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‘No, mademoiselle, I have no idea. It is interesting to think about, isn’t it.’
‘I know how it is done. They wait until the blossom on the pear tree has been fertilized by the bee, then they place that blossom inside the bottle and tie the bottle to the tree. The pear is born, grows inside the bottle.
‘When it is grown, they cut the stem of the pear, take the bottle from the tree, then pour liquor made from other pears on top. They close it up tight with the cork, and the pear remains in the bottle. It can never come out. Is it not a lovely idea, even though it is so sad?’
She stands and goes deftly over to a drawer. She pulls out a tire-bouchon, a corkscrew, and hands it to me.
‘Would you be so kind, monsieur, as to open the bottle, and we shall drink this liqueur which has been waiting inside with this pear for over fifty years just for us today.’
While I center the corkscrew and twist it in, she goes to the cupboard and comes back with two small glasses. They are etched on the sides with tiny cupids frisking in an encirclement of leaves. She watches, or appears to watch, as I pull the cork. I sniff and there is an aroma through the room. I hand the bottle across to the old lady.
‘Please, would you pour, mademoiselle? I know the man is supposed to do it, but this is such a special occasion, a private celebration, it seems only right you should be the one.’
She takes the bottle from me. Her hand is steady. As she pours into each glass she has the tip of her thumb just inside the rim of the glass and, as the liqueur reaches it, she stops pouring. It’s something I wouldn’t’ve thought of. I guess, if I were blind, I would. We all have so many blindnesses.
When she finishes pouring, she carefully puts down the bottle. She holds her glass up to me and looks across into my eyes.
‘Please, before we drink, would you tell me your name, monsieur. I do not want to be impolite, but it seems proper that when we share this we should know at least that much about each other.’
That’s natural enough. But I don’t think anyone has asked me my name in almost a year. I’d almost forgotten I have one.
‘I’ve been called Jack most of my life, mademoiselle. My real name is John, spelled J-O-H-N in English. But this past year I’ve been calling myself Jean, J-E-A-N, the French way. It sounds better to me.’
‘I like your American name, Jack; like the English villain Jack the Ripper. But may I call you Jacques in the French style? I know it means James in English, but I’d like to call you Jacques.’
She doesn’t ask my last name, but I would have told her, for whatever it meant.
‘And may I ask your name before we drink this delicious liqueur, this fateful beverage?’
‘Call me Mirabelle, please, Jacques.’
‘But that seems so impolite, mademoiselle, I mean, Mirabelle. What is your family name?’
‘That does not matter. I shall call you Jacques and you call me Mirabelle. You know, Jacques, there is no one left on this earth who calls me Mirabelle. My sister was the last one, and she has been dead for fifteen years. I do not want Mirabelle, the idea of Mirabelle, to die. Please, Jacques, call me by the name of my childhood, Mirabelle.’
There are tears in her eyes again. We touch glasses, they clink with the sound of true crystal. I know I’m expected to say something.
‘To the two of us, Mirabelle and Jacques, on this wonderful day, drinking to the dreams of our past.’
‘And to the dreams of our future.’
She drinks and I drink with her. It is absolutely incredible. Never have I tasted a liquid so filled with nectar. It is as if the pears have been compacted, distilled, heightened in flavor until only the essence is left. We both sip, close our eyes, let the warmth flow through us, then, simultaneously, open our eyes and smile. It can only be coincidence. She could not match my smile and I know I am not consciously trying to match hers. She holds the glass against her breast.
‘It is as if my father lives again. I can almost feel, hear him. Thank you so much, Jacques for this wonderful moment.’
We drink the rest of our glasses and I ease the cork back into the bottle. Each sip was like the first, an experience into another world.
‘Jacques, I shall drink the rest of that bottle with no one but you. Is it too much if I ask you to déjeuner with me tomorrow?’
I’m slow to answer. One part of me doesn’t want to get involved with anyone, even if it is only an old, blind lady. But another part does want to share time with her. I’m feeling ice clots breaking up inside me.
