No Light (4 page)

Now, Grandpapa Johnson grabbed Sister Kate, 
He shook her like you shake jelly on a plate, 
How he shook that thing, 
Oh, he shook that thing! 
I'm gettin' sick and tired of telling you to shake that thing.

...and the night I lay on my bed and listened to her play
Moonlight Sonata.
Such music I never heard before. It evoked loneliness in me I had never experienced. I closed my eyes and allowed my mind to transport me to the empty square outside. I imagined that behind each facade people stopped and listened and for a short while we were all held together, spellbound by her music.

I lay awake for hours re-visiting my evening with Camille. I remembered the look she gave me when I asked for her autograph. I recalled our conversation in La Coupole and how her directness completely disarmed me. Scenes and music from the performance rolled in and out of my mind;
Habanera
,
The Toreador’s Song
and Camille singing
Parle-moi de ma mere
, her hands clasped together and her plaintive voice filling the theatre with strength and hope. Dawn was beginning to break when sleep finally took me. The last thing I remembered was her song.

I awoke later than usual. My father was already dressed and ready for his walk to the synagogue.

“Don’t worry Paul, I can walk alone.”

His sounded disappointed and I knew he would have preferred me to accompany him.

“You should have woken me”, I replied hastily.

“Why?” he responded.

“I’ll be ready in a minute.”

“But, you have had no breakfast.”

“I’ll get something on the way.”

“You can have breakfast at the Synagogue if you care to join us.”

“Thank you, but I would prefer to eat alone.”

Soon we were standing in the street. It was another beautiful morning with a clear blue sky. Recently I had begun to notice that my father was having more difficulty than usual walking down the stairs from the apartment. He tried to conceal it but I could feel the tension in his arm as I supported him.

He straightened himself, tapped his stick on the ground and we set off taking the usual route across the square, greeting the usual people until stopping as normal at Madame Guillard’s shop.

“Shabbat, Esther!”

“How are you, Solomon?”

“Oh, I have felt better. Paul has been to the opera.”

“That’s nice. Which opera did he see?”

“He saw
Carmen
at L’Opera Comique.”

“Really, I have a poster in my shop. They came a few weeks back to put it up.”

“We need to go father. I have to meet someone”

“That wouldn’t be Camille, would it?” my father quipped. “He met the cast last night Esther and was very taken by someone called Camille Berman from Limoux!”

“Well Paul, it’s about time you met someone nice,” said Mme Guillard. “Tell me more.”

“She was a member of the cast and we spoke briefly. That’s all!”

“Oh, that’s all, is it?” replied my father. “I think someone who wrote,
To Paul, with much appreciation
on your programme has more in mind than ‘that’s all’. Don’t you think so Esther?”

“It was only her autograph. I liked her singing.”

“Camille Berman from Limoux”, Mme Guillard pondered, “I know Berman’s from Limoux. My aunt Marie moved there after the last war and Jean and I used to visit occasionally. Yes, I remember now. Berman! They had a vineyard at Villelongue, just outside the town. They made exquisite wine, Solomon.”

“Well I hope they still do”, my father responded.

I folded my arms defiantly. The conversation was becoming preposterous.

“I’ll be sure and ask her if I see her again”

“I’m sure you will see her again Paul”, Mme Guillard assured me. “Is she Jew or Gentile? Do you know Solomon?”

I was now raising my eyes to the ceiling in disbelief.

“I wouldn’t think she was Jew, Esther. They went to La Coupole after the performance.”

“Tut, tut, Paul”, Mme Guillard exclaimed sarcastically. “I really don’t know if I approve of that.”

“It was my first time!” I protested. “Maurice Chevalier was there. He sang his new song.”

“I like Maurice Chevalier”, Mme Guillard remarked, “He has a fine voice and he is very handsome.”

“Well, I shall keep you informed of developments Esther”, my father said as he began to leave the shop, “and you never know, maybe we shall have Maurice Chevalier singing for us at the synagogue.”

Mme Guillard laughed loudly.

“Camille doesn’t know Maurice Chevalier,” I whispered as we left. “And that was so embarrassing. Why did you have to humiliate me like that?”

