I hold out the thousand francs.
‘Here, Mirabelle, take this. I don’t need it now. All you need pay is the money for the canvas, and you’ve already done that. We’re even.’
She pulls away from the money as if it were a snake.
‘Do not do this, Jacques. You have a commission from me. I could never feel right if you do not take this money. Please, take it away. I can smell it in front of my face. It smells sour, a blend of dirt, cheap perfume, the inside of pocketbooks, and perspiration, as does all money. Please, take it away, or I cannot eat.’
I put it on the table beside me.
‘Well, we can discuss that later. For now, I want to eat these beautiful crêpes and drink this wonderful wine.’
I hold out my glass and there’s just the slightest delay until she realizes what I’m doing. No one would probably have picked up the slight pause, but I’m getting more closely tuned to her now.
‘Yes, Jacques, we drink to the sale of your beautiful painting. I knew you were a very good painter. You should sell your paintings for much more money, you sell them too cheaply.’
‘I have more money than I can use now, Mirabelle. I know that doing things to make money can pollute life faster than anything else. I’m happy to have this money, but it must not become the reason why I paint. This is something I’ve learned.’
‘You will never paint for money alone, Jacques, only when you are hungry and desperate. Before that, you can come live with me.’
We drink. The wine is dry and cooled just properly. It has a deep raisin taste, yet is light and almost effervescent. It’s time to change the subject.
‘Where do you get these wines, Mirabelle? This kind of wine costs almost as much as that painting.’
‘They are not mine. These are the wines of Rolande. Where she worked with the Ministère des Finances at the Louvre, she would always receive cases of wine at Christmas. We hardly ever drank them, so there are many cases stored in the cave. I am glad I can share them with you. I think Rolande would be happy, too. At least, I hope she would.’
After the wine, we have a wonderful soufflé. To think of all I’ve heard about how hard it is to make a soufflé properly and here this elderly blind woman has pulled off one to match any I’ve ever had in my life. Mirabelle is a constant wonder. I find myself sneaking glances at her. In my mind I’m already starting to paint her portrait.
We finish off with our usual Poire William. We’re coming close to the bottom of the bottle. I wonder what Mirabelle will want to do with the pear when it’s all that’s left.
She clears the table and pours two cups of coffee. Again, she makes some of the best coffee I’ve ever had. Perhaps this is partly because I have the chance to drink coffee so infrequently. I’ve heard it said that the best way to ensure yourself compliments as a cook is to keep your guests waiting until they’re practically starved, and I’m sure in my past I’ve been victim to this theory, but with Mirabelle, everything seems to arrive just at the appropriate moment.
I watch as she so efficiently, gracefully, removes the dishes from our table, slides them into soapy water, rinses them, stacks them in a rack. It’s like music, calming, just to watch her. I know I could never dance to her dance, so I stay seated, talk to her about the people who came up to me and bought the painting. I tell it with the kind of detached elation I felt, and it comes out as so funny, we’re both laughing. Mirabelle comes over from the kitchen, drying her hands.
‘Now, Jacques, are you ready to paint my portrait?’
‘Yes. First I’ll bring in my box and the new canvas from the palier. I think I’ll paint you by the windows so I have enough light on the canvas.’
I move toward the door. I struggle the canvas and box inside, closing the door behind me. There are only two windows in the room, both opening onto the court, so there isn’t much light. But worst of all are the raggedy drapes, three-quarters drawn across the windows. They block just about any light that might come in.
‘Mirabelle, would it be all right if I take down the drapes on the windows, or pull them back? I need more light to see.’
‘Oh yes, please do. I had completely forgotten they were there. You must have been sitting here with me in the dark. Why did you not say something?’
For the first time, including when she’d bumped into me and fallen, she seems generally nonplussed, embarrassed.
‘Oh, I could see enough to eat. But if I’m going to paint you, I must have more light.’
‘Please take them down. There is no one to peer in at me and I would like it if they did, at least somebody would be seeing me. We had those drapes up for Rolande.’
I use the stool she’s been using to reach up into the cupboard. I stand on it and find that the mechanism for moving the drapes is completely jammed. I lift the entire contraption off its hooks, lower the curtain, and step down onto the floor again. The drapes are coated with dust and so fragile they tear in my hand.
‘I think these drapes are finished, Mirabelle. Do you want me to save them?’
‘No. Please throw them away. The smell of the dust makes me feel as if I am dead already. Put them out on the palier. Later, I shall take them down to the poubelle.’
I climb to lift down the other set of drapes. Same thing: jammed, rusty, dusty drapes, faded, falling apart. I lower them as I come down from the stool, wrap them around the valence. I take both of them to the door and shove them out onto the landing, the palier, where my paint box had been.
‘I’ll take them downstairs when I go home, Mirabelle.’
Now I look at the windows. They’re as filthy as the mirror had been. But I’m not going to clean them now. The weather is mild, maybe I can open them.
‘Do you mind if I open the windows, Mirabelle? It will clear the air. If you feel cold you can wear another sweater, perhaps.’
‘Oh yes. That will be fine. What would you like me to wear for this portrait?’
‘I think just what you are wearing now, your dark blue sweater with the collar.’
‘Is my hair in order?’
She feels over her head, shifting bobby pins and maybe hairpins over and around her head.
‘You look wonderful.’
I move one of the chairs from the table and place it so I have a three-quarter light falling on her face. It gives enough penumbra, but not too much. I can pick up the features on the shaded section, even in this limited light.
‘Shall I sit in the chair now?’
‘Not yet. Perhaps you can finish cleaning the pots and pans from our wonderful meal, if you want, while I open my box and prepare myself.’
I’d noticed that in her cleanup she’d left some pans soaking in the sink.
I wedge the long back leg of my box under the window. I want to have enough light on the canvas and still not have the canvas block my view
