Last Lovers

by William Wharton

  When I’m finished, I compare it with the first painting. It’s so different. I can’t tell how much Mirabelle has changed and how much of the change is due to change in me. In the first painting she seems so still, so stiff, with little feeling of the life and joy, the young girl, I’ve come to know in her. In the new painting, the brush and its movements are more evident as such, also functioning better in describing Mirabelle, at least the Mirabelle I know now. Neither painting has anything of a blind person about it. I suspect I’ve just never really seen her as blind.

  But when I finish it and show it to Mirabelle, even though I’d put up a mirror behind me so she could, if she wanted, see the whole painting as it came into being, and even though I’ve explained everything I did, and why I did it, so she could participate in the painting with me, she still can’t see it.

  ‘I am sorry, Jacques. I think I just do not want to see myself as an old lady. You make me feel so young and happy, I know there is something inside me that is afraid.’

  ‘But, Mirabelle, I’ve painted you as I see you, with all my love, my deep admiration and respect for you, my passion. It’s all there. How I wish you could let yourself see it.’

  ‘I know, Jacques. Perhaps it will come. I am afraid I will not see myself as you do, even though you painted it as you say, I must see it with my eyes, and I am frightened.

  ‘It is difficult to explain, but I sometimes have the feeling I am surrounded by a bubble which keeps me alive and happy. Seeing your paintings is like having the terrible world out there filtered through the screen of your love; but my bubble remains intact. I am still safe. I do not yet have enough confidence in myself, or everything out there, to actually be a part of the outside world. Please be patient.’

  One thing we like to do is go up to the Church of Saint-Sulpice at about eleven-thirty on Sunday. Saint-Sulpice has one of the great organs in the world and has had some of the greatest modern organists, including Marcel Dupre, to play it.

  Just after eleven-thirty, a mass is usually letting out and the organist plays classical music, not just hymns or simple liturgical music. He plays Bach mostly and the high vaulting of that ugly church has wonderful acoustics. Mirabelle has found the perfect place to sit so the thundering rumble of those big pipes and the dainty treble of the small ones come together right there, in all their integrated complexity.

  We sit quietly and it thrills us both to hear and share it. This is a free concert and only those who know about it stay on to listen. We linger until the first bells at noon start and the concert is finished. My great joy is walking the length of the aisle toward where the organ is located up on the balcony in front of the rose window. Then we go through the open doors and out on the Place with the fountains playing. The wondrous change of sounds from the organ to the bells and then the water is magical.

  And it’s something Mirabelle and I can share. I only wish she could look up into those high vaults lit by stained glass, then move out of the dimness, onto the high stone porch of the church, and look out over the sparkling Place with the statues of bishops sitting back to back; huge lions crouching at their feet as water splashes all around them, reflecting sunlight. But then, probably she enjoys those sounds even more than I do, there’s no distraction.

  Life goes on and it’s beginning to get cooler. We’ve passed All Saints’ and All Souls’ Day. On All Souls’ Day I take Mirabelle to the cemetery in Montparnasse and we find Rolande’s grave beside the grave of her parents.

  Mirabelle hasn’t been there since her sister died. We find the location of the graves by asking the curator of the cemetery. He locates them in a large ledger with small blue horizontal lines and a few red vertical ones.

  Mirabelle leans over the graves and traces the names of her parents and Rolande carved on the gravestones. We put the pot of flowers we’ve brought with us at the foot of the graves. It’s all terribly overgrown and the stones are covered with moss. I start weeding around the edges between the monument and the pebbles. Mirabelle joins me, and we spend two hours pulling weeds with our bare hands until it looks loved and cared for.

  ‘Does it look all right now, Jacques?’

  ‘It looks fine. You can be proud of it. To my taste it’s the most beautiful grave in the cemetery.’

  And I’m not lying. So many of the graves are made of smooth, massive marble with gilt writing and are decorated with plastic flowers or small black-on-white enameled plaques saying things like Souvenirs à notre père et mère, or Nos regrets.

