Then she walks over to a large armoire against the wall on the other side of the room. Carefully, she lifts several objects from shelves, each covered with a small cloth, and spreads them out on top of the harpsichord lid. There are nine of them.
‘Jacques, I promised you I would tell you what it is I do with the newspapers. You have been most kind and not pressured me into speaking about it, but now I am ready to show you. Perhaps it is only another of my little folies but it is something I enjoy doing very much.
‘You see, I make papier-mâché with the old newspapers. I soak them in a pan with paste and glue and knead them until it is all a fine, even mass. I dry it out some and then I shape this mass into objects.’
She smiles. She turns and uncovers one of her ‘objects.’ It is a solid with soft curves and stands about eight inches tall.
‘You see, when I play my music, I see the music in my mind. I do not see it as notes, of course. I see it as one of my visions. Each piece of music is for me a certain form and color. As I have mastered different suites, preludes, fugues, or more complicated pieces of music, I have tried to form my vision of each and make it real. These are my sculptures of music.’
She runs her hands softly over the piece she’s exposed on the harpsichord. She looks toward me.
‘This one I tried to paint a dark purple, almost black, for me it is “Le Tombeau de Monsieur Blancrocher,” which I played for you. In this “Tombeau,” I have tried to show the freedom I feel playing it and at the same time the calm sadness. I cannot see, only feel my “objects.” There is a man at the paint store who is kind enough to listen and give me the colors I describe to him. But, of course, I cannot feel color. You know much about the Baroque music, Jacques. Have I made clear what I am trying to do?’
I’m floored again. It’s a beautiful little sculpture. I go up and run my hands over it. I wouldn’t know without her telling me, but it is a good representation of the undulating quality, order without measure, the way it sounds to me.
Mirabelle begins unveiling her other little statues, one by one.
‘See, this is my gigue, it is orange to me and filled with action, that is why I have it so twisting and turning. And this one is the sarabande, red and with long, twirling turns and soft curves. Here is my allemande, the browns of earth and somewhat slow and flatter. You see, each of them is different. Is it not peculiar, Jacques? I have never shown them to anyone else but I am happy for you to see them; I had great pleasure forming them. It somehow made me feel not quite so blind to make these little objects that could express how I feel about the music.’
I put my arm around her. I really don’t know what to say. She continually surprises me.
‘Mirabelle, miracle woman, you’ve done it again. These are incredibly beautiful. I’m amazed no “seeing” sculptor has ever tried to do this. Probably, because you are blind and such an accomplished musician, only you could do this so well, translate the music into form. Each of these really is music, frozen music. Thank you for showing them to me.’
I spend almost half an hour going from one to the other, letting my hands, fingers as well as my eyes wander over the surfaces. Sometimes I close my eyes to know them the way Mirabelle has known them, trying to put them into my mind as she’s taken them out of hers.
‘Now I want to put these away and play my concert for you.’
She takes each of the sculptures in turn, covers them, puts the sculptures back into the armoire. Then she lifts the lid off the harpsichord, pulls her chair under her, spreads her right hand horizontally in front of herself, reaching to the harpsichord with her little finger, pulling the chair until her stomach is against her thumb, just that spread hand’s breadth away from the harpsichord. I go back, turn off the lights, and settle into my usual chair.
‘You see, Jacques, since I cannot see, I must always be the same distance away from the keys. That is why I do this with my hand. It must seem strange to you, that is why I explain.
‘Tonight I want to play a concert going from the simplest music up to the most complicated I can play. It will start with François Couperin, then Johann Sebastian Bach. I think you will enjoy the progressions in the music. I shall play François Couperin’s little preludes, all eight of them. Try to think of my statue for prelude as you listen. I should have left them out and you could hold them and feel them as I play each one. Perhaps another time.
‘If you become tired listening, only tell me. I am trying to develop my own style of playing. It is a blend of all the different tapes I have heard of different performers playing this music. Perhaps you can tell me if I am succeeding.’
