Ansel isn’t at all surprised to see me. He smiles and asks me to come in. Then, he places his lips on the little control I’d seen before, the one I saw him use to move his wheelchair, and again more colors are added to the image on the screen. He’s painting with a computer.
I watch for a few minutes, while Ansel adds a brush stroke here or there, erases it, and tries again. He never seems satisfied with the result. Finally, he sighs and lifts his head.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer. “I never knew you could . . .” my words trail off and bite the dust. I don’t think he understands me, because he doesn’t answer. Instead, he uses his control to click on the corner of the screen and the painting disappears. “Could you pull that cord, there by the bed? I need to call the nurse.”
After I do, I’m completely at a loss for words. Ansel watches me, his face thoughtful, unsmiling. I can’t figure out how to say what I want to, and I’m sure it won’t sound right, anyway. I give up and pull the letters from my bag.
“Look,” I say, as I place the drawing on the table.
“The portrait of Marguerite,” Ansel says. He stares for a moment, as if he too is at a loss for words. Then he looks up at me with a gleam of laughter in his eyes. “Rosie, did you read the signature?”
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging. I’m not about to try to say the name. I still hear Gavin’s voice in my head as he mocks me for slaughtering that word.
“Antonio Grimaldi,” Ansel says, speaking in an incredulous tone. “You don’t know who he is?”
I’m tired of talking. I shrug.
Ansel laughs. “Rosie, you must learn your art history,” he says, chuckling. “Who is he? A very famous Italian artist!” He pauses to catch his breath. “I remember reading once that he was in love with a French actress. And to think, it was Marguerite! Our Marguerite, who lived right next door! Fantastique!”
I like how he says “our” Marguerite. We smile to each other for a moment. Then Ansel looks at his laptop.
“It’s true I am still able to paint in this way,” he murmurs. “But it’s not the same.” He turns to look back at me, his dark eyes holding mine. “When I first woke up in the hospital and knew I could no longer use my hands, I wanted to die.”
My eyes can’t leave his.
“I’ve always had the power to form words with my mouth, but my hands were my true voice. Do you understand?” he asks.
I nod, slowly, finally ready to speak.
“Ansel, I didn’t want to hurt you. I was upset. I’m sorry,” I say, slowly, haltingly, feeling the still-strange sounds of another language bounce around in my mouth, cursing my stupid tongue for never working right. At least the words are recognizable, if not perfect.
His beautiful smile spreads across his face. “I understand. Thank you.”
We don’t speak after that for a while, but for once, I don’t mind the silence. I know Ansel doesn’t, either. There aren’t many people who understand that every single second of an interaction doesn’t need to be filled with words. They’re a rare breed, and I can tell that Ansel is one of them.
Ansel’s screen saver goes on, and a series of photographs of Nice flash onto the screen. I smile at a picture of “the pole guys,” as I’ve come to think of them. Giant night-lights.
“The Conversation,” Ansel murmurs. He glances at me. “Did you know that’s the name of this sculpture?”
“No,” I say. “Why?”
“They speak at night when they light up. Each statue represents one of the seven continents, and when the colors change, it shows that they are talking to one other.”
“Sans mots,” I whisper. Without words.
“Oui,” Ansel whispers. His eyes meet mine. I blink hard to force away tears.
The nurse, a gaunt woman with grey strands of hair pulled into a sparse bun and the haze of a mustache on her upper lip comes in. Her eyes size me up in an unfriendly way. Knowing I’m being dismissed, I pick up the drawing and get ready to leave.
“Rosie,” Ansel says as I reach the door. “You and I have much in common. We both must find different ways to tell the world who we are. That’s what I was trying to show with this painting. When I finish it, it will be yours.”
Tears fill my eyes. This time I let them fall. I don’t trust my voice, so I smile, nod, and fly away.
Twenty-Seven
The morning air is already warm. The briny scent of the ocean and the smell of wet plants and trees fills my nose. Colors fill my head as I watch the scenery blur by. I don’t want to say goodbye to this place.
When I get off the tram at the stop closest to Sylvie’s, someone walks toward me. Someone wearing neon purple board shorts, with orange flames on the sides. I’m glad he’s okay, but that doesn’t mean I want to see him.
But I should. He went into the apartment, thinking I was going to follow. And, he said he wanted to help me. How?
The dark smudges under Gavin’s eyes stand out in stark contrast to his pale skin and fiery hair.
“Hey,” he says, with a kind of half-hearted smile.
“Hey,” I say back after a long second.
We stare at each other. He twitches and scratches at his ear. I look away and pick at my nails. This is going well.