Massage Mat Pt. 02 Ch. 01

"You sound like a native," Beth whispered encouragingly.

The woman's face wrinkled with concentration as she pondered what odd language she might have been addressed in. Then her eyes lit up as she understood.

"Bien sûr. Vous êtes américains!" she exclaimed triumphantly.

"Wee. Wee. Noose amerrycanes!" Angie exclaimed, nodding. Beth nudged her encouragingly. "Eee luh Sontree Pomipdoo?" she asked again.

"Oui, Bien sûr. C'est très facile. Continuer tout droit sur cette rue," the woman offered enthusiastically.

Angie squinted, thought, then nodded slowly. Beth became concerned.

"Puis tournez à gauche sur la rue de Renard," the woman continued more slowly, studying Angie vainly for a sign of comprehension.

Angie frowned and shifted her weight from foot to foot. Finally, she nodded slowly. It seemed to be a nod of understanding, even though it lacked conviction.

"Ici , puis à gauche. Rue Renard." repeated the woman as she pantomimed walking straight down the street they were on, then turning left like a Prussian soldier. She looked dubiously at her new American friends. "Ici. Gauche. Rue Renard," she repeated emphatically, supplementing her words with vigorous gestures.

"Comprenez vous?" she asked without great confidence. Angie smiled broadly, then hugged the woman.

"Wee. Noose comprendy. Mercy boocoo."

After only two wrong turns, they found themselves in the Pompidou Center and its bewildering array of modern art. Several exhausting hours later, they were heading to the "1960-present" room.

"Wow. I really like that woman painter, Miro," Angie told Beth, pronouncing it like "Mirrow." She sounded like a child pronouncing "mirror."

"Who?" Beth asked, puzzled.

"Mirrow. Joan Mirrow," Angie repeated. Beth's brow furrowed.

"Oh. I get it," she said after a moment, "You mean Joan Miró. Well, um, Mister Miró is a he," Beth explained. "And his first name is pronounced "joo-AN." But anyway, he's not a female Joan. Sorry, no points for gender diversity there."

"Shit," Angie muttered, "I really am a hick." Beth hugged her.

"I love you anyway," she assured her. "What do you say we skip the more modern stuff for now? I'm bushed," she added.

"How about a coffee?" Angie asked. "There's a little coffee place over there."

"Sounds good," Beth replied. Then she stopped abruptly. "Hey, wait a minute. What's that crowd all about?"

Angie looked where she was pointing. "Some special collection again, I think." She squinted at the sign identifying the exhibit. "I wish these goddamn French people would use words from my French class," she muttered, shaking her head. Beth patted her back encouragingly as Angie continued to mutter obscenities. In English.

They went over to investigate and soon found the picture that had fascinated the crowd.

"Not again," sighed Angie as soon as she saw it.

"Oh yes—it has to be," Beth said. She had stopped in her tracks and was staring at the picture on the wall before them. It was overwhelming in size and detail, and it required an effort to move one's eyes around it. It seemed to root both of them to the spot where they were standing.

"I want to go see who did it, but I don't want to move," Angie said softly. She was totally captivated by the painting.

"Just find out the title. It's by him. I can tell," Beth said. She sounded like she had just fallen in love.

Angie returned in a second. "It's called "Subconscious Narratives," and yes, it's by him," she reported.

"Great. Ok, it's official. He's a genius," proclaimed Beth. "Now let's get some coffee."

Fortunately, one of the dialogues in Angie's French textbook had been "In the Café," so getting the coffee went without a hitch. Armed with two café au laits, they found an unoccupied table in the midst of what seemed to be an area for the study and discussion of art. Earnest young people attired in fantastic clothing and sporting piercings and tattoos of all types seemed to be engaged in serious art conversations.

As they drank their coffee and people-watched, they noticed a young woman absorbed in a book at the next table. She was so engrossed in it that they became fascinated with her and, then, curious about what she was reading so avidly. Angie craned her neck to get a glimpse.

She read, "Pour Faire le Portrait d'un Oiseau - par Jacques Prévert"

"What is it?" asked Beth, trying to keep her voice down.