My father seemed confused.

“Humiliate you?” he replied, “That wasn’t my intention.”

“Well what then?”

“We were just talking, Paul. It was nothing.”

“It was ridiculous.”

We continued in silence to the synagogue. As I made to leave he gripped my arm and said,

“How is the shop going? You never talk about it.”

“You never ask me about it.”

“I have wanted too many times but I thought you might find it rude or presumptuous of me to intrude. Have you sold many paintings? Are you working on anything?”

“I sold one painting last week, a small watercolour of Rue Pavee. I am working on some portraits at the moment.”

“You have a sitter?”

“Yes, she comes on Saturday which is why I must rush.”

I turned away and walked quickly along the street, annoyed with myself for lying to him. I had walked about two hundred metres before I looked back. He was still there, looking at me.

When I arrived at the shop, two people were waiting, George and Sandy Dawson from Akron Ohio! It was their first visit to Paris. Sandy spoke French extremely well. George simply smiled a lot.

“We always wanted to visit”, Sandy informed me. “Now that George has retired and the children have grown up we have the time.”

They told me it was their fortieth year together. George had worked as a travelling salesman for an insurance firm and seemed to have been quite successful. They had been passing the shop and had noticed the Lautrec sketches. This was a common occurrence. I told them they were for display only and not for sale. Many times people had asked about them and I always refused to sell. I didn’t really know why. I needed the money. We spent a pleasant fifteen minutes together and I tried to interest them in my own work but they declined to buy. Eventually they left and I wished them a pleasant stay.

I closed the shop and retired to the back room to continue with Camille’s portrait. I abandoned my initial attempt and began again by drawing the eyes, nose and mouth. I concentrated on remembering how her lips curled when she smiled, the wrinkled furrow on her brow when she disapproved of something, how she tilted her head slightly to the left when she asked a question and how her eyes, always opened wide, reflected a curious fascination of the world. By the time I completed the drawing, I had convinced myself it was a good likeness. Now I assembled my paint and brushes. I focused initially on the nose before slowly and meticulously moving to the eyes and mouth and applying intricate details of her complexion. Finally I recreated her beautiful hair, floating delicately around her face.

When I finished I realised that dusk had fallen. I had been working all day and now I was hungry. I scrutinized the painting from all angles. I had attempted to capture her soul and not simply recreate her features. Her eyes stared at me from the canvass and her mouth revealed the hint of a smile.

My father was still at the synagogue when I returned home and I was happy for the opportunity to enjoy the solitude of the house. He had made some thick chicken soup and I ate two bowls along with some Challah that he had bought that morning from Lunel’s bakery around the corner in Rue d’Ormesson. After dinner, I poured myself a glass of cognac and turned on the radio. A music programme was playing
Beethoven’s Concerto in D Major
. I was tempted to sit in my father’s chair but thought better off it. He would be disappointed if he discovered I had used it. And he would know because I would feel guilty and he would immediately sense that. Despite his sometimes irritating behaviour he was an honest man and I had difficulty lying to him. It was even more so with my mother.

I was nine years old when I stole four red roses from outside Mme Guillard’s shop. I had an accomplice, my friend Anshel Drezner. It was the eleventh day of Cheshvan, the eighth month of our year and the day we traditionally set aside to celebrate our mothers. After the theft Anshel and I shared the roses. When I entered the apartment I could hear my mother singing in the kitchen. She was preparing Cholent. I tiptoed to the bathroom, wrapped some toilet paper around the stems and splashed water on the petals. The fragrance was strong and sweet. I entered the kitchen, nervous and apprehensive.

“These are for you Mama.”

She looked surprised.

“Oh Paul, they are beautiful.”

I was so happy when she took them from me and held them lovingly to her face.

“What a beautiful perfume.” She said

She knelt down and took my hands, smiling broadly and looking me in the eyes with a strong gaze.

“You know Paul; smell is the most spiritual of all the senses. It was the only human sense that did not play a part in the downfall of Adam and because of that was deemed sacred by our elders. Roses are grown for their beauty and their smell and to give roses as a gift is a sacred act.”

