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In solitude, I often felt Héloïse's absence. I had retained my liberty after our metamorphic encounter but she didn't. Shortly after I had left, she had to travel to Milan and become someone's wife. As a married woman, one has little to no liberty. It pained me to think about it, to think about the happiness Héloïse lost. She loved freedom yet she had so little of it, even in France. Now she is a wife… and a mother. I wouldn't dare to think about the constraints of her life. I know there is nothing I could do to save her from them, not when I'm a woman myself, one that isn't particularly rich either.
I had accepted our fate when I left her house - that we shall never meet again. It weighed on me, it still does. I saw Héloïse once more at the theatre, listening to Vivaldi's Four Seasons . She didn't see me. All I could do was hope that she had music in her life. Music, the opera, theatre, art. All of that was available to her at the tip of her finger in Milan. It gave me peace, knowing she likely had beauty in her life. She was arresting that night and the entire time, I watched her, not the performance. Whatever was happening on the stage didn't matter to me. Héloïse was mere metres away from me, wonderfully alive, her chest rising with breaths and sobs, her heart likely beating wildly, her cheeks glistening with tears I ached to kiss. Yet I couldn't touch her. I couldn't kiss her and I couldn't hold her. I wanted to, God knows I'd never wanted anything more in my life. But it was impossible. She was a married woman and I was leaving Milan anyway. She never looked at me. Not once. Ever since that night, I have wondered what I would've done had she looked at me, just a small glance my way. She was engrossed in the opera and there I was, only a look away ready to bare my heart for her again. Had our eyes locked, I would've ran through the theatre and found her. I'm not sure what I would've done but it would've been something . A word, a glance, a touch. Anything would've been enough.
After that, I accepted that I'll never see her again. Fate could not be graceful enough to grant us two chance encounters like that. We would need to go out looking for one another, chasing each other through half a continent. We'd need to wish for it and pray for it and beg the universe for it. Our story was over and there was nothing either of us could do about it except accept it.
But fate has a funny sense of humour it seems.
It was May, seven years since I had left Héloïse and her love behind. Milan has woken up from the deep sleep of winter and the slumber of spring. My father sent me to an art sale with some of our paintings, and to pick up a landscape his friend, and one of his benefactors, had bought from a local artist. A routine trip, one I make to many cities around Europe quite often.
Art sales can either be magical or chores. It all depends on the city, the locations, the people in attendance, the art being displayed. I have met interesting people at these, and have made friends too. This one, so far, seems like a chore. I've found a seat on the window, in the part of the exhibition floor with ceramics and small sculptures, and it is nearly completely deserted. Just metres away from me, in the main room, with no separation of walls, it is like a different world. Lively, bustling, with voices and laughter and the clacking of heels on the wooden floor. Here in my little world by the window, I yearned for the outdoors. The sun was brilliantly shining outside, giving life to the tenderly awoken nature. I wanted to be by the sea, I wanted to run, to fly, to do anything but sit in a stuffy room. I couldn't bring myself to focus on art. As much as I loved it, I craved the pinnacle of art - nature itself. So many of the paintings hanging all around me were landscapes and different scenes set in nature. Some were so vivid and realistic they captured you and kidnapped you, fully taking you into the world constrained to the canvas and frame. However, with one look outside, to trees bursting with life, to flowers painting a rainbow on the grass, the paintings were no longer a magic world but cotton, pigment, oil and turpentine.
“Mademoiselle, my deepest apologies.”
I was taken from my daydreams by the voice of one of the curators of the art sale. He was standing in front of me, a large man with a kind face, all red with perspiration all over him.
“What happened?” I asked, unsure what prompted the apology.
“The painting your dear father requested is at our storage, it isn't here in the building. I shall have it ready for you tomorrow morning, all packed and ready. Again, I apologise about this inconvenience.”
I kept myself from sighing. It isn't the end of the world, is it? “That's quite alright,” I smiled a little, seeing his anxiety. “I will see you tomorrow morning then.”
He relaxed his shoulders. “Nine in the morning, it will be ready for its journey.”
“Wonderful,” the smile was more forced this time. “I shall be on my way now. Thank you.”