‘Yes, Mirabelle, and thank you. But you must pass the test first.’
She leans forward, obviously puzzled.
‘Tomorrow you must tell me the color and markings of each bird when it comes to you. Show me what you have learned today.’
Mirabelle smiles, the most spontaneous smile yet.
‘I have learned much, Jacques. You shall be surprised.’
Soon after, I rise, ease myself toward the door, pick up my painting box in the hall, and leave. Mirabelle ‘sees’ me to the door. She’s refused my offer to help her clear the table, help with the dishes.
‘No, Jacques, I want this time to myself so I can savor the pleasure of our meal. Also, it would be wrong for you to stay in here on this beautiful day, when you have your painting to finish. Goodbye for now. All revoir.’
On the way down the stairs I start smiling about my new name, Jacques. I’m not even sure I can spell it. I know the way Mirabelle pronounces it, it sounds a bit like Jock in English. I never thought I’d ever be a ‘jock.’
There are about two hours of good painting time left. I have some trouble handling the street in the foreground and the bottom right-hand corner. I think of putting in a bus at the bus stop, but that’s against my idea of what I’m trying to paint. I don’t want to put in any cars either. What I’m trying to paint is a Paris that transcends time somehow, a Paris which will always seem to be; yet, in another way, never was. I don’t put in TV antennae, automobiles, or motorcycles, not even bicycles. When I paint in people I make them vague so there’s no problem with dated clothes.
Also, I’ve found, if I put in a figure, no matter how hard I’ve worked on the entire scope of the painting, people will see it only in relation to that figure. I noticed this with my watercolors. I’d do an entire composition of buildings with shadows cast upon them, shutters, chimney pots against the sky, a sense of space, then I’d make the mistake of putting in a woman hanging out some clothes from one of the windows. People’d look at it and call my painting The Woman Hanging Clothes out the Window. But they’d buy it, much more frequently than if there were no woman at the window.
I’ll probably have the same trouble with this painting. Nobody can resist ignoring the sky, the trees, the entire Church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Les Deux Magots, Diderot, the entire composition; it’ll just be The Lady in the Red Suit with the Pigeons. So it goes. In this case, because of all that’s happened, I can live with it.
I more or less solve the lower right with shadows cast by the trees in the garden and by putting in cobblestones, the cobblestones that used to be there but have been smeared over with asphalt. It isn’t the best of solutions, but it’s the only one I can come up with.
I find, in my paintings, I have the most trouble composing the upper left and the lower right areas. I never even notice I’m going to have this same problem again until I get there. Sometimes I think I’ll never learn.
I scratch my signature and the date on the painting. It’s almost invisible, just a scratch using the top of my brush. Then I turn it over, title it Mirabelle with Diderot, date and sign it. Mirabelle really fits in the painting. It’s as if she’s always belonged there.
The sun is off the front of the church when I pack up and start for home. Tomorrow I’ll use another of my 25F canvases. I’m not sure just what subject I’ll paint but I know it will be near to where I’ve been painting. I found when I was doing drawings and watercolors that each little quartier has its particular quality and one painting tends to lead into another. I’m half thinking I might try the Place Furstenberg. It’s a beautiful Place and I’ve painted it three times with watercolors and drawn it at least four or five times. When things were desperate I could always sell a few watercolors or drawings of the Place, and it was fun doing them, it’s a real challenge in its simplicity. There are a fair number of tourists who go through there but at the same time it isn’t exactly a tourist trap.
I stop in at American Express just before it closes. There’s nothing. I pull a folded sheet of paper and an envelope out of my jacket and use my drawing pencil to write a reasonably long letter. I try describing the painting I’ve just finished, and also tell something about the blind old lady named Mirabelle. I finish by assuring them I’m fine but miss them all. I sign it with ‘all my love.’ I mail it to Lorrie at her new address.
The next morning, after my run, as I beat my way crosstown, I realize I’m looking forward to seeing Mirabelle, not just enjoying some more of her wonderful food, but spending time with her, absorbing her strength, vitality; feeling her concern, sensitivity, empathy.
