Now we are before it, holding hands and looking way up to its peak. A breeze comes off the river and smells terrible, but we are used to it. You place a hand to the new flowers woven into your immaculate auburn hair, lest they blow out of place. I flip my bowler off and make to put it on your head and you give me a "don't you dare" look with one finger cocked. For an instant, all I can think of are your eyes and revel in this sheer magnetism which holds me to you.
We laugh and I replace my hat. I gather you into my arms and press my face into your neck. You smell incredibly like sunlight, like the meadows which lay outside the city. We pull away and you smooth the lapels of my frock, making sure that your face powder has not smudged it. I profer my arm, which you twine your slender hands about, and after we take one more wistful glance at the tower, we stride out in the direction of the setting sun, the sky a blaze of oranges, ochre, purple, and reds.
Arm in arm, we walk the avenues to the Right Bank, chatting as we move towards the base of Monmartre. We speak of the radical change that Paris had undergone in the reign of Emperor Napoleon the Third. You say you would have liked to have seen the streets still winding crazily, and paved in the broad rough-cut stones, which one can still spot here and there.
The timbre of your voice comes on like the backing melody of a spell as you talk.
It is warm, but not hot, and a cool breeze pushes us up the hill to the house of your dance patron and dear friend to us both, monsieur Joseph Oller. Tonight, like so many nights, he is holding a party that will attract many of our friends, associates, and a multitude of other young artists who make their way to Paris in steady streams.
We pause at café for a moment and sit on wooden chairs at an ironed-legged, wood topped table beneath a balcony, which drips with thick green vines and open petal flowers of variant colors. Sweetness gathers in the air around us as strong coffee stirred with heavy cream and fine sugar is brought to us in thin china cups. Florrissimo.
You tell me of the new routines you and Katherine are working out to teach the girls at monsieur Oller's club, the Red Mill. Something inspired by the pagan dances taught to young girls only in the presence of a full moon, mixed with modern steps from the new styles of choreography which translates through your body so well.
Would you care for something to eat before we journey the rest of the way, perhaps a bit of fruit or patisserie? No, you reply, you are not yet hungry. Besides, you wish to dance first.
I chuckle softly and stroke a curl back from your brow. Leaning back in my chair, I take a smooth, wooden pipe that had belonged to my father and light a match. The fragrance is the cherry and spice tobacco I am fond of. You smile wide, lifting your cup with both hands and squirming in your seat. It is in the little moments such as these..
The sky is fading into light purples and the rich, blue velvet of twilight. A star or two can be seen winking in the distance.
You ask me what I'll be submitting to my editor monsieur Pierre Xau, at La Journal, this week. I laugh and admit that I have no idea. I signal to our server and thank him before leaving a few coins and helping you into your gossamer and lace shawl, the one with the Chinese peacocks worked into the design.
Have you given any more thought to leaving our third-story flat in Left Bank for a larger studio in the Right?
Some, you say.
The buildings are nicer and closer to the Mill, but it is our first little home together and you love it so much, that I let it drop. The rest of the way to monsieur Oller's smallish, but lavish mansion is one of comfortable silence. I cannot forget the smoothness of your arm in mine. The small freckles cascading down perfectly white limbs. Your heat and your fragrance mingle in this perfect twilight.
We can hear the music before we even see the house. The drums vibrate the air and a wild melody chases it. You begin to hop and I begin to laugh. We pick up speed and race down the side streets of Monmarte to the house. The curtains are pulled back in all of the windows of this three-story, squat mansion and people are dancing, laughing, drinking and having the time of their lives. There are so many friendly faces waiting for us outside as we approach the entrance of the party and when they see us, they cheer and we cheer them back. We climb the stairs to the doors, which are thrown back, and we are twirled through and into the crowd, my coat and hat are taken from me and drinks are placed in our hands.