She leaned forward and kissed me gently on the forehead.

“Thank you.”

My body stiffened and I began trembling, beginning with my head, then moving into my neck, along my shoulders and down my arms. My mother gripped my shoulders.

“What’s the matter darling?”

It seemed that at any moment my head would explode from my body. I freed myself from her grip and ran into the living room where I fell on to the couch and buried my head in the cushions. A hot flush of tears came quickly. I felt my mother sitting down beside me and placing her hand gently on my back.

“What is it Paul? What is the matter?”

I shook my head violently. She grabbed me and turned me round, forcing me to look at her. I clenched my eyes shut as I could not bear to see her face. Then she pulled me to her and embraced me with her strong arms. I buried my head between her breasts and sobbed uncontrollably.

“There, there my son”, she murmured.

I told her everything.

“We must return them to Mme Guillard”, was all she said as she retrieved the flowers from the kitchen and walked to the hall. “Are you ready? You must come with me Paul.”

Outside, she took my hand and led me forcefully across the square. I kept my head lowered, convinced that everyone we passed knew of my crime. When we arrived at Mme Guillard’s she marched me inside and told her what happened.

“I see”, Mme Guillard responded. “Wait here young man.”

She directed my mother to a corner of the shop and left me alone among the flowers. After a short conversation they returned.

“Your mother and I have discussed the matter”, Mme Guillard announced, “and we have agreed that you must recompense me for what you have done. Obviously you have no money so I have suggested that you work here for two weeks. Your payment will be the price of the roses you have stolen. Naturally, we must also obtain your father’s permission and your mother will talk to him this evening. You may keep the roses. I do not want to see them again.”

“You must also apologise to Mme Guillard for what you have done”, my mother added.

I immediately began to cry.

“I am sorry Mme Guillard”, I sobbed!

“You are sorry for what”, my mother asked.

“I am sorry for stealing your roses Mme Guillard.”

With that, my mother thanked Mme Guillard and walked me briskly out of the shop and back to the apartment. Once inside, she ordered me to go to my room.

“You have school work to complete.”

I sat on the edge of my bed like a condemned prisoner waiting for my father to return from the synagogue. I emptied my satchel of school books on the bed but had no inclination to open them. I lay down and closed my eyes.

When dreams come to us in sleep there is no warning, no announcement they are about to begin. One moment my head was laying on the pillow, my eyes swamped with tears, staring aimlessly at a picture of the Eiffel tower pinned to my wall, the next I was laying in a garden listening to sounds of insects and watching the slanted rays of the sun strike a white wall creating nebulous patterns of shape and colour. The patterns resembled the face of a woman who appeared to speak to me with no voice, her lips twisting and curling sensuously among the flickering beams of light. A fly tickled my nose. I turned to see a stream flowing swiftly beside me and two red roses caught in a swirling eddy beside some rocks. In the distance I heard a piano playing some ragtime tune I did not recognise. The wind gusted gently over my face and the trees began to sing a song of twilight. Then everything faded to silence and I lay among stillness. In the distance I heard the rumbling roar of what sounded like an explosion. I heard it again, more defined this time. It seemed nearer.

As with the beginning of dreams the conclusion always moves seamlessly into reality. I was being woken by a loud knock on my door. I opened my eyes. Dusk was settling and my room was streaked with shadows. Initially, I had no recollection of what had happened until I saw the books on the bed.

“Paul, come out here please!”

I went to the door and opened it. The light from the hallway blinded me momentarily as I followed my father to the living room. He beckoned me to sit on the couch. My mother sat beside me as he moved to the middle of the room and addressed me formally.

“Your mother has told me of the incident with the roses. I have been to speak with Mme Guillard and apologized unreservedly for your wicked behaviour. Anshel Drezner’s father and mother are also appalled and they will deal with Anshel in their own way. I have accepted Mme Guillard’s suggestion regarding your punishment and I must say that your mother and I are grateful for her understanding in the matter. Don’t you know she was within her rights to call the Gendarmes? You may thank God that she has chosen to keep this within our community so for the next two weeks you will help out in her shop after school. I have thrown the roses away. Your mother and I do not want them in the house.”