Then, working together, feeling useful, part of something that is being made, it gives me such hope and joy. Jacques is not only being kind when he says I help. He would not do that, I really am part of the work.
Out in the streets, painting the Place from the rue des Canettes, we were together again, in another way. Our minds were bending together, forming a special private world, I felt I wanted to hold him, kiss him, make him love me, too. Do other people feel this way? Is this what people mean when they say they are in love? I cannot believe it, I know that what Jacques and I experience together is something very exceptional, something more than life itself.
Oh, how I desire to play for him again. The music is all I have to thank him for all he gives me. When I play, my heart goes out with the music, I can imagine it going into his ears, inside him, and I am with the music, I am his.
10
That night, she comes again just as I’m stretched out and feeling good about things. I’ve also been waiting for her. I wonder what her excuse will be this time. I slide over and she sits on my bed. She’s silent for a few moments.
‘Jacques, be honest with me. Are you angry when I come to you like this when you want to sleep?’
‘No, Mirabelle, it is very pleasant having you with me.’
I wonder where it’s going to go. I’m not lying, it is pleasant to have her there with me, so clean-smelling, so gentle, so girl-like as she softly explores me. I can’t keep myself from wondering what more she wants.
‘Am I being brazen, does it frighten you that I want to be with you and know you physically like this? Only be honest with me. I am very happy just having you live with me, you know that.’
‘Mirabelle, I’ll tell you when you do something I don’t want. It is sensual to have you touch me, it excites me. I’ll tell you if it’s too much.’
‘May I lie in the bed beside you, Jacques? I have never been in a bed with anyone except my mother. Would that be too much?’
I wonder if she’s referring to the time when she took her dead mother into bed with her or if she’s remembering times when she slept with her as a child. She did say that Rolande, when she came home and found them together in the bed, thought they might just be taking a nap together, so it could be only that.
I open up the covers, Mirabelle stands when she feels me pulling them away under her. Without a word, she then sits on the side of the bed again, on the undersheet, and slides her feet down under the covers with me. They’re cold. I throw the covers over her and she turns in to me. I put my arms around her. Nothing is said for a long time.
‘It is such a strong sensation for me to be like this with you, Jacques. I do not think a “seeing person” can ever know how much touch and feeling mean to one who cannot see. I am so alone all the time.’
I tighten my arms around her in response. She seems so fragile, so light. She snuggles against my shoulder and I feel her body shaking, she is crying. I hold her tighter yet and she lifts her head so I can just make out her face in the darkened room.
‘This is not fair to you, is it, Jacques? I’m taking advantage of you, of your gentleness, of your kindness, of our friendship. I know I am an old woman and you are a young man.’
‘I’m happy, Mirabelle. I’m glad to have you in my bed with me, it’s a long time since I’ve slept with someone.’
‘It has been almost sixty years for me, Jacques, sixty years alone in bed.’
We’re quiet for a while again, she lowers her head onto my chest. I know she’s listening to my heart. She must know it’s beating faster, harder than the last time. I whisper into her ear.
‘Would you like to “explore” me some more, Mirabelle? Is there more you would like to know?’
‘I would like to know everything about you, Jacques, is that terrible?’
I reach over my head and pull the top of my sweat suit off. I hold her against me and she pushes away. She puts her hands on my chest.
‘Oh, Jacques, you are hairy all over, like a cat or a dog, or some other beast.’
She’s running her hand over my chest, sliding it over my pectorals and into the hollow between them. I am more hairy than most men. I have hair down my back as well. Lorrie was always ashamed of me when we would go to the beach; she didn’t say anything but it was in her eyes. Mirabelle is pushing my chest hair different ways, pulling it up between her fingers and letting it settle back.
‘It is so long and thick. You do not really need to wear clothes, you could keep warm just with your hair. I never knew this about men.’
‘Not all men are as hairy as I am, Mirabelle; but there are parts of me which are not as hairy, so I would be arrested if I tried not wearing clothes. Also, I would be cold.’