Everywhere are colored lamps and multitudes of candles on sconces and chandeliers. The expansive parlor with its hard wood floors is sounding with the clicks of heels on its boards. The interior is decorated with expensive and eclectic art, and the old world furniture is reupholstered in somewhat garish colors, like dusty pink, lime, and deep mauve and powder blue. A gypsy tune done in a radically new and modern style is pouring through the rooms, and we move onto the dance floor with the grace of two, hand-crafted hurricanes.
These are the true beginnings of the jazz era.
We spin, dip, laugh, and move in a way that makes me think of the Grecian myths I loved as a child.
The rapid beats die down and everyone moves into a ballroom formation. All of the men bow to their counterparts and the women make curtsy and offer a hand as the thick notes of a cello fill the room with vibratory richness. A very sweet friend to us all, and sometimes patron of the club (when she can find the time), Rosa Calve, or Em, as she is known in this circle, moves from the crowd and onto the stage.
She raises her head as the violin and gentle piano strike, and begins to sing. Her voice has been in the ears and hearts of royalty, and here she is with us this evening, providing an impromptu miracle for our feet to slide in time with.
As we slowly spin with steps made for flying, we look into each other's eyes. Your eyes, in this light, glisten the early morning blue that makes me think of gems from another land. I kiss them and the flowers in your hair fills my head with light. The music pushes and tosses all of us as if we were thin leaves on the edge of autumn.
The instruments end and her last note is strong and holding and all around us, everyone has forgotten to breathe. I will never forget this moment.
And when dear Rosa has finished, the entire parlor erupts in applause and stamping. You bow to me, I curtsy you, and we both laugh like Christmas time children.
The rest of the evening is filled with laughter, song, and carousing. It is pure dance, friends, food, and entertainment. It is love, and it is Paris on a Saturday night.
A few hours before dawn, we decide to make our way to the Left bank, and then to our home.
We make our way with a small cluster of friends to le boulevard and wait for a carriage. The coach that arrives for us is small and handsome, all dark wood, brass, and crimson clothe; and being pulled by a rather sleepy mare. The driver clamors down from his seat to help us into ours. He holds the door open and we climb in. The seats are fine old leather and plush, while the windows allow us a view of the sleeping city as we roll on, to the sharp clips of hooves on cobblestone. I take off my coat and wrap us closely inside of it. You place a hand on my chest and lay your head against my shoulder as the street lamps waver dimly along the avenue. The moon will not be outdone and shines brightly from her seat in the heavens. Whispering to us in her white and bluish light, which pours from her breast and guides the path of all lovers on their paths to home.
As the carriage draws to a rest below our building, we are both dozing and in revel.
You kiss my hand and look up at me as the carriage master pulls the door back and holds his gloved hand out to help us down.
I pay him, and he tips his hat with a ragged smile that bears its own unique charm. I tip my hat back to him and escort you up to our studio.
Inside is a testament to our passions. There are large paintings, fliers, photographs, and shelves of books, which line the walls. Tall mirrors, costumes, cloth, beads, feathers, lace, and a sewing press play along one wall of the living area, and beside the large window that overlooks the parks along the Sienne, is my simple desk with the ink stained top and the type-writer which you have no problem sleeping through. I have never told you, but your ability to do so is one the first instances that cemented a sense of rightness to being with you.
Our furniture is a comfortable affair of stuffed cloth and old, heavy lacquered wood, which sits upon a scattering of thick rugs that are second hand, but definitely from the land of Turks, or so the seller assured.
I light one of the better gas lamps and begin to build a fire in the black iron stove in the kitchen. You hang your outer clothes by the mirrors and look into them, studying the new outfit you made for this evening, as I put water onto the stove so you can wash your make-up off for sleep. Casually, you waltz to the grammaphone to select a record when you look sharply to the window, then walk over and draw it open.
I wonder for a moment as to what has possessed you and then I hear it. A thin strain of violin drifts up into our studio from the darkness of the street below. You clasp your hands to your breast, shut your eyes and breathe in the moonlight, which comes streaming in and over you. It is times like these that I wish I were a painter, but instead I drink up every detail of this moment and store it in memory that I may one day describe you or at least carry this portrait into old age or into other lives.
