‘There was my mother. She was in the bathtub and the tub was filled with blood! Her eyes were open. I went down on my knees beside her. I still did not know what could have happened. I was so young. I had just had my fourteenth birthday and also had begun with my règles. My first thought was that somehow my mother had had her règles and was bleeding to death.
‘When I touched her she was cold. The blood in the tub was only slightly warmer. I saw the razor of my father on the edge of the tub. I still did not know, could not understand. I only wanted to lift my mother out of the blood. I reached down into the depths, staining my school uniform, and pulled the plug to let the blood and water drain. As it drained, my mother sagged into the depths of the tub. I started running fresh water, crying, screaming, but nobody came. I washed the blood from my mother, calling her name over and over, not her name but Maman, MAMAN!
‘When she was clean, I lifted her in my arms and somehow struggled to her bed. I stretched her out as best I could, crying and screaming all the time for help. I pulled her nightgown over her cold, naked body. I wanted so for everything to be all right again, for my mother to be warm, to speak to me. I remember I could not fit her arms into the sleeves, so I pulled the nightgown down over the tops of her arms. I opened the covers and slid her into the bed. I pulled off my own clothes, down to my chemise, and crept in beside her.
‘I wanted to warm her. I had seen the slits, the gaping wounds of her wrists, but they did not seem bad enough to kill. They were not bleeding and they were water-shriveled. My only thought was to hold her in my arms and make her living, warm again, bring her back. I held her to me and cried until I went to sleep.
‘When Rolande came home, that is how she found us. Afterward, she told me she almost backed out and closed the door, thinking we were only taking a nap, but then saw blood on the floor, went into the wet, still-blood-soaked bathroom, and came out screaming. She was three years older than I and knew enough to be aware that something terrible had happened.
‘She tried to waken us and I woke, saw her first, then looked over and saw the eyes of my mother, empty, staring, not seeing. It was the last thing I remember, the last time I saw. It was her eyes, open and not seeing. I did not want to see any more. Inside, I think I wanted to be like my mother, my eyes open but not seeing.
‘I do not remember the funeral. It was as if I were dead. I did not want to eat, to breathe, to live. In the bedroom, they found a telegram saying my father had been killed. It seemed everything I loved in life, my mother, my father, was gone, and I wanted to be gone, too.
‘The mother of my mother, our grandmother, came to live with us and take care of us. Her husband was also dead. She was always tired, and Rolande had to stop school before graduating, in her “Terminale,” and help with the house and help take care of me. When I was twenty, my grandmother died, too. The shock of losing her husband, then her only daughter, my mother, had killed something inside her.
‘At first, it was assumed my blindness was temporary, that when the first shock wore off I would see again. I remember then, as I still remember now, how I did not want to see. I see often in my dreams the eyes of my mother, open eyes, not seeing, and yet I know she was seeing all that others could never see. I wanted to be with her, to see with her, to see my father.
‘For many years, doctors tried to help me. I did everything they asked, but there remained deep in me the terrible fear of seeing. My mind did not want any more of this world to come through my eyes. It did not trust them, I suspect I still do not trust them, and that is why I do not see. It is difficult to understand, yes, Jacques?
‘Rolande managed to pass her baccalauréat and obtain a position in the Ministère des Finances because our father had been killed in the war. She worked all her life there.
‘She had a man friend whom she loved. He also worked at the ministère, but he was married and had a family. He could never marry Rolande and she, because of me, could never marry, either.
‘We lived together here, the two of us, in our family apartment, all the years. Rolande and I were never close as sisters. There was the age difference, my blindness, and also we were quite different people.
‘She was not a happy person. Her work was boring to her and, aside from her friend, she had no pleasure. I am not sure how much pleasure she had with him in later years. She never talked about it to me. We did not talk to each other very much at all on any subject. She treated me as a child.
‘I filled my days by taking care of the apartment the best I could, by doing the cooking. I started with my pigeons. I became interested in learning languages, using records, then tapes.
‘Rolande was usually home with me evenings. She would read her newspaper, or listen to the radio, later watch television. Sometimes she would go to a film or go to meet her lover. On nice evenings we would sometimes walk on the boulevard together.
‘Her friend went on retraite into the country with his wife when Rolande was only fifty-five years old. He was ten years older than she. It was very hard for Rolande.
‘Rolande died fifteen years ago. She died of a stroke which killed her almost immediately. She was at work when it happened and only a few months from her own retraite.
‘Since then I have lived alone. People from the Sécurité Sociale come once in a while to see if I am all right. I receive a benefit from the death of my father as a soldier. I also receive a benefit because I am blind. Rolande left her money to me, this apartment is mine, and I am comfortable.
‘During the years, I have found ways to fill my time. You know there are the pigeons. Then, although Rolande objected, twenty years ago. I began to do yoga and to meditate. It gives me much comfort, and my blindness helps me obtain very high states of inner calm.
