13
When I wake, everything seems so still. I lie there with my eyes shut and listen. Then I realize it’s because I don’t hear Mirabelle moving around the house. She usually moves so quietly it’s hard to hear her, but if I listen closely I often can. I listen.
Then I open my eyes and become aware she’s still in bed beside me. It’s the first time she’s stayed on, most times she leaves without my even knowing it. I look across at her and she’s sleeping on her back, so quietly, so calmly, with a slight smile on her face. I feel a strong swell of emotion for her. She seems so frail, so small, so vulnerable; it’s hard to believe her tiny body could contain so much power. I wonder if she’ll still be able to see when she wakes. It would be wonderful, incredible.
I lean across and kiss her gently on the lips. They feel cold and there is no response. I look more carefully. She doesn’t seem to be breathing! I spring to my hands and knees on the bed beside her.
‘Mirabelle? Mirabelle! Are you all right?’
There’s still nothing! I place my hands on both sides of her head and run my thumbs gently over her closed eyes. It doesn’t seem possible; even her eyes are cold. My heart has started thumping so badly it shakes my entire body. Impulsively, I cover her with myself, wrap her in my arms, pull her to me. She’s cold through and, although not stiff, unresponsive. I begin to cry.
I’m crying uncontrollably and I know I’m crying as much for myself as for Mirabelle. I don’t know why I don’t feel more sorry for Mirabelle; I’ll never know. She’s the one who’s dead, she’s had her life taken away in the night, just as she’d begun to see, to live in this world. Could it be that in my heart I knew that by seeing, she was doomed? I don’t know. I’m almost going insane; selfishly drowning in my own grief. It doesn’t seem possible.
I stay like that, holding her, stroking her, sobbing, knowing something of how it must have been for her as a child when she found her mother. I have never had any direct experience with death; even my parents are still alive. It’s impossible to accept. One moment she was here, with me, sharing the most intimate of moments, and now she is gone, can never return.
I don’t know how long it is I stay there in the bed, holding her tight to me; alternating from impossible sobbing to a deathly silence, a silence where I want to stop my own heart from its vulgar beating, to join the calm, the quiet, of Mirabelle.
Then I carefully lay her out, centered in the bed, my bed; she looks so alone. I smooth her white, eyelet-decorated nightgown, carefully fold her hands on her chest, one hand over the other as she would so often hold them when she was moved by something. I’m still crying but I can feel acceptance, numb, dumb acceptance coming over me. As I straighten the sheets, the covers, I carefully cover her, just her body, not her face, as if she’s asleep alone. I begin talking to her. I’m down on my knees beside her.
‘Mirabelle, I know from your face you died happily, as you lived. I must believe that. You will live on in me and in our paintings. I’ll tell my children and Lorrie about you so you can live in them, too, and help us all live better lives. I’ll try to tell everyone I can what a wonderful person you’ve been. Most of your life you’ve lived in darkness, and so if it is to darkness you go now, it will be home for you. I want to think that.
‘If it is not, then, as in your dreams, you can see again. I hope you will see me. I hope you can know what is in my heart, how much I’ve loved you, will always love you. Mirabelle, I am surprised to find how I am feeling now. I am almost quiet, happy to be with you, to know I shall be with you all my life, no matter what may happen.’
I stay on my knees on the floor beside the bed a long time. Finally, I rise and dress. All the time, I keep talking to Mirabelle. There is much to be done. It’s almost as if she is talking to me, too, telling me those things I must do.
It is hard to abandon her, alone in the room. I leave the door ajar. I go to where Mirabelle keeps our francs for our daily use. I’m surprised to find there are over sixteen thousand francs in that little enameled sugar box. I’ve never opened it before. Any money I earned when I sold paintings, money I didn’t need for materials, I gave to Mirabelle and she put it in there. For Mirabelle, money was only something to be used when you needed it, like soap. She didn’t really save money or depend on it. I know she’d approve of the way I’m going to use it now.