Before the man had the chance to pull me into a lengthy conversation about this artist and that vase, I stood up from my seat and walked quickly towards the exit, the less busy one at the end of the ceramics exhibition room. My shoes and their heels were making a sound that was almost violent when placed against the quiet. It only made me hurry more. There was a whole city, wonderfully alive, for me to explore.
“Marianne!”
I stopped abruptly. Before my senses caught up, annoyance had started rising up inside of me, thinking the curator was running after me. But it wasn't a male voice, and there aren't many people in this city who would call me Marianne. Certainly no one with perfect French pronunciation.
“Marianne…”
Quieter now, still with a sense of urgency. Unmistakable. Unforgettable. I swallowed. My right hand found itself in a first, short nails digging into my skin to wake myself in case this was just a cruel dream and I was dozing by the sunny window, still waiting for the curator. I forced myself to turn around.
There she was. She wasn't my own Eurydice and I wasn't Orpheus. Not a mirage or a ghost, there was Héloïse, standing just a handful of metres away from me. In the flesh, her cheeks pink, her hands clasped in front of her waist. A dark blue dress, her hair pinned up, a pendant around her neck. The perfect wife of a distinguished Milanese gentleman.
“Hello,” Héloïse said in French once she caught my gaze. “I thought I saw you.”
I couldn't quite catch my breath following the casual manner of her speech. “Hello,” I said after a prolonged pause. “It is you.”
“It is,” Héloïse said, a smile pulling at her lips. “It has been a rather long time, hasn't it?”
“I didn't think I'd ever utter another word to you again,” I wasn't sure why I said it. It was the plain truth. After seeing Héloïse at the theatre, I had considered it a miracle, a goodbye to our love. Now she was in front of me, speaking and breathing and looking at me. How can one cope with it?
“You're even less hopeful than I am,” Héloïse said. “We are here now. Shall we, I don't know, have dinner tonight?”
I nearly laughed. “Dinner?”
“Yes,” Héloïse nodded shortly. “It will be late enough soon. In the meantime, we can talk. You can meet my daughter.”
My heart started beating in my throat. Her daughter. I knew she had a child. I had seen her portrait with the girl once, last year. It hardly felt real. The painting was like a story someone had told me, one full of imagination. Meeting the little girl would make the distance between Héloïse and me even greater.
“I would love that,” I said in the end. All I could do was accept her invitation to become privy to her life. She looks content, happy even. The last time I saw her back in France, I was leaving her and anger was palpable in her expression and every word she spoke. Now, she wasn't angry to see me, to speak to me, even though she knew I was still a mere visitor and I wouldn't be in Milan for long.
“Shall we then?” Héloïse said, nodding her head towards the exit. I mirrored her, nodded quickly and turned on my heel, ready to flee from the building. I needed air. Golden hour fast approaching, the weather outside was most welcoming. Not scorching hot, not cold enough for a shawl or a cape. Héloïse easily matched my stride and I wasn't quite sure where we were going despite leaving first. Wordlessly, I let Héloïse guide me through the streets of Milan.
“Are you still working with your father?” she asked as we walked. Just two friends catching up, maybe on their way to church, or a restaurant. That is what people around us were seeing. They had no clue that once upon a time, I worshipped Héloïse's body and speaking to her now felt like the most outlandish fantasy to me. A very welcomeone, but a fantasy nevertheless.
“I am,” I replied. “That is why I'm in Milan, at the art sale. What were you doing there?” A bold question. Did I really want to know?
“I often go to art sales,” Héloïse said. I looked at her to see her staring at the pavement underneath our feet. She shrugged and gave me a short look, her eyes piercing. “I like art. I have the funds to buy it, to support artists. I see the work of your and your father's studio sometimes.”
I lost my breath. I had never thought that Héloïse would see my work. Outside of the fateful painting of her I made. “Milan is a good market for art,” I said, trying to be nonchalant. “We send a lot of paintings here.”
“How fortunate,” Héloïse said. “Your art is beautiful. You deserve to be successful.”