With that, she begins to play. She plays beautifully, uniquely, the timing and touch of these simple preludes taking on a new dimension, precise, but with a lilting wave of continuity I’d never heard in them before. Some of the eight I don’t even recognize. When she’s finished, she puts her hands in her lap and turns toward me.
‘Now we shall hear almost the same thing from Monsieur Bach. He was much more the pedagogue, you know. Sometimes I think he did not really like music for the way it can dance and enter the heart but for the way it fits together. It is as if he is always trying to show us what he can do, how clever his mind is, how agile; but, still, it is beautiful in its own way. Now listen to these “Six petits preludes pour les debutants du piano.” I think you will enjoy them. I shall play them in the order of the keys. The first will be C major, then C minor, D minor, D major, E major, E minor.
‘It is like listening to someone building a staircase to a personal musical heaven. It is very kind of him to take us with him.’
She begins to play again. I close my eyes and listen. How true she is to the music, but still I can hear Mirabelle in it. I’m sure Monsieur Bach wouldn’t approve but it is good for me. It seems no time at all when she is finished.
‘Do you still want to hear more?’
‘Yes, please, Mirabelle, it is beautiful.’
‘Bien. Next I am going to play a series of simple dances Monsieur Bach wrote for his wife Anna Magdalena to play. He must have been a kind man, but he is always teaching. Ah yes. These are all kinds of dances, menuet, polonaise, musette, marche. I hope you like them, I enjoy very much playing them. It must be like dancing, and I have never danced.’
She starts again. These are charming, most of them I know. They have a wonderful childlike quality. I think how much fun it would be to dance with Mirabelle, if her heart could take the strain. I imagine she would dance with grace and dignity.
I listen and let my mind move with the various movements. Time passes magically and she’s finished. I open my eyes and her hands are on her lap again.
‘Did you enjoy that? Sometimes when I was first starting to play, whenever I would be depressed or unhappy, I would play those little dances and all would be fine and good again.
‘Now our teacher, Monsieur Bach, asks more of us. These are called by him inventio et sinfonia. There are fifteen of each. It was here I began to realize how difficult it could be to play well. The inventiones were not too difficult because there is only one voice, but the sinfoniae have three. I had to listen very hard, very often, to separate the voices and then put them together. I thought of going to a special school here in Paris where they teach the blind to play, but felt I was too old, and also, I wanted to learn by myself. So I worked hard. Now you can hear and tell me if I did well. This will take a longer time to play because there are so many. If you become fatigued from listening, tell me.’
There is only the light over her harpsichord. It is completely dark out the window. I feel I could stay like this and listen forever. It is such a perfect thing to do after a full day of painting.
‘Mirabelle, I don’t think I could ever become tired listening to you play. Please play again if it is not too much. Many evenings I have listened to my records and tapes for hours, it makes me feel some things in the world make sense. Lorrie would often go to bed because she said it was too much. And this is far superior to any of th
e tapes I had.’
She begins and pauses briefly between each of the inventiones, they are exquisite. Then she comes to a full stop, takes a deep breath, and begins the sinfoniae. My mind shifts with the voices. In a way, because she had to separate them, they are almost as they were written, different voices, only carrying on the same conversation. They seem to toss the lead back and forth, overlapping, carrying through with each other. When she stops, I can’t believe what I’ve heard.
‘Mirabelle, that was incredible. I have always listened too passively now, I know. You have made it all seem so real, so natural, the logic of the music came to me.’
‘Yes, Monsieur Bach is very logical. I am glad you could hear it with me. You must know that you do the same for me with your paintings. You make so much so clear that even my personal visions become pale. I feel I know what you were thinking when you painted, why you do, did, the things you have done to make the world seem united, whole. Are you ready to hear some more?’
‘Yes, please. Are you sure you aren’t tired?’
‘I could never tire playing for you, Jacques. I learned all this music only for myself, never knowing what a joy it would be to share. Now I am going to play Monsieur Bach’s “Suites Françaises.” I do not know why they are called that because they do not sound française to me, but that is not the question.’