Then I see a small envelope in the bottom of the box. It has one word on the outside: JACQUES. I open it. Inside is a letter. I walk, holding it, back to the room with Mirabelle. I kneel again beside the bed, memories of saying my prayers as a child. The note is printed in capital letters. I read:
SEPTEMBER 11, 1975
DEAREST JACQUES,
IT IS EARLY IN THE MORNING AND I STILL FEEL THE COOL OF NIGHT AFTER OUR WONDERFUL WARMTH IN BED. I WANT TO WRITE THIS NOTE TO YOU NOW, AFTER OUR WONDERFUL BIRTHDAY DINNER. YOU ARE ASLEEP. THE PROBLEM WITH MY HEART IS MORE SERIOUS THAN I TOLD YOU. I CAN GO AT ANY TIME, SUDDENLY. IT SEEMS THE RIGHT THING TO DO, TO BE FAIR TO YOU, TO WRITE NOW, AT THIS MOMENT.
IT IS DIFFICULT FOR ME TO HANDWRITE, I AM USING A RULER AND A CONTRAPTION I INVENTED TO KEEP MY LINES STRAIGHT. I DO NOT WRITE OFTEN, AND SIMPLE LETTRES MAJUSCULES ARE EASIEST FOR ME.
IF YOU ARE READING THIS, I AM PROBABLY DEAD. I DO NOT THINK YOU WOULD LOOK INTO THIS BOX IF IT WERE NOT THE CASE. YOU ARE SUCH AN HONORABLE PERSON. I LOVE YOU SO VERY MUCH, JACQUES.
IF I AM DEAD, DO NOT BE SORRY. I KNOW IT WILL BE HARD FOR YOU, HARDER THAN IT IS FOR ME, BUT WE HAD SO MUCH, LET US NOT FORGET. YOU HAVE GIVEN ME EVERYTHING IN THIS LIFE I COULD EVER HAVE DESIRED. THESE LAST MONTHS WITH YOU HAVE MADE ME ALMOST GLAD TO HAVE BEEN BLIND ALL THESE YEARS, SO I WAS SAVED JUST FOR YOU, SO WE COULD COME TO KNOW AND LOVE EACH OTHER AS WE HAVE.
YOU PROBABLY HAVE DIVINED THAT IN MANY WAYS, I AM STILL THE LITTLE GIRL WHO CAME HOME TO FIND HER MOTHER DEAD IN THE BATH-TUB AND HER FATHER DEAD IN SOME FARAWAY MUDDY PLACE. AFTER THAT, I DID NOT WANT TO GROW UP. THE HORROR OF BEING AN ADULT, AND SUFFERING AS MY PARENTS HAD, WAS MORE THAN I COULD SUSTAIN. FOR THAT REASON, I BECAME BLIND. IT HAS ALWAYS SURPRISED ME I DID NOT BECOME DEAF AND MUTE AS WELL. I DID NOT WANT TO GO ON WITH LIFE AS IT IS USUALLY LIVED.
I WANTED TO REMAIN AN ‘INNOCENT,’ AT LEAST AS INNOCENT AS A FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL IN PARIS CAN BE. AND I WAS REMARKABLY INNOCENT, EVEN FOR MY AGE AND TIMES. MY INNOCENCE WAS THE MOST VALUABLE QUALITY I HAD.
I HAVE LEARNED TO CONCENTRATE ON TRUST AND TOLERANCE. I HAVE DISCOVERED THESE ARE THE MOST IMPORTANT COMPONENTS OF INNOCENCE. THERE CAN ONLY BE GUILT WHEN ONE DOES NOT TRUST ONE’S OWN TRUEST IMPULSES, OR DOES NOT TOLERATE OTHERS WHEN THEIR IMPULSES ARE DIFFERENT FROM ONE’S OWN.
I LEARNED MUCH FROM THE PIGEONS; THEY HAVE BEEN MY MOST IMPORTANT TEACHERS. THEY ARE SO TRUSTING, MOST PEOPLE ARE CONVINCED THEY ARE STUPID; I THINK MANY PEOPLE BELIEVE ALL INNOCENTS ARE STUPID OR CRAZY.
THE PIGEONS ALSO TAUGHT ME MUCH ABOUT TOLERANCE. SOMETIMES, OUT THERE ON THE PLACE, I COULD HEAR LITTLE CHILDREN CHASING THEM, BUT PIGEONS DO NOT COMPLAIN, THEY ONLY MOVE OUT OF THE WAY. JACQUES, YOU WILL NEVER KNOW HOW CLOSE I WAS TO MY PIGEONS.
