How could she have gotten this far without knowing? I wonder if she’s never masturbated, but I don’t want to ask.

  ‘Well, when I have my seed come out, Mirabelle, that’s a man’s orgasm, but it’s different from a woman’s.’

  ‘Would I have seeds or eggs come out of me?’

  ‘No, it’s different. Nothing comes out. You just feel as if you’re so excited you can’t control yourself. You feel all warm and happy and it’s as if your body takes over and gives you pleasure itself. It’s something like that, I’m told.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful, like music. It feels beautiful when you come into me and my body feels warm and I am very happy, but I do not think that is orgasm. What must I do to have an orgasm like that? I would like it very much.’

  ‘You don’t have to do anything, Mirabelle, it will probably come by itself. You’ll know when it does.’

  I’m beginning to back up in my mind. Maybe a real ‘four-star’ orgasm might be just enough to wreck her weak heart and kill her. Besides, I don’t want her to start thinking of orgasm so much she blocks herself from having one. I’m wishing I’d kept my big mouth shut.

  ‘Oh, I do hope so. Help me if you can.’

  ‘I will, Mirabelle.’

  We leave it at that.

  Most nights now, before we go to bed, Mirabelle gives me concerts. They can be anywhere from half an hour to two hours and they have become part of our lovemaking for me and I think for her, too.

  She moves on to more difficult work, especially the Bach compositions she calls Le Clavecin Bien Tempéré. She’s working on a series of preludes and fugues in three and four voices from the English Suites in preparation for the more difficult pieces from Le Clavecin Bien Tempéré. She also plays one evening some Scarlatti and some more Couperin, such as ‘Double de Rossignol,’ and ‘Le Petit-Rien.’

  Another night she plays Duphly’s ‘Le Forqueray.’ For me it’s such a joy. And Mirabelle, despite her knocking Bach because he was always teaching, teaches me beautifully, gently, sharing her incredible knowledge of Baroque music. When we’re in that music room and I’m listening to her, she’s completely in charge. It’s the reverse of the way it is when she’s with me painting and I’m explaining what I’m seeing and doing.

  And, every morning, when I wake, I find her at the foot of my bed, sitting, looking at the paintings. She can’t seem to get enough; it’s as if she’s drinking them in. Sometimes I wake and just watch her, her head turning slowly from one to the other. Every artist should have such an audience, someone sensitive who loves your work and can’t, literally, ‘see’ anybody else’s. I know the paintings are a part of our lovemaking, too, just as her playing her music is.

  On the evening of the ninth, we decide to walk to our rendezvous at Le Grand Vefour. It’s a lovely evening and we’ve spent almost an hour bathing, dressing, inspecting each other. Mirabelle has even given me a haircut and beard trim. I wouldn’t believe a blind woman could do such a thing, but her hands drift over my head, feeling, touching, measuring, and when she’s finished I have a hair and beard cut such as I’ve never had before. Of course, except for hacking away at my own beard, I’ve never had a beard cut. I didn’t have a beard before I started living in the streets.

  She also insists I carry a beautiful umbrella which had been her father’s. It has a carved handle in the shape of a duck’s head with a gold collar. It’s beautifully furled and I’m not about to unfurl it for fear it might fall apart, after more than fifty furled years. Mirabelle also rustles out a beautiful white silk scarf and drapes it around my shoulders.

  ‘Jacques, I do wish I could see you, I think you must look very handsome.’

  She runs her hands over my face, my clipped beard, down the front of a slightly fragile white dress shirt she also found, and along the silk lapels of my evening coat. She’s probably actually seeing me better than I can ever see myself.

  I talk Mirabelle into wearing an old boa we find hanging in the closet. She also wears the dark dress she’d worn once only, at Rolande’s funeral, along with a black Persian lamb coat which had belonged to her sister. On her head she wears a cloche hat with a little black veil, also left over from the funeral.

  When I look at us in the mirror in her parents’ room, now mine, we look as if we’ve stepped out of an old daguerreotype. With the mirror fading, the silver backing chipped off, I’m not quite sure we’re even alive. But we look damned impressive. I stand straight and tall, very aristocratic, wh
ile Mirabelle carries herself with her usual grace. It’s too bad she can’t see the scene we make. She’d probably go into a fit of giggles.

  We figure we’ll walk till we’re tired, then call a taxi. We definitely don’t want to walk up to the door of Le Grand Vefour.