I didn't know how to reply to that. After a prolonged silence. Héloïse started commenting on the places they passed, on shops and other people's houses, local gossip. It gave me the very first and invaluable look into her life in Milan. She likes going to the butcher's herself sometimes, because her cook never gets the nice cuts despite having the budget for it. She has a French seamstress whose little shop has a lot of dried flowers in the display window. She doesn't go to church unless her husband is home. Little details that showed me just how different her life is now. I soaked them in, every single thing Héloïse divulged to me.
Soon enough, we were in front of a nice townhouse. The facade wasn't ornate but it had three floors and an attic, which was more than respectable. Héloïse knocked on the door and a maid opened the door. She quickly introduced me to the girl, whose name was Cecilia, and said I would be staying for dinner. Cecilia just nodded and scurried away, off to help with dinner.
Héloïse turned around and looked at me, smiling softly. “Come,” she said. “I would like you to meet my daughter, Lilianne.”
I numbly nodded and followed her. Her name was beautiful and I knew it belonged to a little girl that looked so much like her mother, with wavy blond hair and curious blue eyes. I was aching to meet her, this little human who grew from the woman I loved even with the marrow in my bones.
We went upstairs to a room that looked over the garden. There were two tall windows and a plethora of toys, dolls and games. Lilianne was sitting on a window seat with pillows around her, a large baby doll with long hair in her arms. She was trying to tie a bow around her hair.
“Lili,” Héloïse said. I felt the smile in her voice without having to look at her. “Would you like to meet mama's friend?” She was speaking in French, which warmed my heart. Héloïse left her homeland behind reluctantly. I am glad she is not surrounded by a strange language at all times.
Lilianne finally gave them attention. She looked from her mother to me curiously, wondering who this stranger in her room was. But she nodded and then Héloïse touched my elbow, which neary sent me to the floor. We got closer to Lilianne and Héloïse sat down next to her and hugged her.
“Lilianne, this is my very good friend from France, Marianne,” Héloïse told Lilianne. She kept her gaze on me and I didn't want to, I really didn't want to but I felt like weeping. She smiled and kissed the top of Lilianne's head. “Marianne,” she continued. “This is my daughter Lilianne. We do call her Lili too. And she's how old?”
“Four and a half,” Lilianne said. “Mama said when I'm five I will know how to read.”
I didn't like children. Not because of anything but the fact I was never around them and therefore didn't know how to interact with them, how to be with them. But this was Héloïse's daughter, it wasn't a random child I saw in the street or at a celebration. She was the daughter of the woman I loved so much it was etched into my heart with molten iron and if she was even half as brilliant as her mother, which I was sure she is, I would have to find space for her in my heart as well. So I crouched down in front of her and smiled.
“I have no doubt of that, Lilianne,” I said. “You must be a very smart girl.”
“She is,” Héloïse said. “You like music too, don't you, darling?”
“I do,” Lilianne nodded. “Mama wants to teach me how to play the piano. She plays very nicely.”
“I know,” I nodded shortly. “Music is one of the reasons why your mama and I are friends. Music is wonderful.”
I made the mistake of looking at Héloïse. She was watching me, her lips tilted in a light smile. The same face from seven years ago watching me, but not loving me anymore. It was almost unbearable, the feeling rising up in my chest. I never would've believed seeing Héloïse again would make my rationality nearly dissipate into the ether. I couldn't forget the past, I couldn't forget the love. We were lives apart now but I still knew how it felt to lay my cold hand on her warm hip and draw her into me. I remembered her gaze when she was angry, when she was happy. I couldn't forget her laughter and her passion when she was argumentative.
“Marianne is a painter,” Héloïse said suddenly, taking her eyes off of me. “Would you like to show her your sketchbook? Maybe you can draw a picture together, what do you think, Lili?”
The girl was up on her feet the moment Héloïse said it, running off to a chest of drawers and pulling out her drawing supplies and a large bound book of plain papers. She dragged it all closer to us and put it down on a small table. I went over and sat patiently as she showed me her drawings, typical drawings a child would make given a pencil and a paper but in her mother's eyes, she was a master. I praised her, as one would a child and I meant it. There are far too little women in the arts, even fewer who take it seriously and not as a hobby such as embroidery.