"It's a poem of some kind. It's something about a bird—I think," Angie replied. "I wish I had a fucking dictionary."

The woman looked over and smiled. "You like Prévert?" she asked in French-accented English. Beth thought she was incredibly beautiful in spite of the fact that she was dressed in baggy, non-descript clothing and wore no makeup or jewelry. Soft brown hair framed a face that was boyishly good-looking, and large, lustrous brown eyes sparkled with life and energy. Her mouth turned up in a cute, crooked smile that made adorable dimples on her round cheeks.

"What are you reading?" Beth asked, gesturing toward her book. "We were just curious because it seems very interesting to you." The young woman smiled again and wrinkled her small, perky nose.

"Oh, yes it is," she replied. "I am reading the poetry of Jacques Prévert. His poems are like music, but they are also like paintings. They are very beautiful for me."

"The one you're reading now—it's about a bird?" Angie asked.

"Yes. It is called 'To paint the portrait of a bird,'" the woman said. "It is difficult to make it sound the same in English. But it says to paint the bird you must first paint a cage, then other things, then a tree and so forth. And then you must wait for the bird—perhaps a long time—but that does not matter. The bird may come, and even if he comes he may not sing. But if he sings you know you've made a good painting. And then you paint away the bars of the cage and sign your name..." she looked up with a start. "Oh mon Dieu! I am very sorry, miss. I did not mean to upset you," she said. Instinctively, she reached out and rested her hand on Beth's arm.

Angie looked across the table. Beth was crying.

"No, no," Beth said hastily. "It is a beautiful sentiment—a beautiful poem. It is about being an artist—about creating," she said as more tears ran down her face. "It is—very—waiting for the bird to sing... All I can say is that his means more to me than all of the art we have seen. It was worth coming to France to learn of this poem."

The young woman looked at her and smiled admiringly. Beth could see that she understood exactly what she had been trying to say. She understood Beth's heart, just as Beth understood hers.

The young woman extended the book to Beth. "Here," she said, "please take this book. I can easily get another."

"Thank you, but I don't want to take away your poetry," Beth told her. "Besides, I can't read French."

The woman stood, walked over and placed the book in Beth's hands. Then she knelt next to Beth's chair and put her lips close to Beth's ear.

"It does not matter if you can read the words," she whispered to Beth. "You have the soul of an artist. I hope this book will give you wings—like our bird." Beth turned and looked at her. The young woman's face was very close. It took all of Beth's willpower to resist the urge to kiss her.

Instead, Beth reached out and squeezed her hand, too moved to speak. In an instant, the young woman embraced her, squeezing her tightly. They both had tears running down their face.

Angie stood and came over to them. She gently stroked the young woman's hair, encouraging her embrace of Beth. "What is your name?" she asked softly.

"Marie-Ange," replied the woman, turning to Angie. "I am an art student."

"Well, I'm Angie. And you have an armful of Beth," she said, smiling.

"An armful?" the woman asked, not understanding. Then she got it. "Oh," she laughed, "Oh yes. My arms are very full of Beth."

"And now my arms are full of Marie-Ange," said Beth, smiling and giving their new friend an affectionate hug. They looked at each other for a moment and then, spontaneously, kissed.

Marie-Ange blushed and looked at them both. "I am sorry. The two of you are—I don't know how one says this in English—un couple—dans l'amour?"

Beth nodded. "Yes. We are married, actually." She showed Marie-Ange her wedding ring.

Marie-Ange looked horrified. "Mon Dieu, I must apologize," she said to Angie. Her face was red with embarrassment. "I did not mean to..." Angie ended her attempted apology by kissing her. Marie-Ange smiled brightly.

"It's ok, Marie-Ange," Angie told her. "We are not possessive of each other." She winked. "And it seems that you don't mind kissing girls."

"Definitely not," Marie-Ange replied decisively, "Girls are to be preferred for this activity."

Angie could tell that Beth and their new friend had a great deal in common, and yearned to get to know each other better. She made a decision.