She slides over me with one of her legs between mine. She has both her hands on my chest now, stroking lightly from the hollow at the base of my neck, over my clavicles, then back over my pectorals again, cupping her hands under where they are delineated from my stomach muscles. Simultaneously, with each of her hands, she finds my nipples in the mass of hair. She slowly, carefully brushes away the hair until my nipples are bared. My nipples begin to harden, I can feel the hair on the back of my neck rising. Something else is rising, too. I wonder if she can feel it.
‘Men do have these, too, do they not. I know women have more bosoms than men. My mother told me about it when mine began to grow. She bought me a soutien-gorge for my thirteenth birthday. I was so proud. If you want, Jacques, you may touch my bosoms, they are larger than yours but not so large as they were when I was a young woman. And right now they are getting hard as if they are cold but I am not cold at all. Your little nipples are growing bigger and harder right now, too; but they will never grow as large as mine, will they?’
Why am I so excited? Maybe because no woman has ever ‘discovered’ me like this, or maybe they did and never told me. Lorrie, before Didier, was very shy about her body and mine. We almost always made love in the dark, like this, but this time, with Mirabelle telling me everything she feels, asking questions, it puts light into my mind.
‘No, Mirabelle, nothing can ever make my bosoms large as yours.’
‘Mine are not so large anymore. I would love to have had a baby and have it suckle on my nipples. There are so many things I would like to have had that have never been.’
She leans her head down on my chest and runs her face back and forth in the hair on my chest. Her hands slide down the sides of my chest onto my ribs just to the point where I almost jump with a feeling of ticklishness.
‘Jacques, may I suckle on your bosoms? Is that a silly thing to do? I would like it very much. Also, I want to taste you. Taste is such an important thing for one who is blind.’
I stay quiet as she first touches my nipples with her tongue and then closes on them with her lips. I didn’t know I could sense the difference between her tongue and her lips, but I can. I feel very ‘sensitized’ in a way I’ve never been.
She sucks first on one nipple, then the other, licking around the tip with her tongue. The nipple not being sucked is cool in its wetness and becomes even harder each time until I have some notion of what a woman must feel when a man fondles, caresses, kisses her breasts. The sensation of prickling moves forward over the tops of my ears.
Mirabelle pulls herself up closer to my head. She begins with her lips, her tongue, to taste my neck and then around the side of my neck to my ears. She kisses all around my ears, softly pushes her tongue deep into my ears so sometimes she blocks each ear completely and I can hear my own swallowing. I lie still, my hands at my sides. She has her hands at the back of my head now, turning my head from side to side as she carefully ‘tastes,’ licks me. It’s like a mother cat with a kitten. I try to relax, to let it happen. She lifts her head, kisses me lightly on the lips with her lips, the point of her tongue.
‘Is this all right, Jacques? I so much want to taste you. I enjoy very much the taste of you. There is something of salt and of leather and a taste which is like the
bass-keys sound on my harpsichord, soft and resonant. I have great pleasure in tasting you. Does it give you pleasure?’
‘Yes, much pleasure, Mirabelle.’
She snuggles into the space under my left arm with her head.
‘May I stay here and sleep with you tonight, Jacques? You can tell me to leave if it is uncomfortable. It would be so wonderful for me.’
‘Of course, Mirabelle, if that’s what you want. I would like very much to have you sleep with me.’
She has one arm across my chest and burrows closer to me. I feel so comfortable, so natural with her. I’ve never experienced this kind of sensual arousal without drive, direction. I know all we have done has not been toward sex but a way of knowing each other, experiencing each other, a coming closer.
I could never explain what has happened this night to Lorrie or anyone I know. They would either laugh or not believe me. I can almost not believe it myself but I know it’s true. With that thought I drift off into sleep.
When I wake, she’s gone. There’s sunshine coming through the window. I’m surprised, at first, to find I’m not wearing my sweatsuit shirt. Then I remember.