  ‘This is where I am supposed to be buried, Jacques, with my family; but I do not want to be buried here. Is that terrible?’

  ‘Don’t think about being buried, Mirabelle. Enjoy this beautiful autumn day with me.’

  ‘I am enjoying it very much. But I can think about being buried and still enjoy it, maybe even more. Do you know where I would like to be buried? I would like to be buried in the sky somehow. I do not mean I want to be burned, that is a horrible thing, but I wish I could some way just be taken up into the sky and left there. I am not talking about heaven either. I want to be in the air where all the music seems to rise and disappear. Do you understand?’

  I hold her close to me. We’re lovers in a graveyard, now. I think of the Brontë sisters, how romance and graves can be so intricately woven, the closeness of the two.

  ‘I think I understand, Mirabelle. If we could only be degravitated, or shot up into space so we would float around forever, untouched, alone; it would be so clean, so detached from everything, as you say, like music.’

  ‘You do understand, Jacques. I think sometimes music is like the stars. I would like it to be that way.’

  November 19 will be Lorrie’s birthday. It will be her fiftieth, too. She wrote a wonderful long letter telling how much she enjoyed the photographs of the paintings I’d mailed her. She said she really understood now what I must have felt all those years when I was working to make everything easy for the family, while I had such a tremendous vision festering inside me. That’s the word she used, ‘festering.’

  I thought a long time about it, I guess that’s the way she feels. It’s probably the best word for it. But I know it wasn’t all her fault and I try to tell her how pride and competition, needing my bosses’ special attention, was as much a reason for my sticking with MBI as making money for the family. I was behaving like a child. Many times, I know I even forgot I once wanted to be a painter. Sometimes I’d joke about it with my colleagues, sort of on a ‘would you believe’ basis.

  I tell Mirabelle I’d like to send one of our paintings to Lorrie for her birthday.

  ‘That is wonderful, Jacques. I am certain it will make her very happy. We have so many here and we should not be selfish, should we.’

  But it turns out to be harder picking one than we thought. On the one hand, we want to give her one we think is the best, one we think she’ll really appreciate. On the other hand, we have a hard time giving any of them up.

  We sit all one afternoon trying to make up our minds. It’s such fun when I’m sharing sight with Mirabelle. It’s almost as if we’re watching television together, some magical television in which we’re the main actors and everything together. It’s like living the same dream.

  ‘Jacques, you shall need to decide yourself. I cannot be strong enough. I still do not know how you can sell them. I know you want to be independent, have your own money, but it is so hard to let any go. You yourself must decide.’

  She stands and goes into the main room. I sit there and finally decide on one I painted looking down the rue Princesse. It has the house where Chardin lived. I know he is one of Lorrie’s favorite painters. It’s a good painting, and knowing it’s Chardin’s place would make it very special to her.

  I use a screwdriver to take the tacks out, then roll the canvas with the paint on the outside, so when it’s unrolled it won’t crack. I put the tacks in a small plastic sack, then break down the stretcher and slide the pieces inside the painting. I slip the whole thing
into a tube for mailing, write IMPRIME – POSTER on the outside, take it down and mail it at the post office. On the custom form I just write AFFICHE, which means ‘poster.’ Trying to get paintings out of France can be a lot of red tape. But this way, if you’re lucky, it’s easy.

  The next day, I start a self-portrait. It’s raining again and even with the curtains pulled back to let light into my room and with a hundred-watt bulb concentrated on me and the canvas, it’s hard to see.

  I get myself all set up and just look for a while, the way I’ve learned to do. I haven’t been looking at myself much lately. In some ways I look older; in others, younger. I definitely look much healthier and I think I’m beginning to put on some weight. Even with all the running, we do eat fantastically, and the old metabolism is slowing down.