"Marie-Ange, may we treat you to dinner?" she asked. "It would be wonderful to get to know you a bit more."

"Oh, yes," Marie-Ange said immediately. "I would very much like that." She saw Beth and Angie exchange a significant glance. "May I suggest a nice bistro not far from here?"

The restaurant was cozy and not crowded, and it had a beautiful view of the Seine. The meal was excellent, and they had a wonderful conversation about their families, art and travel. As they were finishing, Marie-Ange excused herself to go to the restroom, leaving Beth and Angie alone.

Angie looked across at Beth. She was clearly relaxed and very happy. Angie reached across and squeezed her hand. Beth blinked, as though awaking from a dream and looked back at Angie.

"You really like her, don't you," Angie asked, smiling from ear to ear.

"I do," Beth blurted out. Then she hastily added, "But not like that, Angie."

Angie's grin got wider. "You can't fool me, Beth Miller," she said softly. Beth blushed. "Look," Angie told her, "if this is important to you..." She paused. "Remember the conversation we had about Jason. I'm all in on this, remember."

Beth smiled. "I know," she said, squeezing Angie's hand. "You do so much for me." She cleared her throat as she saw Marie-Ange exit the restroom. "Anyway. I want to spend time with her—but not making love. It's not like that with her, Angie. I can't really explain it, but it's not about sex."

Angie looked at her questioningly as Marie-Ange returned to her chair. "Just go with your—um, feelings," Beth said, smiling sweetly.

Marie-Ange smiled brightly at them. Angie closed her eyes, and Beth could see that she was concentrating. After a few seconds, Angie's eyes opened. She turned to Marie-Ange.

"Marie-Ange, I have to tell you something," she began.

"Yes?" Marie-Ange asked. Beth marveled at how completely open she was. Receptive. Vulnerable.

"I know that Beth is—shall we say—in love with you," Angie told her. Marie-Ange's eyes got wide. "And I know that you are—shall we say—in love with Beth." Now the younger woman's face was a study in incredulity. She opened her mouth to speak.

"Not yet," Angie said gently, placing her hand on Marie-Ange's mouth. "There is more," she said, lowering her voice. "I have a secret to tell you. Would you like to hear it?"

Marie-Ange was now intrigued, excited and a little nervous, but she nodded shyly. Angie crooked her finger, beckoning. Marie-Ange leaned forward and Angie put her lips to her ear. Beth heard her whispering, but couldn't make out words.

When the whispering stopped, Marie-Ange turned toward Angie and they kissed. Beth watched, fascinated. Marie-Ange looked at Angie.

"Ok, darling. It's your turn to do the kissing," Angie told Beth. "Let me take care of the bill and we'll take a walk."

Marie-Ange took them to a small park where they could watch the sunset on the river. They sat together on a small knoll. Angie hugged Beth and kissed Marie-Ange again.

"That's my quota," she told Beth. "Our new friend wants to kiss you, not me." Marie-Ange blushed crimson. "And she's a hell of a kisser," Angie added softly. "I'm going to find us a bottle of wine somewhere. Why don't you two just stay here and get better acquainted?"

A couple of hours later, she returned with a nice bottle of red wine. Beth and Marie-Ange were entwined like two ivy plants, locked in a deep embrace.

"Do you guys need more time?" Angie asked.

Beth looked at Marie-Ange. It was dark, but she could see the large, lustrous eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

"My soul is full," Marie-Ange said softly, gently caressing Beth's hair.

"Your soul is beautiful," Beth whispered, holding her close.

Angie opened the wine. "We don't have glasses, so we'll just share from the bottle." She raised the bottle and toasted, "To new friends. To love," she lowered her voice, "And to soul-mates. May we all find them in our journey through life." She drank and passed the bottle to Marie-Ange.

"To my new friends. And to the one who I will remember always. The one whose memory will be with me when I die," she said simply, looking at Beth. She drank.

"To the woman who has shown me who I could become. To my new love," Beth said, looking at Marie-Ange, "And to my wife. The woman I love more than anything. The woman who has helped me become more than I ever could have been on my own."