Héloïse then suggested I should draw Lilianne. I protested but she insisted, saying it would be quick, ready just in time for us to go to dinner. Once Lilianne looked at me expectantly, not even verbally encouraging her mother, I couldn't say no. I had Lilianne sit in the little window seat holding her doll, just like when we had come in the room. This time, she was looking right at me and the doll was merely a prop. I started drawing and Héloïse stayed close to me, sometimes so close I could feel her breath on me. She was looking over my shoulder quite a lot, not making a single sound while doing so. The sound of my pencil on the paper overpowered the noise in the room.
Lilianne was a good model, especially for a child and she barely moved. A few times Héloïse encouraged her, told her she was doing well. I tried to engage her in small talk, asked her what her doll's name was, if she was her favourite, silly things a child might be inclined to answer. The absurdity of the situation wasn't lost on me. I was sitting in the house of Héloïse's husband, with Héloïse and her daughter, who I was drawing using paper from her sketchbook. The previous day, I had thought today would be the most boring day in history. And there I was, travelling in time and seeing the future. What was even time? What was life, what was love? Was this fate or luck?
“And that is done,” I said and wrote the date in the corner of the paper, leaving a signature there too, a tiny one. “All for you, Lili.”
Lilianne jumped off the window seat and ran to me. Her eyes went wide at the drawing. “It looks like me!”
“It does,” I chuckled. “It is you. It has to look like you.”
“Thank you, Marianne,” Lilianne grinned at her. “I will cherish it.”
“Thank you for modelling for me, I am pleased you are happy with the drawing.”
“Of course she is,” Héloïse interjected. “It's lovely.”
“Thank you,” I said and I stood up, finally level with Héloïse. “She's a very well-behaved child.”
“She is,” Héloïse nodded once. “Thank you for indulging her.”
“It's my pleasure,” I said.
Then a bell sounded through the house. Héloïse perked up. Dinner.
Downstairs in the dining room, a spread already waited for us on the table. I was a little surprised to see that Cecilia, and the cook, introduced as Yvonne, both joined us at the table. However, knowing Héloïse, it wasn't surprising at all. Having an unorthodox household is just what I would expect from her. She had refreshing humanity not many people had, let alone people of her standing. I still remembered her friendship with Sophie. It was heartwarming she continued the tradition.
Despite being a guest, being the one person there disrupting the mundanity of their everyday routine, no one particularly cared about it and they acted like I was regularly joining them for dinner. I liked that. Héloïse was always so solid and familiar in her manner in the way that she treated every novelty like something that's been there all along. She just met you and yet, you weren't a stranger, you were an old friend she has known for a decade. She made you feel like you belonged, wherever you were. She treated people like individual human beings, not like supporting characters in her story or empty faces in a painting.
I didn't try to draw too much attention to myself during dinner. Never having loved talking about my profession, or myself, I let the table carry on with their usual conversations and ate the delicious food that had been served. This was not the dinner I had been expecting when Héloïse invited me over. I had thought that it would be just us, perhaps with her daughter, talking about our lives, about everything we have missed in the seven years or so that we had been apart. In a way, however, this was it. I could not have gotten a better glimpse into Héloïse life than to see how a normal dinner goes for her, how she interacts with her daughter and with the people that live in her husband's house. Perhaps I was lucky that the husband in question wasn't home. Neither of us have mentioned him. The idea of him looms somewhere in the distance but ignorance is bliss, and I shall keep wanting to be blissful.
As our meal drew to a close, Yvonne started tidying up the table and Cecilia took Lilianne to bed. Then it was just me and Héloïse and our silence.
“The food was lovely, thank you for the invitation,” I said. This must be it. Our brief time together ending with a glass of red wine and an Italian pastry. Who knows how many years will have passed before we see each other again?
“Thank you for accepting my invitation,” Héloïse said. She smiled, a little mischievously, just like she used to when she watched me paint her. “Are you free for the remainder of the evening? I would like to show you something.”
“I have no other plans,” I said. “Please, go ahead.”
