“The Green Fairy Speaks”

Already the light is changing. It seems darker when I wake and begins to fade before I want to sleep. François is now perennially haloed, though it may only be his hair. He is the picture of tow-headed, my boy who is more a man than any of the men I have known, Georges and Henri and that ridiculous Jean-Claude. They are the boys, more passionate in their notion of fame than their pursuit of it. They spoke of art, of holding a salon to rival the Impressionists, yet produced not a single work between them.

I see that now. I see so much in the changing light, sitting at the window with a café au lait to warm my hands.

Mme. Bernier scolds that I should not take coffee when I cannot take her soup. François says that no one can take the old dear’s soup, and continues to bring me his magical potion despite her protestations.

She teaches me to knit while François is at work. I am making him a scarf in secret, of red wool to brighten his winter coat. He quit waiting tables to take an apprenticeship at the boulangerie when I fell ill. The baker’s daughter is in love with him, but he does not see it. She begged her father to procure the steamer François uses to make my coffee. I do not believe that she begrudges me.

She can afford to wait.

From my window, I can hear the music of the Moulin. François took me there one Sunday afternoon and taught me the steps to the waltz. He was amazed that, after a year in Paris, I did not know them. I knew how to kick and cavort and flip my skirts above my knees, but not how to waltz.

I learned quickly, I loved it so, and he is a patient teacher. Something happens to him when he takes me in his arms. He becomes more than my boy, more than my angel.

He becomes my lover.

The other day he arrived home with a priest and a pawnshop wedding ring. I tried to dissuade him, but he insisted and now I am his wife. It feels no different than it did.

Perhaps it is un peu plus triste.

He loves me, I know, though I don’t know why. He has promised to take me home. After we said our marriage vows, I suggested that my father cannot refuse me now. François said quietly that he will not dare, not when I am returned to him honourably wed with a grieving husband.

The light keeps changing, dimming sooner and sluggish to ignite, but it burns brighter than the dawn around my François.

I will dance with him one last time, here in his tiny apartment while the music drifts toward us on the breeze. I will take his hand and he will put his arm about my waist, and we will spin and whirl in a blur across the floor. When I stumble, he will catch me. He will sweep me up into his arms and continue the dance, waltzing me closer and closer to the ever changing light.

It is not so dark now.