The day is beautiful. More sun and fewer clouds, but there are still some soft, floating, spidery ones drifting quietly across the sky. Unless you stop and line them up with something on earth, it’s hard to tell they’re moving.
I’m wearing my usual painting outfit, a falling-apart, multi-stitched denim jacket I bought for twenty francs at the flea market. I didn’t put on the green check woolen shirt I usually wear under it. The shirt’s missing more than half its buttons but it’s warm. When I ran this morning I realized today I wouldn’t need it. I’m beginning to think I don’t even need the jacket. Paris is giving us a little taste of what spring will be, real spring, maybe with a touch of summer.
I get to the site and elect to paint the Place from the uphill side and to the left of the street leading into it. I set myself practically in the Place because I want the lamps in the middle to be the center of my painting, sort of a focus around which the rest will swing in three dimensions; I’d like something of a merry-go-round feeling.
I do a rather careful drawing, keeping in mind the painting as I go. It’s amazing how one can paint something several times and it’s always different. I’m about to start putting paint on my palette for the underpainting when I begin to think of time passing. I don’t have a watch. I forgot it, left it behind on the night table in our bedroom when I packed up, more than a year ago, so I ask the time from somebody passing by. It’s just five minutes to ten.
I break down the box, swing it onto my back, and move up behind Saint-Germain-des-Prés to the Place in front of the church. I look across the street and there she is sitting in her usual spot. I try to see how close I can creep up on her before she senses me. I walk carefully. If anybody was watching, they’d think I was some kind of Jack the Ripper with a specialty in old ladies, because I’m practically walking on tiptoe. Before I get within six feet, she turns to me, smiles.
‘I thought you might not come, Jacques. I knew you were not here and I was disappointed. It is so very good of you to come after all.’
‘It was the smell, wasn’t it. You smelled me coming. Is that it, Mirabelle?’
She smiles and pulls out her second inflatable cushion for me.
‘No, there is something on your painting box which jiggles when you walk, it sounds like metal hitting wood. I did not smell you until after.’
‘Do I smell that bad? What do I smell like, anyway?’
‘Oh, Jacques, you want to know all my secrets. All right. You smell like turpentine, of course, and you smell something of perspiration because you concentrate so hard. And you smell …’
She pauses.
‘You smell like a man. You have a special man smell about you. It is not the smell of tobacco as with my father or some other men, and it is not the smell of the different perfumes so many men wear these days. Sometimes it is hard for me to tell the men from women except for the sound of the shoes they wear, and even that is changing.
‘You have a very special smell. I cannot describe it but I like it. The closest thing I can think of is the smell of horses.’
I’ve finished blowing up my cushion and I sit beside her.
‘I’d better not sit too close, Mirabelle. I never realized I was so smelly.’
‘No, Jacques, I like you sitting close to me. Remember, I enjoy your smells. They are very healthy, hardy smells.
‘Now, are we ready for my test? I shall touch and feel my pigeons and then tell you how they look, is that right?’
‘That’s right. But I was only teasing, Mirabelle. It will be impossible.’
‘Let us see.’
She puts out her finger and one of the pigeons, which had been hovering around her, lands. She picks it up, turns it over, inspects it.
‘This one is a tannish brown with two brown stripes across the wings. It has yellower eyes than most and its legs are a nice persimmon red. You admired the look of this bird and said it was almost acceptable, even for a pigeon. Am I right?’
She’s right, all right. She’s so right she’s telling me things I don’t even remember telling her.
‘I don’t believe it, Mirabelle. Come on, try again.’
Another bird flies down. This time it’s a heavy, dark blue bird with stripes on its wings, an ordinary-looking pigeon. Mirabelle strokes its neck with her finger and massages the feet and legs. She looks at me.
‘This one is bluish gray with two darker bars on each of her wings. She has a sheen of color on her neck almost like a cock. She has pale pink legs and darker than amber eyes.’
She lets this one fly away, after giving her grains from her little sacks.