Héloïse nodded and stood up from the table. “Follow me.” I dutifully did as she said. We crossed the hall and she opened the double door to the sitting room. Candles and lamps were already lit in the room and my chest nearly caved in when right after stepping into the room, I came face to face with the portrait of Héloïse I painted a lifetime ago, a whole world away. A spectacular moment in time captured in canvas, the love I had for her poured into every stroke of the brush, into every detail that made the Héloïse in the painting seem ready to step out of it at any moment. I didn't know if her now husband was happy with it, because it certainly wasn't the conventional style but the painting was still hung up proudly and Héloïse still got that marriage proposal that transformed her life forever. I was moored to the floor, unable to take my gaze of the painting until Héloïse loudly opened the cover of a grand piano. I nearly gasped at the sudden noise and tried to compose myself as quickly as possible. I couldn't take another look at the painting.
“I have been taking lessons ever since I moved to Milan,” Héloïse said, already seated on the piano bench. “Music has given me meaning while I'm here. I often thought of you, Marianne. I had a lot of rage inside of me when I came here. It was misplaced.”
I remained silent. I didn't think my commentary was necessary. I understood what she meant and she knew it too.
“Come join me,” Héloïse said. “Vivaldi's Spring. My teacher reworked it into a piano piece on my request.”
Wordlessly, I came to sit next to Héloïse. With our large skirts of the less practical dresses we both chose to wear to the art sale, we barely fit onto the bench. Her body heat, so close to mine. I sat back as far as I could to allow Héloïse to access the keyboard. And then she started playing, from memory. It was truly metamorphosed into something altogether different from the original piece. Yet it was mesmerising. Héloïse grew into a wonderful player and her fingers danced over the keys lightly and skilfully, not missing a beat. Her arm brushed against mine a handful of times, a reminder that she wasn't a piece of my imagination after all. She was flesh and bones and heart and brain, and sitting next to me, playing the most wonderful tune I've heard in my life. I didn't cry, like she did in the theatre, I watched in awe, I soaked in every moment. I watched her. I watched Héloïse's face, her strong profile, her focused expression, the escapee curls around her face. She was my entire heart.
The piece ended. Héloïse breathed out deeply and straightened her back. She looked at me, I met her gaze.
“It was beautiful,” I said. Héloïse nodded so softly you wouldn't see it from a distance. Silence took over the room once more. Conversation was difficult when you have overcome years of silence between one another. This encounter was a disruption in the belief that we were never meant to see one another again. Yet there we were, sitting right next to each other and unable to continue on.
But we had to. One way or another.
“I saw you,” I said. Héloïse frowned gently. “I saw you at the theatre in Milan, years ago, when the orchestra played Vivaldi's Four Seasons . You didn't see me. You cried as they played.”
Héloïse's shoulders dropped, so did her face. “I didn't see you. I didn't know you were there. Or here in Milan.”
“No, you wouldn't have known,” I said. I ached to touch her, so I did. I placed my hand on top of her wrist gently, her soft skin and the wonder of feeling it again bringing tears into my eyes. “The entire time I willed you to look at me. Just a glance my way would have sufficed. Your eyes were only on the stage. I watched you, not the performance and I wanted to run to you but I knew it would only make our heartbreak worse.”
Héloïse swallowed. She didn't dispute being heartbroken, despite it being such a foolish term. “I didn't know, Marianne,” Héloïse said, her eyebrows furrowed. She was starting to get angry but I knew it wasn't at me, it was at the world, at fate if it even existed. We weren't dealt the best hand of cards.
“We can't travel to the past, Héloïse,” I said and fully grabbed her hand. Her fingers were limp at first but then she gripped my hand back and I knew that singular touch would change everything from then on.
“You are here now,” Héloïse said, her grip on my hand iron-strong. “You are here with me, Marianne. You are here, you are in Milan, I am holding your hand.”
I breathed out, laughing gently. “Yes, I am. I am here.”
A smile spread across Héloïse's face. “You have no clue how grateful I am that you haven't forgotten me.”
“I could never,” I said. “We… invented a language, a world. I could never forget that. I could never forget you, Héloïse.”
“It has been many years,” she stated, very simply.
