The Valedictory of a Fake Parisian

Paris is a colour. It’s a colour not renderable to a simple man, but I am an artist so I find myself chasing the allusive hue. The colour flashed by me in a dream at the age of sixteen. It beckoned me out of my house and into the cold French fields in a merciless winter. I found myself hobbling through the snow chasing after the dream that had flown from me.

“Give it back! It’s mine!” I screamed to the wind, but snowflakes that had no mercy sliced at me. As I fell to the ground and my skin turned eerily warm I knew I must find this dream and with it the colour of Paris.

I grew up 226km from Paris in the rural town of Vézelay where snaking grey streets and endless seas of fields invoked stories from my youthful mind. As the other children raced through the fields and rolled in makeshift carts down the street, I would hobble behind in my leg braces painting myself into the fun.

As childish games dissipated and the awkward ages of youth emerged, the braces stayed. With this, I found that my imagination would regurgitate itself onto a canvas. It was from my inability to run freely that I learned to create running images with paint. As friends acquired girlfriends I would stare at Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec’s works like In Bed, Jane Avril, La Toilette, and In Bed The Kiss. I felt his longing. I felt his pain. I understood.

At the age of twenty-six, a decade after my dream was stolen, I decided it was time to chase the colour of Paris. The lonely, empty sea of fields and longing were pushed to the back of my mind as I thought of the towering gothic architecture and decadent people.

So I acquired a little flat that was hidden in a back alley in Paris. It was a mixture of many shades of brown; some differences in the browns were so subtle that only an artist could tell you the difference. The floor was especially a part of my fascination. It was the colour of my morning coffee, and the more sorrowful reason for my floor fascination is sometimes I would fall and be forced to recognize the craftsmanship.

When I found the strength to walk the streets of Paris I would examine every corner, texture, and colour. On one particular walk, I developed an obsession with a particular Paris building. No, it was not the Eiffel Tower or Notre Dame. It was a hospital.

The hospital was made of marble that was tinted a pink blush. Spiral patterns and large windows humbled you. Steeples that served as guides for souls to the sky made your being feel so tiny. It was hallowed ground.

On a cold fall day, my legs cried and the Paris streets talked of an impending storm, but as neighbours stocked up on salted fish from the market and fastened their windows shut I relished in the thought of lassoing my dream from the frenzied wind, despite my pain.

Soon dusk was upon the city. As the sun dipped behind the charming Paris architecture, she painted the sky a dangerous orange. I took my firestick and killed my fire in the fireplace. The coals put up a fight as they longed to produce flames that danced and called for their mother sun, but I put an end to their rebellion.

I pulled a blazer over my shoulders giving my body an almost geometrical appearance, and then trotted into the night. My old friend the wind began to show her face.

The wind called upon her friend the rain. Together they led a brutal assault. Cold water blinded me but my creaking feet brought me to the hospital.

I lay against the marble and silently begged the wind for my dream back but she would not comply. My legs began to scream now. My nerves stabbed me.

Without warning, I am granted sanctuary. I am taken into the hospital feeling like a half-drowned cat pulled from a river. Water dripped from my hair into a puddle on the floor. A nurse tried to speak to me, but pain prohibited my response.

I was whisked away into the bowels of the magic marble building.

When consciousness returned to me, I found myself stripped of my street clothes and in an unflattering gown. I was able to quickly inspect my room. Pink and gold walls were bathed in a white light that contrasted the blackness that came in from a rectangle window.

A dark oak door opened and a woman came in with a tray. She placed it on my lap without a word. The nurse began to prod at my legs. She examined my braces and took mental notes.

I reached for the cup on the tray that held a green tea but my hands shook. Each finger trembled. The nurse took notice and graded the teacup before bringing it to my lips. The liquid coated my throat.

“How long have your legs been like this?”

“Since birth.” The nurse used her finger to wipe some dribble from my lip.

“Do they cause you pain?”

“Very much so.”

“Do you have some family to call?”

“My mother and father reside in Vézelay.”

“Do you wish for us to contact them?”

“No, it will only worry them. When can I leave?”

“Well dear, not for a while. We found you in the rain, you’re running a fever and we should keep track of your legs. They are very damaged.”

“They have been like that since birth. It’s nothing new.”

“You’ve had a raging bone infection since birth? That surely can’t be true or you would be dead.”

The nurse took hold of a buttered bun and brought it to my lips but I refused. The nurse brushed her hand against my face and then left through the dark oak door.

For two weeks I nearly succumbed to boredom and sickness but by some miracle, I had fought off most of the infection, but still, the infection lived on and the idea of death was not far away from me. Twice the staff thought I would die and notified my parents who travelled from Vézelay and stayed in my flat.

In the third week of my hospital stay my parents came to me and discussed the option of me moving into a permanent medicinal residence. I refused.

“It’s on the Seine river,” my father said. “You’ll receive great care for your legs.”

“No.”

“It would be a wonderful place to paint,” my mother added and with that, I agreed, even as my hands shook under my blanket.