‘I have continued my study of languages. The Mairie on the Place Saint-Sulpice has a wonderful selection of disques and tapes from which I can learn. Also, through the Bibliothèque Nationale I borrow tapes of many kinds, including much music. Through them, I have learned to speak English, Italian, German, and Spanish. In this way, in the streets I can understand the tourists and it is a pleasure for me.
‘I also learned to love music and am familiar with much music from the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries. I have a special interest in music of the Baroque period, especially music for the harpsichord.
‘I never learned to read braille. I still keep in mind that I am really not blind and someday will see again. Therefore I am not willing to take the time necessary to learn this method of reading.
‘As I said, I love music very much. In what was once Rolande’s bedroom, I have my harpsichord, I also have now a large collection of my own tapes. It is a passion for me. I play, not at a professional level, but proficiently. I perform, make a tape of it, and listen to what I have done, that way I can improve. I do the same with my language lessons. I listen, then I speak, trying to perfect my accent. Then I listen to myself. I think, in my life, I have heard myself speak more than anyone else in the world. Is that not strange, Jacques?
‘But I am very lonely. I want to tell you a story which will give some small idea of my aloneness.
‘When I had learned to handle the pigeons so they trusted me and would come to me, I began crocheting little holders I could slip onto their legs.
In the holders I would put the same message. It said:
I SIT EVERY DAY UNDER THE STATUE OF DIDEROT BETWEEN TEN AND TWELVE IN THE MORNING. IF YOU WOULD CARE TO SPEAK WITH ME, PLEASE COME. I WEAR A RED COAT AND HAT.
‘I sent this message out on all my pigeons over more than ten years and no one ever came. I thought perhaps the pigeons were too shy or afraid and people could not catch or hold them. Perhaps some came but did not speak with me when they saw I was blind. I do not know. I never told Rolande about this. It was my secret.
‘Then, one day, I was sitting alone on the bench when I smelled a man coming toward me. He had a very strong smell of man, almost as strong as some of the clochards. He touched me
on the shoulder.
‘“Here, madame, I believe these are yours.”
‘He reached down with rough hands and took my hand. He turned it palm up and dumped into it what turned out to be more than fifty of my old crocheted leg bands with the messages still in them. The holders were falling apart with age. Sometimes the paper of the messages had become stiff, and when I tried to unroll them, they would crack.
‘The man sat beside me. He was a very kind person. He told me he is the one who cleans out the bell towers for all the churches in Paris. He cleans each major church about once every ten years. He scrubs and rubs linseed oil into the great oaken beams which support the bells. He oils and greases the mechanism of the bells, checks for cracks or other faults in the bells, replaces worn parts. He also cleans out the bell tower. He has been doing this since the war, the first war, that is, and is looking forward to his retraite. He told me many things.
‘“Madame, most of the pigeons that die in Paris die up there in the bell towers. They become so weak they cannot fly down and then fly back up. So they roll into a ball and die on top of the major support beams for the bells. There are sometimes hundreds of pigeon skeletons and feathers I sweep into sacks and carry away. There are often birds who are dying, but there is nothing I can do for them. They would be eaten by cats or run over by cars if they flew out of the tower.
‘“Up there today, with the dead pigeons, I found all these little bits of wool packets with paper in them. I opened one and read it. I looked down and saw you. So here I am.”
‘He would not come home to eat with me, but he unpacked his lunch box and ate his lunch on the bench beside me. He has a wife and two children. Both of his children have gone to southern France. When he goes on retraite, he and his wife will go there to join them.
‘He ate lunch with me several days while he cleaned out the tower. The main brace on one of the bells needed repair and it took two days to forge a new piece.
‘As a final gift, he gave me the key to enter the tower. I have kept it these many years. He said it was just in case I ever wanted to go up there and feel what it is like to look down on everything. He said he would be on retraite long before anyone else went up to clean the tower again.
‘I think he meant I should go there and look down to see the Place, Diderot, the cafe, the Jardin, all the places where I live. I do not think he ever really appreciated what it is to be blind. He knew I could not see, but he was not the type of man to understand truly what blindness is.
‘I have kept that key in my silverware drawer for more than ten years, but I have never gone up. It would be too difficult to climb alone, and dangerous. Perhaps you would like to go up there sometime. There might be much to paint. If you would take me up with you once, I should like that very much, too.
‘So now you know something about me, Jacques. I do not think I have spoken with anyone about these things since Rolande died. Mine is a strange story, is it not?
‘I have been quite content in my own way. It is probably bizarre learning all those languages for nothing, but I enjoy it. Also, sometimes I can help tourists when they are lost. I hide my cane and try not to appear blind. Probably my vanity makes me do this.
‘Does any of this make sense to you, Jacques? I only want you to know why you mean so much to me; why I could be so bold as I have been.
‘If you do not understand, I understand. I sometimes do not know just what it is I want. My life seems empty and dry, lately. As I said, I feel that something is coming to an end and I have been only an unseeing spectator. I have not really been a part of real life. I am always on the outside looking in with my sightless eyes.
‘Am I complaining too much? I do not like people who complain. It is so easy to be aware only of personal problems and not let the problems, cares, of others be important to yourself.’