She pauses a minute, lifts her hands from her lap, straightens her shoulders, and begins. Some of these she has already played for me. This time I watch her face as she plays. She remains perfectly calm except for the movements of her shoulders as she makes an extra long stretch, or when the movement is slow and she rocks gently to the music. After each ‘ordre’ she stops and asks if it is enough or should she stop. Each time I assure her, beg her to go on. She plays as if there is no end until she finishes with the last of the Suites Françaises.
‘Now we should stop and go to bed. But first, after all that Bach, I should like to play one of my very favorites from Monsieur François Couperin. There are eight morceaux, and this is the fifth piece in the sixth ordre. It is called “Les Barricades Mistérieuses.” This would be called “The Mysterious Barricades” in English, I believe. I think of my affliction sometimes as my personal barricade mistérieuse, perhaps this is why I like to play this one so much. Listen.’
She begins to play. I know the work but I’d never heard it played as Mirabelle plays it. There is the deep, dark mystery of the unknown. I can almost experience her blindness in those sections. The contrast with the lighter sections is strong and the continual recurrence of the low tones is beautifully executed. I’m enthralled. I almost lose contact. Then she is finished. I get up, turn on the light, go over, and put my arms around her from behind. She clasps her hands over mine. They are warm and must be tired.
‘Thank you, Mirabelle. This has been the most complete evening of my life.’
‘It is only small thanks to you for all you have given me, dearest love.’
She stands and I hold her in my arms. I help her lower the lid of the harpsichord and spread the cover over it. She holds the switch on the light until I’m out of the room and then turns it off. She is coming to act as if she can know what it is to be a seeing person, even though she sees nothing herself.
That night we make love in a slow, almost musical way. I can still hear the dances of her hands on the harpsichord and we seem to be playing cadences with each other mutually, bringing out the bright, clean notes sometimes, then the soft, dark, deep ones. I enter her and it is easier than the last time. I hold back and hold tight as she pulls me to her and then I come again, a soft flow into her, trying not to move, not to hurt.
I watch her face to see if she is all right, but there is no pain, only joy, delight, pleasure. She repeats my name over and over, Jacques, oh, Jacques, je t’aime, comme je t’aime. It’s the first time she’s spoken in French to me since we first met, except for a word now and then. We fall asleep together with her on top of me as my penis slowly slips out and I slide into a deep sleep.
Blind Reverie
Jacques is so concerned that I see him. Can he not know I do see him? Can he not feel in my music, when I play for him, that I can play for no one else?
I see him in his paintings, too. I am certain I see him much more clearly than if I let myself see his face. He is all there, his interest, vitality, strength, and kindness. I could not love him more than I do now.
But we are each part of the way we are. I am a blind woman, and what means so much to me does not mean so much to others. Dear Jacques is a man of his eyes; if he does not see, or feels he is not seen, in his own mind he does not exist.
It is so difficult for him, not knowing how to respond to his wife’s lovely letter. I know he loves me, but he loves her, too. Love is not exclusive, it is inclusive; I wish I could help him know that. I think I would love Lorrie and the children if I could know them. But there is no use thinking of that. I must think more of how I can handle these days we have together, make the most of them.
I am afraid. Sometimes when we make love, I feel on the edge of something that could slide away and take me with it. I am not afraid for me, but for Jacques. I want him to stay here with his painting life if it is possible.
12
The next day is Saturday. After our workout and breakfast, I go visit with Mirabelle while she feeds her pigeons. She wonders why I’m not painting.
‘When you’re finished here, Mirabelle, I want you to come with me to help buy clothes for our big evening out to celebrate our birthdays.’
She turns her head toward me and smiles.
‘What joy that will be, Jacques. I mean buying the clothes. Of course, it will be beautiful celebrating, too.’
She hurries herself, scattering grains on the ground and on the bench. Even I can tell the pigeons are confused. After more than thirty years of ritual, thirty generations for these pigeons, the pattern is broken. I wonder if pigeons think. I doubt it; learn, maybe, but think, no. I don’t say anything about this to Mirabelle.