  I paint all afternoon, until there’s no light. I set up the next morning and there’s better light. I work on it while Mirabelle’s taking care of her pigeons. We’re making a coq au vin and every once in a while I go in and give the pot a stir. No wonder I’m getting fat. Just the smell could put on a few pounds.

  After we eat, and Mirabelle washes up, she comes in and sits on the bed behind me. I try to explain what I’m doing, where I’m having trouble, the parts I like. I’m getting to the end of the painting and I’m wondering if Mirabelle will be able to see this one.

  I know I’m finished but I keep working, hoping to hear her exclamation at seeing it, but nothing comes. I put down my brushes.

  ‘You are finished, Jacques?’

  ‘Yes, Mirabelle, I think anything I try now would do more harm than good.’

  ‘Then you are finished. I am so sorry I cannot see it. I thought for a moment there I would, that the clouds and darkness would clear, but just when I thought it would happen, my mind closed down and there was nothing. I think it is something like trying to have an orgasm. It probably just has to happen to you, you cannot try.’

  I decide that since Mirabelle can’t see it, I’ll send this portrait off to Lorrie and the kids when it’s dry. It’s one way a part of me can be with them. I look at the painting for a long time before I pack up my paints. It’s like looking at somebody else, even the face in the mirror looks like someone else. In a certain way, the painting looks more like the ‘me’ in the mirror than it looks like the way I think I look. But then, no one knows how they look and we all look different at different times to different people, even ourselves.

  That evening I don’t write. I haven’t received any letters for a few days and painting the portrait was my way of saying how I’m doing, what’s happening in my life, my real way.

  Mirabelle says she’s ready to play some of the work from Les Suites Anglaises for me. I take my chair in the darkened room and she plays. The difficulty of the piece is lost in the controlled restraint and personal fervor with which Mirabelle plays. Her concentration is incredible. I’m transported into a world of music, stars, mathematics, progressions, repetitions, elaborations until I don’t even feel my body. I can’t believe it when she stops. I have no idea of how much time has passed. I stagger over behind her.

  ‘Mirabelle, that was so beautiful I can never tell you what it meant to me. You took me with you into your mind, introduced me to Bach in a way I’ve never known. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so close to you. Thank you.’

  ‘I played it especially for you, Jacques. It was the best I have ever played and I knew it would be because I was playing for you, for us. I think I could feel your mind in mine as well as that of Johann Sebastian Bach. It was such a pleasure to feel us together in the music.’

  That night when she comes to my bed, the music is somehow still with us. We become each other, floating in our own music, plucking songs from each other’s bodies, lifting our hands in titillating crescendos, stroking long notes as we feel our mutual vibrations.

  I’ve left a candle burning on the night table by my bed as usual, mostly for me, so I can see Mirabelle when she comes through my door, softly walking, staring at me, unseeing, then sliding under my lifted covers. It is a part of our ritual.

  I push away the heavy covers and explore her body in the dim light. We always make love to each other simultaneously, giving cues for what we wish for ourselves by what we do for each other. There isn’t much talk, mostly only sounds of our delight. I come into her and slowly roll, still hard, tight, inside her, until she’s on top of me, her braid falling over my face. I can see she’s on the edge of going to another place. She begins to move more strongly against me, thrusting in a way she’s never done.

  ‘Oh, Jacques, I think it’s happening. The music is growing louder, stronger. Je suis perdue. Je suis … Hold me tight, Jacques! Don’t let me go; ever! Hold me.’

  And then she gives a loud moan, almost a shriek except it is deep in her throat. She pushes herself up on her arms so she hovers above me, a light, white-faced imp hovering with dark shadowed eyes in the night. I begin thrusting back in unison and feel myself spasm, spill my seed, come, inside her. I sense myself joining in her quiet frenzy.

  I watch her face. She’s had her head tilted up, her eyes closed. Then she looks down at me. The candle reflects on her eyes. A look of horror comes onto her face. She whispers.

  ‘Jacques, I can see you! I can see you! Mon Dieu, you are an old man! You are older than my father! How can this be?’