I haven’t been able to draw since she started her story. I slowly squeeze onto the palette the paints I’ll need for the underpainting. I scrape another clear place from which I can work. I’m in shock.
Mirabelle had stopped crying while she was speaking. Her story’s so terrible, so hard to believe. I look at her and am moved as I don’t think I’ve been moved in years, perhaps since our first baby was born.
I stand and walk over to Mirabelle; I drop to my knees. She puts her hand on my head.
‘I’m so sorry, Mirabelle. Except for your blindness, none of this suffering seems to show. You are so positive about life, you live as if nothing had happened. How do you do it?’
‘It was all a long time ago, Jacques. I only wanted to tell you so you would understand. I didn’t want this which I carry in my heart, which makes me the way I am, to be between us. I hope it can bring us closer.’
I stand and look down at her.
‘Do you feel strong enough to continue posing or should we say this is enough for the day? I feel now I can paint a much better painting of you than I could before you told me about your life. I even see this apartment differently, knowing the good life that went on here, the suffering, the long time you’ve been alone. I should have known it, but I didn’t think about it deeply enough. It is a bad problem I have, Mirabelle, I can know things and still not feel them.’
‘Is there enough light for you to continue, Jacques? I should like to stay here with you this way some more. I think the blind learn how to be still more than most people.’
I walk back to my box and look around at her. She seems so small, so fragile, so alone. I’ve known only her strength, her courage, her incredible skills, and now I feel I know her much better, more profoundly.
I start with the background, I choose a blue modulated with alizarine crimson. I had thought to do the background in warm colors, with burnt umber and burnt sienna. Now I know this would not be right. Those are not the colors of blindness, of aloneness. They give too much warmth, intimacy; the intimacy I felt for her, still feel, but that would never be enough to make the painting true. I know now this part of her must be painted into her, not around her. She must stand out in her aliveness against the coldness she has known.
‘Jacques, you spoke of your wife and your children. Would you be willing to tell me about them while you paint? I should very much like to know about you, what life you have behind you. In my blindness, I feel I do know you, but only the you which is here right now. You have not told me much about yourself except for the way you live, and that life does not seem appropriate for the man I feel I know. Would you tell me what you can?’
I know I won’t to be able to paint while I talk, but I start creating movements of paint in the background to the painting of Mirabelle.
‘Mine isn’t a very interesting story. It is so ordinary, so much like thousands of others, it is almost not worth the telling. I’ve told no one about my past life before, partly because I wasn’t sure what has been really true and what I’ve made up, or didn’t notice.
‘Often we are deceived more by what we don’t know than what we think we do. But if you want to hear this, I’ll try to put it together in my mind and tell it as accurately as possible. It might be a big help for me to tell you. You’re the one person I know with whom I can try to be honest or even really care to.’
‘Please go on. You do not need to keep painting unless it will help you tell your story. I understand. If you want, I can make some tea or coffee.’
‘No. I want to stay like this in this dying light, Mirabelle. I’ll stop painting when my eyes tell me to. If you become tired of sitting, or listening, only tell me. If you want to sit in a more comfortable chair, say that also, or just move.’
Blind Reverie
At first it was so painful to bring it all back, to tell Jacques of what had happened. But I knew I had to do it if we were ever to be close. He had to know me as no one had known me, not even my family or the doctors.
Then, as I spoke, it was as if a light were being shone into all the dark places. It did not make the darkness any lighter, but it made it more visible in my min
d. I could look at things I had not been able to face for many years; in some cases, since they happened.
I wondered if this might be the beginnings of sight again, if I will lose my desire to hold on to my personal darkness. But as I went on, I realized I was only sharing my darkness with Jacques. I was still safe, only not so alone. I felt his heart beating with mine, feeling my pain, and my life already seemed richer, more valuable, worth living.
I hope I have not given him such a terrible share of pain to carry that he will become afraid. What can be in his life that makes him so unhappy? In one way I want to know, in another I am afraid of what I will learn.
5
‘I don’t know where to begin, Mirabelle.’
I put down my brushes and slide down on my chair, staring at the canvas or at Mirabelle, but mostly at the painting, at this effort to bring her alive through my eyes, my brain, my hands.
‘To tell something of how I came to be here in Paris, in the streets, painting, I need to go way back in my life, if anything is going to make sense at all.’
‘Begin at the beginning, please.’
‘I was good in school, Mirabelle. I had loving parents and two loving sisters, both older than I. Maybe it started there. It was as if I had three mothers and they all loved me, made me think I was wonderful.
‘From the time I can remember, I wanted to be an artist. My mother and sisters encouraged me; it was all part of my being different, exceptional, for them. But in high school, because I did well in mathematics, in science, there was no chance for me to take art. I was scheduled into college preparatory classes. I enjoyed them, it was challenging, and I was in classes with the more interesting students.
‘I don’t know if any of this can mean anything to you, Mirabelle. It’s all so American, so much a part of a different way of life.’