WHEN I MET YOU, I FELT YOU WERE STRUGGLING FOR INNOCENCE. YOU WERE SEARCHING FOR A WAY TO SEE ‘CLEARLY,’ ‘CLEANLY,’ WITHOUT PRETENSE. AS YOU PROBABLY KNOW, MY MUSIC, AS I HAVE LEARNED IT, AS SOUND ONLY, HAS BEEN VERY IMPORTANT IN MY PERSONAL SEARCH AND IN MY LEARNING TOLERANCE FOR MYSELF. IT ALSO TAUGHT ME TRUST, TRUST IN THE MUSIC.
I THINK THAT, TOGETHER, WE HAVE BEEN ATTAINING A HIGH STATE OF ‘INNOCENCE.’ WE HAVE BEEN CONFIDENT, ONE TO THE OTHER, THAT WE WOULD NOT HURT. WE ALSO KNEW FROM THE FIRST, I BELIEVE, EACH OF US, THAT WE WOULD DO EVERYTHING POSSIBLE TO KEEP THE OTHER FROM BEING HURT. AND, MORE POSITIVE, WE EACH WANTED TO GIVE THE OTHER PLEASURE, MAXIMIZE, WHERE POSSIBLE, OUR POSSIBILITIES, AND SHARE OUR THOUGHTS, OUR PRESENT, OUR HOPES, OUR PAST TRAGEDIES.
I AM SURE, SITTING THERE, SOMETIME IN THE FUTURE, READING THIS, IN LIGHT OF LAST NIGHT AND ALL THESE WONDERFUL NIGHTS, CONSIDERING MY SEEMING ‘UNHOLY’ DESIRE TO MAKE LOVE WITH YOU, TALK
OF INNOCENCE COULD SEEM BIZARRE. IT WOULD TO MOST PEOPLE. BUT, YOU SEE, JACQUES, I HAVE BECOME CONVINCED THAT SEX, PASSION SHARED, WITHOUT GUILT, IS A VERY HIGH FORM OF INNOCENCE. I BELIEVE IT IS ONLY BECAUSE PEOPLE HAVE INVESTED THIS ENTIRE WONDERFUL EXPERIENCE WITH RITES OF OBLIGATION, OF POSSESSION, OF RESPONSIBILITY, THAT IT HAS BECOME ALMOST THE SYMBOL FOR LACK OF INNOCENCE.
PERHAPS IT IS BECAUSE SEX IS RELATED TO REPRODUCTION AND ALL THIS IMPLIES. ONLY WHEN YOU PUT YOUR SEED IN ME THE FIRST TIME DID I DEVELOP A TOLERANCE FOR PEOPLE WHO TURN THIS GRACIOUS ACT INTO WHAT HAS BECOME RITUAL. WHEN I KNEW I DID NOT HAVE AN EGG FOR YOUR SEED, THAT THERE COULD BE NO THIRD PARTY IN OUR SEX, I FELT THE TRAGEDY. IT WAS THEN I BECAME TRULY AWARE OF THE IMMENSITY OF SEX.
I BELIEVE YOU ARE CAPABLE OF GREAT INNOCENCE, JACQUES. I HOPE YOU CAN CONTINUE YOUR SEARCH FOR IT; I AM CERTAIN YOU WILL. I SHOULD LIKE VERY MUCH THAT YOU STAY ON LIVING HERE IN OUR APARTMENT, PAINTING AND REMEMBERING ME. BUT, OF COURSE, THAT IS SELFISH AND NOT INNOCENT AT ALL.
I ALSO WANT YOU TO GO HOME TO YOUR FAMILY. I KNOW YOU CAN NEVER FEEL INNOCENT IN YOUR HEART UNTIL YOU DO. YOU STILL LOVE LORRIE AND YOUR CHILDREN, BUT YOU DID NOT TRUST YOUR DEEPEST FEELINGS OF LOVE FOR THEM.
MOST OF ALL, I WOULD LIKE YOU TO LIVE HERE IN OUR APARTMENT WITH LORRIE, HELP HER TO FIND SOME KINDNESS IN HER HEART FOR DIDIER, IN HIS WEAKNESS.