“Yes,” I replied just as easily. “It might as well have been a week. I remember it all. Vividly.”
Héloïse nodded and placed her hand on my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. I closed my eyes, my breath shallow. When I opened them, Héloïse was watching me intently and I was ready to submit myself to the passion between us. I placed my free hand on her skirt, someplace I imagined her thigh or knee might be underneath the fabric.
“Go on,” I beckoned her. “I came here from France. I crossed miles, you need to cross these centimetres.”
Héloïse smirked, just for a flash and then she kissed me. I sighed into it and my hand shot up to cradle her face, to take in as much of her as I could. I never dared to dream about kissing Héloïse again. To forget the feeling of her mouth was impossible but so was trying to relive it, get the chance to kiss her again. Before tonight, we existed in a small pocket of time that we would both cherish forever. Tonight, everything changed.
I couldn't get enough of Héloïse. We kissed passionately, deeply, our hands clutching each other's faces, necks. My fingers found their way into Héloïse's hair, untangling the hairdo and letting her blonde curl fall down. Kissing her was sorcery and I was forever under its spell. Her hot mouth on mine, her tongue touching mine, my heart ready to burst through my rib cage and set the room ablaze. Héloïse, Héloïse, Héloïse - that was all that occupied my brain.
Breathless, Héloïse pulled away, her lips red. “We should go to my bedroom.”
I couldn't agree more.
We went upstairs to a large bedroom, dimly lit and inviting. A large vase full of flowers was scenting the room with a sweet smell. I didn't care where we were, as long as there was a locked door and just Héloïse and I.
When I took her dress off, it felt like unwrapping a newly delivered painting from a master, one you had to approach carefully and your breath caught in your throat with your first glance upon the canvas. In a way, it was a novel experience. We have both changed in the years spent apart and laying my eyes on her naked breasts again after such an age was almost like seeing them for the first time. I took her in, looked at her moles, her curves, every little detail, making a drawing in my mind to remember forever.
Our naked skin pressed together, the comfort of another person's weight on top of you, Héloïse's heat around my fingers. I couldn't get enough of the pure intensity of our connection. I touched Héloïse wherever I could with my hands, with my mouth, with my tongue. I put my hand on her chest and felt her heartbeat, staying still for a good while until she kissed me again and made my entire body tremble like a dying man's. And she did it again and again.
I didn't know what time it was once silence fell upon the room and Héloïse had her face pressed against my chest, holding my waist limply. If the room became my entire universe from then on, I would've been happy. I absentmindedly dragged my fingers up and down Héloïse's back, just the tips of them grazing her soft skin. I loved her, that was the bare truth. I wasn't sure if I had ever tried not to, if I had attempted to bury those feelings that left a mark on me forever. Having Héloïse in my arms, all that love I might have had left in France and poured into paintings, it all came back to me and set me on fire with lightning.
“Isn't it strange that after everything, we found each other again?” I said. The fatefulness of our encounters stayed with me. We lived in different countries, led very different lives and yet we found each other, not once but twice.
“No,” Héloïse said, her answer surprising me. “I wanted to find you.”
“You did?”
“Certainly,” Héloïse scoffed and looked up at me, her chin on my breast. “You were like no other person I have ever met, Marianne. Even that brief time with you changed me. I am not a believer, in God or in fate. I was not going to let it decide whether I would see you or not.”
I brushed her hair from her face, damp from the exertion of our lovemaking. “Were you out looking for me?”
“I admit I could have just commissioned you to paint me again,” Héloïse said. She smiled, almost to herself. “I could have written to my mother, to give me the address to your father's studio. I could have written to you. However, letters get lost all the time. They get mishandled and misposted. How could I have lived with the anticipation and the uncertainty of a letter? You could have read it and never replied and I would have foolishly thought you never got it and I would write you another one and like a fool, I would keep doing that until my heart broke.”
Héloïse held my gaze, her eyes sincere. She touched my face, caressed my cheekbone. I turned my head and pressed a kiss into her palm, holding her hand against my cheek.
“What did you decide to do then?” I asked.