I have two métro tickets, which are good for the bus. We get on the 86 bus, just a few steps from where Monsieur Diderot keeps watch on the pigeons for us. The tickets will take us to the Bastille. I help Mirabelle up the steps into the bus and we find a seat. This is where the bus starts out, so it’s still practically empty. I take my favorite seat just behind the driver. I sit by the window because it doesn’t mean anything to Mirabelle. When we start she leans toward me.
‘Tell me everything you see, please, Jacques. It has been a long time since I have taken a ride on the bus. It is always so difficult asking the conductor to tell me when I arrive at the place where I must descend. When I must go somewhere far in the city, for example, the eye hospital on rue de Charenton, I always take a taxi. Rolande and I would take the bus, though. It was this same bus.’
I tell Mirabelle about everything we pass as we go down the boulevard Saint-Germain. I tell her about the Carrefour de l’Odéon, then the Place Maubert. Then we go over the Pont Sully. I tell her about the boats going under us, about the green of the water and the gray sky with little spots of blue and a few fluffy white clouds under the gray. I try to describe Notre-Dame from the back with its huge spiderlike arms holding on to the ground. I tell her about the little park at the back tip of the Ile Saint-Louis.
Then our bus wends its way up the boulevard Henri IV and we come out onto the Place de la Bastille. Again, we could go farther for another ticket each, but I want to walk with Mirabelle down the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. This is my old neighborhood, this is where I lived in my attic. I’m taking her to the Marché d’Aligre, my favorite place to shop.
We push our way through the crowds up the rue d’Aligre to the marché itself. Mirabelle is holding tight on to me. I have my hand on hers. I hold her cane over the crook of my other arm. I hunt around looking for the used-clothing section. Mirabelle squeezes my arm.
‘Really, Jacques, are there as many people here as there seem to be? I have never
had so many people crash into me, it is worse than the market on the rue de Seine.’
She giggles. I’ve been trying to protect her from people bumping her but it’s a real crush. I wonder if I’m not asking too much. I know she had to tell me about her weak heart, but at times like this I wish I didn’t know.
‘There are so many smells, people smells, smells of fruits and vegetables and meat; and so much noise. I never knew there could be so much noise made by just the voices of people. It is wonderful! I feel so alive!’
I find the clothes racks. I paw through them. Mirabelle is feeling the cloth. There’s a guy haranguing us but I ignore him. It’s all part of the game.
Finally, I come upon what I’m looking for, a full-dress evening suit, a tux. I spread it out looking for holes, impossible stains. There doesn’t seem to be anything. This suit has been kept in mothballs in some attic or closet for at least thirty years. It’s so old-fashioned it has become beyond mode or style.
I try on the jacket and it fits almost perfectly. The pants are a bit big in the waist but the leg length is right. Mirabelle is feeling the cloth, bringing it up to her face. She leans toward me.
‘This is very good cloth, Jacques, the kind my father wore at his wedding. For a long time, we kept that suit when he did not come back, but then Rolande gave it to the poor at Saint-Sulpice. There’s a door on rue de Vaugirard where you can turn in such things.’
Now the guy who’s been bugging me starts talking about what a wonderful suit this is. I throw it back on the rack and start to turn away. I look back, ask, as if I’m indignant, ‘Combien?’
He gives me a price of forty francs. I saunter away. Mirabelle leans near me.
‘Forty francs is very inexpensive for that suit, Jacques; you must buy it if you like it.’
‘I’m going to, Mirabelle, don’t worry, but not for forty francs.’
We wander around the market, looking at different things, or at least with me looking and telling Mirabelle what I’m seeing. We do this for another ten minutes, then stroll casually past the suit rack again. The seller sees me, as I figured he would. He’s probably had his eye on me most of the time, most likely knows exactly what I’m doing. These are professional hagglers. I hate to haggle myself but have gotten used to it. He pulls the suit off the rack, holds it over his arm as if it’s a coronation robe. I stop, look at it, shake my head. He grabs down an old-fashioned opera hat, reaches out, and plops it on my head. My God, it fits! I’m lost.
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