‘I am not sure what color amber is, Jacques. Is it more an orange color or yellow?’
We go through the entire flock. The only interruption to her perfect replay of what I told her yesterday is one bird, a small-sized, gray one, which had not come the day before. Mirabelle tells me immediately when she handles her that she does not know the markings of this bird. She knows it is one of the birds who didn’t show up yesterday, that she is probably brooding an early nest.
An hour has passed and I’m ready to go back and start my underpainting.
‘Where are you painting, Jacques?’
‘I’m on the Place Furstenberg. I’m painting down the hill with the rue Jacob at the end.’
‘Oh yes. That is a lovely Place. I would play with a ball there when I was a child. It is one of my special places.’
‘What do you mean? Is it one of your favorite places?’
‘Yes, that is true, but more than that. It is very complicated. You go paint now and I shall explain to you while we déjeuner. I must go now to prepare. The food for the week was delivered from the market this morning, so we shall eat well.’
With that she begins putting her things together.
One of the strange aspects about being with a blind person, I’m finding, is when they stop talking to you, you do sort of disappear yourself. I stand, watch her a few seconds, and walk back across the boulevard. I’m still astounded at how she could describe all those birds in such detail. How could an old lady like this have such a remarkable memory?
On the Place, I’m soon into the painting. It seems no time at all before the bells of Saint-Germain-des-Prés start ringing, I have the sky and the left side of the Place with the bare trees roughed in. It’s a good time in a painting, everything still seems possible.
We have another wonderful meal. I try to talk about my enforced vegetarianism, how I don’t eat as much meat as before. She’s served small tournedos of beef with fresh string beans and pommes Dauphine. It is magnificently prepared. This time I notice how she must be cleaning things up as she goes, because there’s no mess in the kitchen, everything except the absolutely necessary pans and dishes is soaking in hot water in the sink.
Then she asks where I’m living. I tell her about my squatter’s attic, how I cook, where I get my food, about my running, just about everything concerning the life I lead, even to the stink from the glue and noise of my hammering. I try to tell it as humorously as possible. If you think about it, considering everything, it is all damned funny.
She keeps staring into my eyes. There is a concentration beyond sight.
‘But why do you live like this? What will you do in the winter when it becomes cold?’
‘I survived last winter and then I had no attic in which to live. Now I have a home. This winter I’ll buy an extra blanket at the flea market and be just fine.’
We’re finished eating. She goes over, picks up her stool, and reaches into her closet for the Poire William. I move to help her, then settle back. She’s too quick for me. As she stands on the stool, stretches, slightly lifting one leg, I see her legs are thin like those of a young girl, perhaps a girl thirteen or fourteen years old. She wears thick old-lady stockings, lisle, I think it’s called. She comes to the table. I know where the glasses are and take them down. She hands me the bottle.
‘Please, Jacques, this time will you pour? I want to feel spoiled, taken care of, treated like a young woman just a little bit.’
She sits, ankles crossed under her chair. I pull out the cork, the smell of pears fills the room again, she inhales. I pour three-quarters of a glass each. I hand one glass to her, pick up my own, and we touch glasses.
‘To Jacques, one of the finest painters in the world.’
‘How can you know that, Mirabelle?’
‘Because I am blind? Most of what I know, I know because I am blind. I know you are a fine painter.’
‘All right, then: to Mirabelle, the best blind critic of paintings in the world. May all critics have such a depth of perception.’
We sip. I remember.
‘Mirabelle, you called Place Furstenberg one of your special places. What did you mean by that? You said you would explain.’
She sips again, tilts her head toward the table, then looks up at me.
‘You know, Jacques, I am not really blind.’
She’s looking me right in the eyes. I’m not surprised. I’m only wondering why she pretends. Why in heaven’s name did she smash into me when I was painting, actually hurt herself. Am I involved with another total crazy?
‘No, you see, I have perfectly good eyes, there is nothing wrong with them. I have perfect nerves to carry what my eyes see to my brain.’
She pauses.