Héloïse smiled. “Art sales. I knew you were selling art, that you were attending these in Paris and in Milan, amongst other cities. I had a portrait painted.”
“I saw it,” I jumped in. Héloïse's eyes lit up in delight. “You did?”
“I did,” I nodded. “Saw you posing with Lilianne. Page number 28. It was probably the happiest I've been since I saw you last. A glimpse of you to last me a lifetime. I almost bought it.”
“Why didn't you?” Héloïse asked.
“My father would never justify such spending and it would attract unnecessary questions from him, and others,” I replied. “I think, eventually, the painting would torment me. It was paint, it wasn't you.” As rosy as her cheeks were in the painting, no one could replicate the pinkish tones I saw then, the warmth of the blood underneath her skin, the glint of her eyes, the lines of her smile. A painting is just someone's likeness, no matter how good the finished product is, how realistic. The great masters might fool you into feeling like their subjects constrained within the frames are following you around with their eyes, that they are going to climb out and take a breath at any point. That is all just a clever illusion. At the end of the day, it is nothing but a piece of canvas or wood, and a concoction of pencils, chalks, paints. Pigments and oils and minerals, nothing more.
“I understand,” Héloïse said. “My plan worked in the end. I found you. You almost ran away from me today. I walked around the room perhaps twenty times and then I saw the back of you and I knew it was you. I took a chance by calling out your name. It could have been a stranger.”
“I'm as good as one now,” I said. “It's been forever, Héloïse.”
“As long as your heart is still beating, it does not matter,” Héloïse shook her head, her chin digging into my skin at this point. “You are here. I can't let you go so easily, Marianne.”
I chuckled softly, curling a strand of her hair around my finger. “Are you going to hide me in the attic? Or the basement?”
“If you are stubborn.”
We both laughed. “I can't stay in Milan. Not now.”
Héloïse's face fell, but she kept her composure. “You come here often, no? We can meet every time you come. You can stay longer sometimes, my friends would love a portrait done by you. I would like another one.”
I knew she wasn't wrong. I came to Milan usually at least twice a year, especially as my father started getting older and I took care of more and more business. I could stay in Milan for a month, or two. I could find commissions. I never had a reason to try it, to spend so much time in Milan.
“You know I'm right,” Héloïse said. She lifted herself up and hovered over me. She kissed me and smiled a little. “Marianne, don't fight it.”
I chuckled breathlessly and put my hands on her waist. “You are a married woman. I don't want trouble.”
“Matrimony doesn't stand for anything against lovers,” Héloïse whispered. “Marianne…”
“Yes,” I breathed out. “I will need to come to Milan again and knowing where you live, I couldn't stop myself anyway.”
Héloïse smiled slowly and kissed me.
“I need to do something first.”
“What?”
“Lay on your side, make yourself comfortable. I need to draw you.”
I took the book on Héloïse's bedside table and found a mostly empty page. She opened the drawer for me and handed me a pencil, smiling. She laid back on her side, letting her arm fall in front of her, crossing her torso. Illuminated by candles, she was the most stunning sight I have ever seen. I leaned over to kiss her again and then I put the pencil to paper.
I knew that I would be leaving with this but it wouldn't be a memento to remember her when she's gone and this would be all I have. It was a reminder that I was coming back, that she would be waiting for me. That I would recklessly follow her anywhere, now that I knew she wanted me to, and where to go in the first place.
When I get back to Paris, I won't have memories and glimpses, paintings and sketches. I will have the promise of Héloïse's warm skin, of her words and her laughter, of her life that she wants to let me glimpse into. That she would be willing to share with me in any capacity that would be possible for us. It was a dream to me but I lived it. Héloïse wasn't gone, not like I had thought for so long. There was distance, surely, but one that we would be able to cross and reunite again. She wouldn't disappear like Euridyce, she is not a ghost. She's alive, with her heartbeat being the sweetest of songs to me, and I get to live in the same pocket of our world as her. We did invent a language on a small island in France and for years, we searched and searched, trying to find someone who might speak a similar dialect to it. It was a fool's errand. Now, we had the chance to not only speak it, but write chapters upon chapters of our love in it.