Her role in my life was hard to describe. I first saw her at the table by the boat pond in the Tuileries gardens. She had to be well in her fifties then. I was forty. I would sit on a bench and write articles for my newspaper column. One day she walked up, umbrella to shield her from the sun, and sat a short distance from me. I thought she was stunning. Much older than me, yes, but filled with a grace and quiet beauty that caught my attention right away. And every Saturday after that, I would sit and write and she would walk up and sit facing the water and feed the ducks.
It was so simple, and yet I began to become fascinated with this woman. I fabricated elaborate stories in my mind so that I might feel closer to her. Over time, I began to direct my column around her. And my readership grew. I never named the park, so that no one could ever spoil what was.
I would get fan letters from romantics all over France. They would want to know more about her, her name, her back story. But I never knew those things myself. She was a canvas on which I painted a picture of idealized love, and peace, and all this in a world that seemed less and less interested in such things.
And still my readership grew.
This went on for ten years. I grew our story into something that captured the imagination of thousands of French readers. I used her as a mirror that reflected my hopes, as a springboard for a certain sort of acceptance that erased all the confusion that might have come before, if only for a moment. And then I decided it was time to stop. I ended my last column with these words, “She stood from her chair, the same chair from which I had projected my dreams for so long. She turned towards me, looked directly at me from below the brim of her hat, made eye contact with me, smiled, nodded slightly, and then walked away. I felt a deep and profound love for this woman, the woman who gave all of us a reason to believe again in a world that is capable of redemption, of dignity, and of a warmth that covers you and embraces you through the ocean of grey that otherwise rules our days.”
I would get fan letters from romantics all over France. They would want to know more about her, her name, her back story. But I never knew those things myself. She was a canvas on which I painted a picture of idealized love, and peace, and all this in a world that seemed less and less interested in such things.
And still my readership grew.
This went on for ten years. I grew our story into something that captured the imagination of thousands of French readers. I used her as a mirror that reflected my hopes, as a springboard for a certain sort of acceptance that erased all the confusion that might have come before, if only for a moment. And then I decided it was time to stop. I ended my last column with these words, “She stood from her chair, the same chair from which I had projected my dreams for so long. She turned towards me, looked directly at me from below the brim of her hat, made eye contact with me, smiled, nodded slightly, and then walked away. I felt a deep and profound love for this woman, the woman who gave all of us a reason to believe again in a world that is capable of redemption, of dignity, and of a warmth that covers you and embraces you through the ocean of grey that otherwise rules our days.”
Eventually I withdrew myself from public life, and settled in to a new direction, writing novels under a pseudonym, and enjoying a brand new life of quiet contemplation and professional anonymity.
One day, I was sitting at a cafe, having a coffee and enjoying the cool spring air, when a piece of music began playing from the cafe. It was beautiful, somewhat baroque, and immediately I was drawn back to this woman and her silent beauty. As I listened, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and to my surprise I found myself joined by the very same woman to which I had given so much of my creative self for the last decade.
She sat at my table, looking at me. Neither of us said a word. We simply sat, watched one another, and listened to the music.
When it was done, she reached across the table, touched my hand, and we walked away from this world, and into a field of windblown grass, covered by blue skies. And there was nothing more to it than that.
One day, I was sitting at a cafe, having a coffee and enjoying the cool spring air, when a piece of music began playing from the cafe. It was beautiful, somewhat baroque, and immediately I was drawn back to this woman and her silent beauty. As I listened, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and to my surprise I found myself joined by the very same woman to which I had given so much of my creative self for the last decade.
She sat at my table, looking at me. Neither of us said a word. We simply sat, watched one another, and listened to the music.
When it was done, she reached across the table, touched my hand, and we walked away from this world, and into a field of windblown grass, covered by blue skies. And there was nothing more to it than that.
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