I HAVE MADE ARRANGEMENTS WITH THE NOTAIRE WHOSE NAME IS AT THE BOTTOM OF THIS LETTER, SO ALL I OWN BECOMES YOURS AT THIS TIME, THE TIME OF MY DEATH. BUT I TOLD YOU THAT. YOU NEED ONLY GO TO HIM WITH THIS LETTER. HE DOES NOT KNOW YOUR NAME, BUT WE ARRANGED IT SO THIS LETTER WOULD BE YOUR CACHET, WHEREBY YOU WILL BE RECOGNIZED. I HAVE ARRANGED CONTRIBUTION DIRECT AND PROPERTY TAXES WITH THE PEOPLE AT THE BANK. THE G.D.F. AND E.D.F. WILL BE PAID, AUTOMATICALLY, BY THE BANK ALSO. THEY ARE QUITE KIND TO A BLIND OLD LADY.
IF YOU DO NOT GO TO THE NOTAIRE, THEN ALL WILL REMAIN AT YOUR DISPOSAL, WITH ONLY THE PRESENTATION OF THIS LETTER NECESSARY, ANYTIME WITHIN THE NEXT TWENTY YEARS, TO OBTAIN YOUR RIGHTS. IF YOU DO NOT CLAIM IN THAT TIME, IT WILL BE SOLD, WITH THE PROFITS TO GO TOWARD THE PROTECTION OF OUR PIGEONS IN THE CHURCH TOWER AT SAINT-GERMAIN-DESPRÉS.
I KNOW IT IS TERRIBLE TO WRITE OF THESE THINGS, BUT ONE MUST SOMETIME. I HAVE PUT IT OFF FOR SO LONG. THERE IS ENOUGH MONEY IN THIS BOX TO BURY ME. I DO NOT WANT TO BE BURNED. I CAN BE BURIED IN THE FAMILY PLOT WE VISITED, IN A SIMPLE WOODEN BOX. I WISH THERE WERE ANOTHER WAY, AS WE DISCUSSED, BUT SO BE IT.
NOW I END THIS LONG LETTER, JACQUES, I SHALL START MY EXERCISES AND SOON THE BELLS WILL RING AND YOU SHALL WAKEN. I AM WRITING AT THE TABLE WHERE WE HAVE SHARED SO MANY WONDERFUL MEALS AND GOOD TIMES. I CAN NEVER THANK YOU FOR ALL YOU HAVE BROUGHT TO MY LIFE. I HAVE FELT LIKE A REALLY GROWN WOMAN, IN THE BEST WAY, WITHOUT FEAR, FOR THE FIRST TIME. AND STILL I HAVE FELT MORE INNOCENT THAN I WOULD EVER HAVE BELIEVED POSSIBLE.
YOU ARE A BEAUTIFUL PAINTER AND A BEAUTIFUL PERSON. I AM SO HAPPY TO HAVE BEEN BLESSED WITH THE VISION OF YOUR WORK. IT IS THE PROOF OF INNOCENCE TO SEE ‘CLEARLY’ AND NOT BE TRAPPED INTO SEEING ONLY WHAT IS THERE. THANK YOU FOR SHARING THIS WITH ME.
REMEMBER, I LOVE YOU FOREVER.
YOURS,
Mirabelle
After that, there’s the name of the notaire. I lay the letter and my head on the bed beside Mirabelle and cry again. It’s all so like her, loving, and yet intelligently arranged. I feel as if she has talked to me from the bed in front of me. I look up and try to absorb her quiet, beautiful face into my mind for all my life.
I put her letter back into the bottom of the box and then place the box in the cupboard where it has always been. I fold the sixteen thousand francs in my wallet with my carte de sejour and carte de travail. I walk back into the room and stand, my eyes riveted again on Mirabelle.
‘Mirabelle, I’ll do what I can. I hope you approve of what I’m going to do. It’s probably illegal and some people might think it’s even immoral or perhaps crazy, but it is innocent. It is what my deepest feelings tell me must be done.’
I lock the apartment and go downstairs. The most shocking thing is how everything seems the same. If I didn’t know Mirabelle was up alone in that bed, cold, I couldn’t believe her dead. All that we shared is here, unchanged.
I go to a phone across from Le Drugstore and phone American Express. I manage to reserve a seat on a flight to Minneapolis early the next morning. I arrange to pick up and pay for my ticket at the airport.
I go back upstairs. I make myself a pot of coffee and pull our table from the main room into my room, and set it up beside Mirabelle in the bed.
‘Mirabelle, I’m going home to my family. I know that’s what you want me to do. I cannot stay here alone without you. I know you want that, too, but it is not possible. Now, first, I must write to my family and tell them what has happened.’
