work, Jacques. The bells are ringing, will you déjeuner with me, and then perhaps we can start the portrait.’
How can she possibly know I’m just about finished? Do I give off some kind of ‘satisfaction vibrations’? I scratch my signature in the lower right-hand corner. I pull the canvas off the easel and print in the title, Place Furstenberg, date and sign it on the back. I’m almost tempted to sign it ‘Jacques.’
‘Yes, I’m very happy with the painting. But I don’t think I can start with your portrait because I have no other canvas here with me. I didn’t realize I’d finish this one so quickly. I wish you could see it. It’s the best painting I’ve done and you helped very much.’
‘Thank you. It means much to me to feel I could help. Can you understand what this must mean to someone blind such as I?’
Her face is very serious, then it breaks into a smile and she ‘looks’ down at her feet briefly. She finds my eyes again.
‘Could you not buy a canvas near here? I do not think the shops are closed as yet.’
‘It is very expensive to buy a canvas, Mirabelle. A canvas stretched, of the size I would need, could cost over a hundred and fifty francs.’
She reaches into her purse. She pulls out two hundred francs.
‘Here, please, Jacques, buy it. We do not know how long I shall be around to be painted and every day I am getting older. I should like to be painted as soon as possible, while I am still young.’
‘Okay. I’ll give it back to you this afternoon from the thousand francs when I have it changed. That’s only fair. All right?’
‘Yes, if that is what you want. But you must hurry now to find a shop open before they close. I shall go home and prepare our food. It is mostly ready, but there are some last little things to do. I shall meet you there.’
She turns away. The art store is just around the corner, not far from La Palette, where we had our Cointreau. I decide to leave the box standing in the Place. I put the painting back on the easel. I take off right away. Nobody will steal it in the few minutes I’ll be gone. I start running, holding the two hundred francs bunched in my hand.
The bells are still ringing when I get there and they’re open. The canvas, real linen on a good stretcher, 20F, with portrait linen, is a hundred and ninety francs. I feel like a rich man. But at this rate I’d be a candidate for the poorhouse in no time.
I dash back to my box and everything is fine. There are two people looking at the painting, a well-dressed French couple. The man asks me if I want to sell the painting.
I do and I don’t. He’s pretty insistent and I’m busy cracking down the box, putting things away. At the sound of my crappy French, he switches into good-quality, heavily accented English-English.
‘But you must be in business, monsieur. Do you have a gallery where I may see your work?’
‘No, I have no gallery.’
‘But you are a professional, yes. The painting is of very high quality.’
‘Thank you.’
I don’t answer the first question. I guess I am a professional but I don’t think of myself that way. It sounds like a prizefighter or a whore. The French word amateur means ‘lover.’ I think I’m more an amateur, at least when it comes to painting.
‘How much money would you take for your painting, monsieur? My wife and I like it very much.’
I figure I’ll name a big price to shut him up. I’m sure he thinks it’s like Montmartre, where paintings are knocked out for nothing.
‘The painting would cost fifteen hundred francs, monsieur. I must live.’
He reaches into his inside jacket pocket, slides out a dark, shining leather billfold, and separates three five-hundred-franc notes. He hands them to me.
I could kick myself. I haven’t had enough time to enjoy this painting. But, God, fifteen hundred francs, I can get through the entire summer with that. But I’m going to be very professional about all this.
I lift the painting from the place where I’ve leaned it against the wall and hold it at arm’s length for a last long look at it. I feel I’m selling part of Mirabelle at the same time. I hand it to him.
‘Be careful, monsieur. It is still wet. It will be a week or more before it is dry.’
‘That is quite all right. We live near here. We love this Place and thank you again for selling us your work. You are very talented.’
With that, the two of them walk away carrying our painting. She’s wearing a white fur coat and white stockings with clocks in them, slightly off-white shoes. Her hair is perfectly coiffed. He looks as if he could be the Prime Minister of France. Hell, I wouldn’t know the Prime Minister if I fell over him.
Inside myself, I’m really torn. I need to tell Mirabelle. I’ve sold our painting. How will she feel about that? I put my paint box on my back, empty, and start the walk to her place. I’m carrying the new canvas in my free hand. Now I’m late.
I put the box outside and her door is open. I knock and go in. She’s in the kitchen.
‘I began to think you were not coming. Please, let us sit down. I have little crêpes with mushrooms and a cheese sauce. I have just finished making them.’
I go in to take a leak. I use the same ‘knee-locking’ system as before. Then I go over and wash my hands, leaving the door open for light again. I’ve taken several sheets of toilet paper from the toilet room and I wet them. I try to wipe off some of the grime and specks from the mirror. The dirt’s really ground in. I manage to clear a circle in the center of the mirror, enough to see myself. I haven’t actually looked at myself in a mirror, up close, in a long time. I don’t look as bad as I thought I would. I definitely look younger than I did two years ago. If it weren’t for the gray in my beard I could maybe even pass for forty.
I sit down. Mirabelle puts three beautiful crêpes on each of our plates. They smell delicious. Again I close my eyes and let the smell come into me. It’s getting to be a habit. Before I know it, I’ll probably go blind myself.
‘Mirabelle. I have something to tell you.’
‘The art shop was closed and you could not buy the canvas.’
‘Worse than that.’
There’s no way around it. I must tell her, I owe her that, at least.
‘I sold our painting, the painting of the Place Furstenberg.’
She’s quiet on her chair, looking at me. She hands me a bottle of white wine, a Pouilly-Fumé, to open. I start turning the corkscrew.
‘But that is very good, Jacques. You said you must sell paintings to live. We can always paint the Place Furstenberg again. It is in my mind, all of it. It makes me feel happy to think we have shared our vision with someone else.’
And I suddenly feel released. Mirabelle’s right. I can paint it again. I’ll paint it better than last time. I just didn’t have enough