  I do not know how to react. I am so happy she can see, but this was the last thing I’d expected, yet I should have known. I stare back at her.

  ‘Are you sure, Mirabelle?’

  ‘Yes. You have gray hair and a white beard, the face of a grown man. I did not know.’

  ‘You knew I was fifty years old, that I have a wife and four grown children. You must have known. I mean are you certain you can see?’

  ‘Of course. But I did not know. I had such a different picture of you in my mind. Please do not be hurt. Give me time to grow accustomed. It is so strange.’

  She lowers herself onto my chest with her head turned away. I can feel the tears coming, rolling in the hairs on my chest. I begin to suspect she’ll never see again.

  ‘Are you all right, Mirabelle?’

  ‘Yes, I am fine. And you are right. I am a silly old woman with the mind of a little girl. It is so difficult for me putting it together.’

  She raises herself again, staring at my face.

  ‘Turn your head back and forth so I can see all of you. Please, Jacques.’

  I roll my head back and forth slowly on the pillow.

  ‘Yes, you are really quite handsome when I try to see you as I really am, not with my little-girl eyes. You must know, Jacques, this is a great shock to me. I am surprised I can still see.’

  She turns her head carefully, looking around at the room.

  ‘And you have made it all so beautiful. It is much more beautiful than I remember.’

  She starts giggling, then laughing out loud. She laughs so hard I’m afraid for her. She tries to speak several times, but has to stop because of the mirth that ripples up from her throat.

  ‘Oh, Jacques … I am so sorry … It must have been terrible for you when I called you old when I am the old woman … It is so funny, so strange. I am truly sorry. Can you understand; can you forgive me?’

  The humor of the situation begins to unlock me. I’m past the fright, the shock of it all; I begin to laugh. This makes Mirabelle laugh even more. I hold her tight to me and we shake, vibrate with each other’s laughter. I don’t know how long it is before Mirabelle speaks again.

  ‘Jacques, if I think you look old, what must I look like? You must promise to hide your portraits of me and take away all the mirrors in this house. If not, I am sure I shall be blind again. I do not think I could possibly look at myself.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish, Mirabelle. I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t a very attractive woman. Isn’t it enough that I think you’re beautiful? What do you want?’

  ‘You are an artist, Jacques, you see me in a dream. I am not an artist.
I am afraid I would see myself for just what I am, an old woman. I do not want that.’

  She settles quietly on my chest, her heart beating like butterfly wings against a window.

  ‘I am very tired now, Jacques; could we please go to sleep? We can worry about my seeing in the morning. Until then just be my beautiful, wonderful, handsome, kind, loving man and hold me tight against all the hard things in this world, please.’

  With that she becomes quiet. In a few minutes she’s asleep and I slowly ease her off me and onto the bed beside me. I prop her head on a pillow. Her eyes are closed. She’s so beautiful. She’s always slept with her eyes closed, even when she couldn’t see. I wonder if all blind people do.

  Reverie

  I am ready. All I could have dreamed in my blindness I have. Jacques will be mine forever in my heart and in my mind.

  We had such wonderful days, playing, working together, loving. Has any woman ever had such a beautiful concentration of love? And he knows I love him, how much he means to me. It does not matter about our age. When I saw him that first time tonight, I knew immediately how much older he is than I, in his heart. He carries such sadness and is so brave to face life as he does. I can never be like that.

  I hope he will do as I ask him when it happens. It cannot be far from now. I try to hide it, but the soft, fading feeling inside comes often. I know he is strong enough to lose me in this way, because he has so much: his work, his wife, his children. There will be just enough time for us.

  How long will it be before he finds my message? I was afraid he might discover it before I left, so I hid it carefully. It is very difficult for a blind woman to hide something from the sight of someone who sees. Blindman’s buff is what the English call the game played by children. This is more like ‘blind woman’s bluff.’ I must sleep. I am so very tired.