I have the feeling Mirabelle hears and understands me. The smile on her face is so engimatic, yet so expressive. I do not feel alone at all.
Lorrie,
I want you to share this letter with our children. Mirabelle has died. My intensity of sorrow cannot be expressed. There is also a transcendent joy which suffuses me. Mirabelle will never be dead to me; her spirit and all she gave will live on in me, in my painting, in our paintings.
I want you to know how I feel about myself. The tight selfish bindings, which have always held me within my ego, that made me isolated, alone, have been broken forever. I now feel an integrated part of the world, not fighting, not struggling, just part of it. And, as Mirabelle said, in some way, more innocent.
I cannot possibly tell you how much I love you and our children. I shall forever be sorry I caused all of you so much pain. But another part of me is convinced it has been for the best; that now I can be a true husband and father to our family, show my love, and not be a mere ‘breadwinner’ and provider. As I write this, I’m sure of it. As I’m part of everything now, I am even more part of you.
I’ll be coming to Minneapolis within the next week or so and I’ll phone from a hotel when I arrive. I don’t want to impose myself on you, just share what we can. I hope to bring my paintings home so you and the children can see what I’ve been doing. I promise I’ll try to answer any questions any of you may have.
I look forward with great joy to our meeting and hope it will be a joy for you, too.
There are so many other ideas I want to share, but there are things to do here and I want to spend as much time with Mirabelle as possible.
I hope to see you soon.
Love,
Jack
When I’m finished, I read the letter to Mirabelle. Perhaps this seems macabre or weird to someone who has never had a close loved one die, but it’s perfectly natural for me. I hope, all my life, I’ll feel free to speak with her, and intend to. I’ve lost some of my respect for the apparent.
Any painter who really discovers his art comes to this point. And Mirabelle, almost because of her blindness, knew it, too. In her music, she dealt with sounds, not the visible written music, by which most musicians are blocked. When she listened to speech, it was sounds, with meaning, she heard, not substitutes for print. For her, there was only one real language. I think that’s why it was so easy for her to learn so many forms of other language, including her music. Even her ears were innocent.
The bells of noon start ringing. I get down on my knees beside the bed again and lay my hands over hers on her chest. I stay quiet there, with my eyes closed, I hear not only the bells but the wings of the pigeons rustling as they swoop and fly from the tower and over the street. I wonder how it registers to them that Mirabelle isn’t there. Perhaps they’ve been conditioned in all these years to expect her, but do they have a memory of her? Would it take her presence to stimulate their tiny brains into the old rite of coming down to be groomed and fed? I think for a minute of going out to try taking her place, but then decide against it. No one can take Mirabelle’s place, not even for the pigeons.
I pull out my old duffel bag where I kept my clothes and things when I was living in the attic. It’s ma
de of heavy canvas with a canvas strap and grommets at the top. A hook on the end of the strap closes it. This is the duffel bag I came home with from the war, the bag I walked away from home with. I pull the chair closer to Mirabelle’s bed and lay my duffel bag on the table. I search out the small screwdriver I used to repair and replace some of the light switches here.
Then I take down from the walls all the paintings. There are twenty-eight of them, almost all 25F, the size that seems to fill my vision but isn’t too unwieldy on the back of my box. There are nine I sold, so that makes a total of thirty-seven in the past more than six months. I hadn’t realized I had painted so much. But then that’s only quantity, I believe it’s the quality of these paintings which makes them important.
I start removing tacks from the sides of the stretchers to which the canvas is attached. There are forty tacks in each stretcher, so it’s going to take some time. The secret is to dig the edge of the screwdriver under the head of the tack and then tip it back so it pries the tack out of the wood. Most times I get it first time. I start talking.
I try to tell Mirabelle about how hard it is for an artist to be innocent. The very act of seducing people into believing that color smeared on canvas represents something else, sky, light, air, space, can never be innocent.
‘Yes, you are right, Mirabelle. Here in Paris, when we met, I was approaching a minor innocence. Those days of wandering through Paris, letting the city happen to me, were the inception of my new life. From them, I gained the courage to try making sketches, watercolors, as homage to the beauty I felt flowing into me.
‘But, even when we worked together, and you unleashed my emotions in painting, so that scenes floated in my mind as personal visions, I was still not true. I was purposefully trying to create an object which would stimulate, facilitate another person to an experience of innocence. But it was not innocence itself.’