I decide it will be a great day to run without my sweat suit. It might be cool outside but it can’t really be cold with that sunshine. I look at my watch; it’s almost eight o’clock. It’s been a long time since I slept this late.
I pull on my running suit and shoes. I slip out quietly into the main room. I hear Mirabelle in her music room practicing on her harpsichord. The door is closed; she probably pulled it shut so I could sleep. I wonder what time she left my bed, maybe just after I went to sleep, or maybe when those six o’clock bells rang.
I palm the key from the rack by the door, pick up some change from the end table by my bed, and go out the door. I run down the steps and across the Quartier des Canettes to the Luxembourg Gardens. I’m feeling very light, fast. I run at almost full speed and don’t tire. It’s a great sensation, almost like flying. I run that way the entire time, not tiring, seeming almost impossibly smooth and quick with my fast pace. When the clock rings the third time, I run back down the rue Ferou, across the Place Saint-Sulpice, scaring the pigeons by the fountain, down rue des Canettes, where we’ve been painting. I stop and buy croissants at the boulangerie, there at the corner, and wait for a chance to cross the rue du Four. The traffic is much heavier at this time of day than earlier. I sprint into the rue des Ciseaux and up the steps. Mirabelle is waiting on the landing for me.
‘Did you have a good run?’
‘Very invigorating.’
I’m hardly even panting. I close the door behind us and lean forward to kiss her on both cheeks. I’m dripping with sweat. She reaches out to touch my arms as we kiss.
‘But is it raining outside? I have not heard it.’
‘No, this is only perspiration.’
She touches my shirt, reaches up, touches my beard, my face, my hair.
‘You are completely wet. I have drawn a bath for you but you do not need it. Do all men perspire like this when they run?’
‘If they run hard and fast enough, they do.’
‘Are you sure this is good for you? Might it not affect your heart?’
‘It’s supposed to be good for the heart, Mirabelle. It strengthens it.’
I hand her the croissants. My dripping sweat has begun to weaken the light paper sack again. I look into the bathroom, the bath is full and steaming.’
‘You really spoil me, Mirabelle.’
‘It is my pleasure. Please give me your wet running clothes. Did you sleep well, Jacques?’
‘Like a baby. I slept like a baby.’
‘I thought so. When I woke this morning, I felt your face softly, it seemed so relaxed, your breathing on my hand was soft. You were like a baby.’
I sit down to take off my running shoes. I slip off my wet shirt and running pants. I have on just my jockstrap. It’s one advantage of Mirabelle’s being blind, I don’t need to worry about modesty and all that.
‘Jacques, have you taken off your wet running clothes? Are you standing there naked before me?’
God, she’s impossible.
‘Well, almost, but not quite, Mirabelle. Does it bother you? Am I taking advantage?’
‘Oh no. I only wish I had eyes to see you. If you do things like this often, I might just start seeing again.’
She turns away and is close to one of her giggles. I go into the bathroom, realize there’s no real reason to close the door. It gets too hot and steamy with the door closed anyway. Also, I can watch Mirabelle, watch her carefully take out the croissants, bring the hot coffee over from the stove, put the pot of strawberry jam between our places.
I rub myself dry with a towel, let out the water, wipe out the tub, go into my room, and dress in my work clothes. I come back to the main room and we start to eat. It’s all even more delicious than before. Mirabelle has heated the croissants in the oven so they’re crispy on the outside and buttery inside. God, it’s the little things that count. I don’t know how I let myself forget that.
We start working on my room again after breakfast. First I do the third wall with the cork, that doesn’t take long. Then I scrape, and paint white the wall with the door to the bathroom and around the corners all the way to the wall on the court. With the acoustic tile on the ceiling and this white wall, it’s really light in here now. I decide to pull up the old dark carpet and see what’s under it. If the floors are okay, I’ll just paint them, or maybe leave them natural wood.