  We start by walking across the boulevard Saint-Germain, then down the rue de Seine. I swing my umbrella jauntily, like a boulevardier, and point out to Mirabelle the things I’m seeing. I’m having a great time and I think Mirabelle is, too.

  We cross the Pont des Arts to the Right Bank and I’m trying to see for Mirabelle, trying to plant the beauty of the city that night in her mind, in her private collection of ‘visions.’

  ‘There are shining, golden lights on the Conciergerie, Mirabelle, and amber lights along the river. The cars are like a stream of amber on one side of the river and a stream of red on the other.’

  We’re standing in the middle of the bridge, leaning over, looking at the point of L’île de la Cité.

  ‘The front of the island resembles the prow of a ship with a lovely weeping willow tree growing on the front deck. Farther on is the Pont Neuf with its beautiful lamp lights shimmering in the river. Buses, cars, and people are crossing it; I can see the illuminated towers of Notre-Dame.

  ‘There are young people on the quai of the island enjoying the softness of this evening. And, if we turn to our left, we see the golden, lit facade of Le Louvre, a great wall of stone, new and shining after its cleaning.’

  Just then, one of the huge Bateaux Mouches comes from behind us, under the bridge, lighting the water deep green with its large spotlights. There are the sounds of diners and the multilingual spiel of a tour guide. I try to explain how mysterious, almost frightening this large, shark-shaped boat appears to me, at the same time how the soft lights on the tables inside give it a friendly, almost cozy look.

  We continue over the bridge. We walk across in front of the Louvre and past the Arc du Carrousel. I try explaining what I’m seeing but feel inadequate. It isn’t the same as when I’m painting, then I’m forced to really see things, not just look at the outsides of them. I feel frustrated.

  ‘What is the matter, Jacques? Please do not stop. I am getting such a glamorous picture in my mind. I was never here as a child, or if I was, I do not remember. I was here with Rolande sometimes, but she did not much like to walk and she did not talk about what she was seeing. Please tell me more.’

  We decide to forget the taxi. We’ll take one home. So we enter under the arcades of the Palais-Royal somewhat surreptitiously. We take advantage of a moment when the doorman is escorting people out of a huge Rolls-Royce to insinuate ourselves into position and saunter slowly up the steps to the door. We wait until another doorman opens it for us and we go in.

  The maître d’ comes toward us quickly, probably wondering out of what time machine we’ve stepped. I give our names and he shows us to a wonderful location, where I take the bench against the wall. He motions Mirabelle into the chair across the table but I insist she sit beside me. We’d decided on this ahead of time. She wants me to help her with the menu and also describe what there is to be seen. I actually get a French shrug, authentic, from the maitre d’, but no real objection. He gives rapid-fire instructions to a waiter, and the silverware, glasses, dishes are rearranged to our liking. Before Mirabelle sits down, there is the cloakroom attendant standing beside her, waiting for her coat.

  ‘Mirabelle,’ I say in English, English-English, ‘I don’t believe it is too cold in here, you might want to give the gentleman your coat.’

  She flashes a smile at me and proceeds to unbutton her coat, as he helps her slide out of it. She unpins her hat and hands it to him as well. Then, feeling the edge of the table, she moves around it and slides in beside me. So far, so good.

  ‘That was wonderful, Jacques, I should have thought about the coat. But it went off beautifully, did it not?’

  ‘Oh yes. They might well be beginning to think we really are some of the British royal family after all; aristocrats left over from last century. We could be out slumming. This is great fun.’

  When the sommelier, a self-satisfied, heavy man, comes to ask if we would have something before dinner, we casually order Kir Royal, another precast decision. He bows and moves away. A waiter hands me a menu. Since we’re sitting beside each other, I presume he thinks we’ll only need the one, and I can order for us both. That fits our plan exactly. So far, I don’t think anyone has any idea Mirabelle is blind. They probably have me figured as a gigolo escorting an older woman for money, and that’s fun, too; almost as good as being members of the royal family.

  I’ve been to this restaurant a few times for high-level luncheon conferences. I was so busy trying to impress my boss, or outwit our competitors, I didn’t have much chance to notice the quality of the food. I did remember the excellent French quality of the decor, though, and I’m sorry Mirabelle can’t see it. To someone just casually looking at us, we seem to be huddling over the menu, but I’m actually giving her a blow-by-blow account of what’s happening around us, what I’m seeing. They’ll figure we’re having a difficult time making up our minds, but let them think what they will.