I walk over to you and we stand before the window, framed in everlasting night. You take me to the stove and take up heavy bits of cloth to grasp the pan and then lead me to the large vanity with its bench seat. The floorboards creak and we both settle onto the bench. I am always amazed at the amount of make-up, powders, and fragrances you keep on this vanity, along with the soaps which you love to create. We straddle the bench facing each other and with the water between us. I take up a cloth and dip it into the pan, and begin washing your face. This moment is perfectly realized, and deep inside myself, in my center, there are countless fireworks going off. You place your hand to the back of my neck and draw me to you with a kiss. You have a way of kissing that is much like a pleasant dream, and as you pull away with a smile, it fades on my lips exactly like the sensation of waking. We do not talk because we do not have to. There are no gaps to be filled in.
And I continue to wash you.
When we are finished, you rise and stretch and I let out a cavernous yawn. We begin undressing and you stand naked before the mirror. I come behind you and rest my hand on your belly and you reach back and lace your hand into my hair and we look at ourselves and each other while the light of the moon and the lonesome sounds of a violin course through the room which is dimly lit by the flicker of an oil lamp.
Slowly, I trace my fingers below your navel and you shudder and close your eyes. In one swift movement I have you in my arms and carry you off to the large bed, which is covered in the thick quilts you made last fall.
You are giggling and pretending to bite me as I toss you into the covers and go into the main room to blow out the lamp.
I come back and open the drapery to let the moon in and it washes over us as I climb into bed beside you. You cuddle up to me and I whisper.
"I want to tell you.."
"Tell me." You say, through a smile and closed eyes.
"I want to tell you that every time I look into these sea-touched eyes, I see a goddess. I see a rising cloverleaf queen of never-ending springtime whose breath is the air of pink and white blossoms.
You are the new mother of the sweet, warm winds that carry all creatures of feather, who runs her invisible fingers through the hair and across the faces of those who have just fallen in love.
You are the reflection of stars in quiet repose on the untouched skin of a forest pond.
You are the stars.
And your lullabies are fluid and soft, granting safe passage to all sleepers on their way to the shaping fields of dream.
When I see you, I see a Muse bathing naked in the streams at the base of Mount Helicon. Your scroll and your laurel and your skirt rest on the grassy banks, guarded by sleeping rabbits. I'll sometimes forget to breathe when I see you.
And inside your heart, is a thousand different colored suns, strong and constantly waking, giving life and pulse to countless worlds.
The artisan crafted smile that is actually the window to your soul. A smile that delights the fates and that dying men pray to see one last time. The smile that recreated my heart when we were first introduced.
You are the oath given by the hunter's daughter to the pregnant moon, the same moon that is being longingly gazed at by the peasant wife, and the caliph's wife, and a thin white cat. The same moon that ninety-eight women (young, ripe, and old), dance beneath to drums and pipes in the presence of blind priests in the woodlands of ancient Gaul. Their hands and feet and long hair move to the rites of womanhood. The ecstasy of the night gone dark and the power of the ancient methods, these belong to you as well.
Your fingernails are mirrors that reflect the inspirations of all beings which create art.
When you laugh.. my gods, when you laugh.
When you laugh, musicians inexplicably reach for their instruments. When you laugh people find pens and begin to scratch out poetry and stories. The same is done when you cry.
You are the source, the mother, and the daughter of all inspiration. You are the youngest of the three sisters, the three fates. Your beauty brings light and color wherever you go.
Cities weep openly for you.
Compassion and desire are wound tightly to your core.
You are the harlequin with jewel eyes and a grace which radiates on stage as you flirt, twist, and play to the crowds. Your body moves slowly then becomes a brilliant flash. The crowds gasp, chant, and roar their approval. You are the manifest spirit of the great culture revolutions. This time you are Paris.
Oh, and how she moves.
Like electric light.
You are the wisdom and grace in the flesh of the great dancers.
You are beauty incarnate, with flowers in her hair.
Sleep well, my sweet girl, and dream of only good things."
And we fall asleep this way -- never to wake.
arisian Tale© 2011 blue Christian winterhawk
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