My canvases came along with me to the medical asylum. My room there was nowhere near as extravagant as the hospital. The walls were a pale white, and the floors were dirt brown. Yet here I had room for my canvases and paint which brought great comfort.

To get away from the boring confines of my room, I would elicit the help of a wheelchair and search the halls.

One grey day I was searching the halls when I smelled the scent of fresh paint. I followed it to a room where I saw a man facing away from his open door in front of a blank canvas. All around his room were artworks that were as close to perfection as a human could make.

I made my way into the room. I went next to the man and saw his eyes shut, sealed by a cage of eyelashes. My calloused artist fingers drifted toward his eyes without thinking. My shaking hand hovered in front of his face.

“Is someone here?” the man asked and his eyes popped open.

My first reaction should have been to be scared by the lack of iris, but instead, I began to melt inside as I gawked over his eyes which were a beautiful milky white. If I was to take the colour of his eyes I would instantly paint a bouquet of snowdrops, moonflowers, and roses.

The man’s eyes began to flutter in response to my invasiveness.

“Sorry, I couldn’t help but wander in. I wanted to see what you were painting.” “Well, I’m not painting much. More so I’m painting in my mind. Are you a nurse or resident here?” he asked with extreme curiosity.

“A resident. Again I’m so sorry for intruding.”

“I could use some company.” The man reached out and wiggled his fingers. I placed my hand in his and this intimate bridge between us shook. “You’re a fellow artist,” the man said before dropping my hand.

“You could figure that out just from my hand?”

“Your fingers are calloused and we are in Paris aren’t we?” He smiled. I gawked over this man. I tried to study his ambience; read his tenor. I was in awe. He was what I wished to be: a true Parisian. I can’t explain it, they just have that look and aura.

“You’re from Paris aren’t you?” I asked.

“Yes I am, and you?”

“I’m from Vézelay.”

“Ah, beautiful fields out there.”

“Yes, but not as beautiful as these Paris edifices.” I evoked another smile from him then immediately after the dinner bell rang.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Ellis.”

“I’m Eve. Till we meet again. I’m free anytime.”

“Goodbye.”

“Wait, before you go. Is it raining outside?”

“No. It’s only grey.”

“Yes, grey, thank you.”

For two weeks, I soaked up Eve’s work. I studied every paint stroke and decision that was put onto his canvases. We had conversations on colour theory and technique but when the sun set and the evening meal had filled our bellies we went into the caverns of conversation.

I told him about my dream and how it had been stolen by the wind.

“Paris is a colour,” I asserted.

“Yes, it must be,” was Eve’s reply. “I’ve seen it.”

“Really?”

“I am a true Parisian. I’ve been here my whole life. I’ve dined with the rich, slept in the gutters with the poor.”

“I want to see the colour of Paris before I die. I’m running out of time.”

“You’re going to die? Why would you say such a thing?” “It’s true. Have you ever noticed my leg braces?” Eve waved his hand in front of his face and smiled. I let out a childish giggle.

“Oh right. I’ve been in leg braces since I was little. I’ve got a bone infection now, the worst is the shaky hands. I’ve gotten through the worst of it, but infections are a killer.”

“Keep some hope. Now I suppose you have some curiosity about my eyes?”

“Just a little bit,” I joked. Eve sniffled to hold in his laugh.

“I contracted a fever when I was twenty-four. I’m twenty-seven now. I noticed my eyes became fuzzy and in the coming months after my fever, my doctor told me I was going blind. It’s a nightmare for an artist. I found myself painting frantically. One day I could barely see my canvas and in a fit of hysteria, I poured some horrid chemical into my eyes. Of course, it was stupid but I was going blind anyway.” Silence sat between us.

“I don’t know what to say,” I stuttered.

“You don’t need to. Just continue on about your deepest thoughts like we were.” I thought hard about what to ask next.

“What do you think the colour of death is?” I asked.

“Ah, you ask too many complicated questions. Now I don’t know what to say.”

“Will you show me the colour of Paris, Eve?”

“Of course. Go fetch a piece of paper. Grab all my paints, and pick out your favourite brushes. I’ll describe it and you paint it. We’ll make a picture out of the colour of Paris.”

Through the night we worked. My hands cramped, and Eve’s tongue was in knots, but as the orange sun peeked over the horizon, my old friend the wind calmed and came to view the masterpiece that was living on a dejected sketchpad paper.

Eve and I put away our tools and slipped on our jackets before leaving our haven. We went to the edge of the river and feasted on the colour of Paris.

Once we had our fill, my shaking hands threw the painting into the river. Call us selfish but the colour is too much for any mortal’s eyes.

The painting disintegrated in the river and the wind followed her friend, the water.

“So what did you think?” Eve asked. “What did you think of the colour?” I sighed and brought my shuddering hands to my chest.

“I fear only one art form as an artist and that is language. I never know what to say.”

“Just try.”

“For lack of a better word. The colour of Paris is beautiful.”

“Beautiful is perfect enough.”