  ‘There are high ceilings, Mirabelle. Beautiful crystal chandeliers hang from those ceilings. The floor is carpeted with a dark wine-colored rug almost the same color as the one in your room. We’re sitting on deep red velvet benches with dark wood trim.’

  I look behind her. There’s a small plaque attached to the dark wood. I lean over to read it.

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you this, Mirabelle, but you are not a member of the British royal family. You are sitting in the same place the Empress Josephine sat a few years ago.’

  ‘I always knew I was not British, Jacques. It is so good to find my true place.’

  She says it without even a hint of giggle. We’re really into it now.

  I go on describing the crowds sitting around us at the impeccably white tables, beautiful linen with napkins big enough for any normal tablecloth. I describe how the glassware is all so bright, shining, the silver glittering in the light from the chandeliers. Mirabelle leans close to hear me, her eyes seemingly fixed on the menu.

  ‘It sounds wonderful, Jacques. Are you doing all this just so I will be forced to let myself see? Is that why you are so kind to me?’

  ‘Of course. You think I’d spend money like this on just anyone and for a mere meal? I have “designs” on you, my dear.’

  ‘Dessins? What does that mean? Do you intend to make a dessin, a drawing, of me? I do not understand.’

  ‘Aha, but you will, my dear.’

  I twist my mustache like a classic villain. Then I describe what I’m doing and what I mean by ‘designs’ on her, that I’m not about to tattoo her. This is too much. She brings her napkin up to hide a giggle, just as the Kir Royal is delivered.

  I lift mine and, without help, Mirabelle finds and lifts hers by the thin stem. She holds it out, looks, or pretends to look, into my eyes. We tap the glasses.

  ‘To our continued success and a long life, Countess.’

  ‘Oh, Jacques. This is too much.’

  ‘Nothing is too much for the Comtesse de Rochambault.’

  ‘Stop it, Jacques, and drink your Kir.’

  We sip. I haven’t had this in over two years. There was actually a time when it seemed no American could seem to think of any other drink before a fancy dinner. Now it tastes fresh, unique, the fruity quality carried beautifully by the bubbles of the champagne.

  ‘This is delicious, Jacques. I do not think I have ever tasted champagne like this.’

  ‘It’s a lovely pink color, Mirabelle, and the bubbles rise in the glass like balloons going to heaven.’

  ‘I think you are drunk, Jacques, and we have not even started.’

  ‘I am drunk, Mirabelle. Let us be drunk together.’

  I reach for her hand under the table. It is cool and dry. I wrap it in my warm hand. With my other hand I tilt up the menu
.

  ‘Shall we begin with les escargots, my dear, or would you prefer some other hors d’oeuvre?’

  ‘That is what we decided before we came, was it not, Jacques? We would have six escargots each for hors d’oeuvre?’

  ‘That’s right, Mirabelle, and you are going to have a blanquette de veau, while I shall have a boeuf bourguignon. I’m looking for them on the menu now, but I don’t see them. If I remember this place correctly the food is all very fancy. They wouldn’t have peasant food like my boeuf bourguignon, but they could have another fancy name for it. Oh, there it is, I see your blanquette de veau. We are in luck.’

  Just then the waiter comes up to us. He stands on the other side of the table, face blank, with his pad and pencil in hand. I tell him we’ll start with les escargots, deux fois six. He writes it down. ‘Et ensuite?’ says he, smiling an artificial smile.

  ‘We’ll have la blanquette de veau for Madame, and I shall have un bon boeuf bourguignon.’

  I snap shut the menu. He stands there, his smile frozen.

  ‘Nous n’avons pas le boeuf bourguignon, monsieur.’

  Well, at least he’s honest. I open the menu again. I see a coq au vin. That’s low-down, good rib-sticking food for me, and I go for it. I know it won’t be as good as Mirabelle’s but it’s something I like. I tell him that’s what I want. He scribbles and leaves.

  ‘Jacques, tell me more of what you are seeing.’

  I look around some more and start pointing out the more ridiculous characters at some of the tables. I must admit I’m doing something of a caricature on a few of these people, sort of a verbal Daumier. Mirabelle is torn between giggling and trying to shut me up. The sommelier comes back.