Mirabelle has been a big help all along. She can’t do much while I’m painting, so she cleans up the breakfast dishes and starts lunch, then goes out to take care of her pigeons. It’s still a beautiful day. I think for a minute of going out to join her, but decide to get on with the project first.
I’m just cleaning out my brushes when I hear the bells ringing. I’ve got everything away, and am peeling off the rug to look underneath, when I hear her coming up the steps. Living with Mirabelle seems to have made me more sensitive to sounds. The floor under the rug looks beautiful, natural oak, tongue-and-groove.
I’ll pull up the rug and wax that floor till it gleams. This room is really going to be beautiful.
Mirabelle comes in the door. In my excitement, I almost say, ‘Look at this, Mirabelle, look at this beautiful floor,’ but catch myself in time.
‘I’m finished painting, Mirabelle, and I’ve taken up the rug. The rug is so worn and old I think we must throw it out.’
‘Whatever you say. I know if you like it, I shall like it.’
‘But come over here and feel this floor, Mirabelle, it really is beautiful.’ She comes near me and I reach up to take her hands, help her onto her knees. She kneels beside me. I rub her hand under mine over the boards.
‘They’re so smooth, Jacques, are they painted?’
‘No, this is the natural wood with only an old coat of varnish on it. They’re beautiful oaken floors. It would be a shame to keep them covered. I can wax these and make them shine, reflect the light, make this room beautiful.’
‘You are right, Jacques. I think it was not the way in the time of my parents. They wanted rugs in all the rooms. I think for them it was a way of showing they were truly bourgeois, bare floors were for the poor and country people.’
I help her to her feet.
‘Oh, Mirabelle, I wish you could see how this room is now, how even more beautiful it is going to be.’
‘I wish I could, too.’
She pauses.
‘But I guess not hard enough yet, yes; or I could see it if I really wanted to. Perhaps it will come. Being with you, having you tell me how beautiful things are, is making me want to see; if only I were not so afraid.’
I look at her. She has her head turned up to me, to the sound of my voice. Her face is flushed from climbing the stairs but she isn’t breathing hard. I hope I’ll be in as good condition as she is when I’m her age.
‘Come, Jacques, we are having filets de
harengs for our entrée and then a beautiful coq au vin I’ve been allowing to cook all morning. Would you help me by setting the table?’
She’s set out all the dishes, silverware, salt, pepper on the table. I take our napkin rings and napkins from the counter in the kitchen, spread the dishes and the rest at our places. I haven’t set a table in years. I have a hard time remembering which goes on the outside, the knife or the spoon. Mirabelle comes and places the dishes of herring with warm boiled potatoes on the plates I’ve set. She brings a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator. It’s a Sancerre, perfect for this meal.
We’re really eating like royalty. I open the bottle with the opener on the table, wipe the inside of the neck, using my little finger, to get the bits of cork out. Mirabelle sits down. It’s amazing how she remembers everything to put on the table and is never jumping up and down for something she’s forgotten. She just doesn’t seem to forget. I pour the wine.
She puts out her glass to me. I clink with her.
‘To us, to our happy days.’
We both take a sip; it’s like clear fresh water.
The herring is room-temperature with little rings of onion over it, potatoes warm, not hot, sitting in the oil. With the cold wine it’s delicious. We eat quietly. I realize how much Mirabelle enjoys eating by watching her face, she really glows.
We finish at about the same time and Mirabelle takes our dishes and silverware away. She brings back fresh silverware. She’s so quick I can’t think of anything to do without getting in her way. She turns to me.
‘Perhaps it would be best if we serve ourselves from the pot. It is hot and the pot is heavy.’
She makes room for me. I carry my plate in and dish out two good-sized pieces of the chicken plus a large dollop of gravy. Mirabelle uncovers another pot and there are boiled potatoes, what the French call pommes anglaises. I take my plate to the table and bring Mirabelle’s over. She reaches for it but I pull it gently away.
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