They drank to each other, to love and to life. They walked Marie-Ange back to her apartment and stood for a long time, continuing to talk and exchanging contact information and vows to stay in touch.

When, at last, they turned to go, Marie-Ange stopped them one more time. "No," she said, pleadingly, "you must take this book. It is important," she added, thrusting it into Beth's hands.

"Of course, Marie-Ange," Beth said. "I will treasure it always." She opened the cover. "Would you sign it, please?"

Marie-Ange nodded and dug a pen out of her jacket. Wordlessly, Angie found a street light and bent over to serve as a writing desk. Working there, in the half-light with the book propped against Angie, Marie-Ange inscribed the flyleaf in beautiful, flowing calligraphy.

Beth looked at it. "It's in French," she said to Marie-Ange. "Will you tell me what it says?"

"Oui," replied Marie-Ange. She whispered into Beth's ear.

"I will. I promise," Beth replied as they parted.

"We can go home now," Beth told Angie as they slipped into bed, exhausted. "I had the best art lesson of my life today. I just need to find someone to paint away the bars of my cage."

"We have a couple of days in New York, don't forget," Angie reminded her.

"I'm not worried about New York right now," Beth said, kissing Angie. "By the way. What was the secret you told her in the restaurant?"

"I told her that I loved her too. And that I loved you. And that it would make me very happy if the two of you could have time together to make each other complete," she kissed Beth's nose.

Beth smiled. "I was wondering why it took you two hours to find a bottle of wine in the middle of Paris. I figured you'd be back in five minutes."

"Let's just say that I took the road less traveled," Angie said, rolling over. "Good night, my love."

"So the local boy made good," Beth said, awed by the paintings surrounding her. They had found out that Myles had a show running in New York called "Where have I been all my life?" and blew off MOMA to be sure to see it. They had to elbow their way through the crowd to catch glimpses of the paintings, but they were certainly worth the effort.

The paintings comprised a dazzling variety of subjects and treatments, but all of the highest quality. Clearly Myles Zee was a major force in the art world. They found an unoccupied bench and eagerly sat, resting their weary legs.

Angie rubbed Beth's back affectionately. "Would you like to take some painting lessons from him?" she asked.

"Oh hell, Angie. He doesn't have time to bother with the likes of me," Beth told her.

"Yes he does—or rather, I bet he'd make time," Angie said, conspiratorially. Beth just looked at her blankly.

"Let me tell you a story," Angie said, taking Beth's hand.

"Is it a "once upon a time" kind of story?" Beth asked. Angie shushed her.

"Once upon a time there was a young, naive Econ student in Boston," she began. "One day, she met an older man—an artist—in her favorite coffee shop and they got to talking. The Econ student was smitten with the artist—she could see right away that he was brilliant.

"One thing led to another, and another—which led to them going out on a date and sleeping together. Then they kept going out on dates and sleeping together, and as happens in stories, they sort of fell in love.

"After a while the Econ student figured herself out enough to know that she was gay—and thus the romance ended. The artist was heartbroken and moved to New York. They both cared enough about each other, though, to remain friends and to stay in contact.

"The Econ student eventually moved to New York herself and made lots of money. In the meantime, the artist became a recluse and starving artist in Greenwich Village and no one heard from him for several years. One day he called his friend the Econ student.

"He had no idea that she was in New York, or that she now had money—he was just calling because he was sad. He was broke and was about to give up his dream of becoming an artist. When the Econ student heard that, she gave him some money, reminded him how brilliant he was, and encouraged him to continue. He did, and became successful.

"Oddly enough, his name was Myles and her name was Angie." Angie paused and looked at Beth. "So, what do you think of that story, my love?" she asked.

"It sounds like a fairy tale," Beth told her, moved. She smiled. "But it's so like you to help someone fulfill their dream. Have you been doing that all your life?"

Angie shrugged. "Not all my life," she said. "Just since I realized that trying to make lots of money was stupid."

"Well, that explains why Myles is living down the road from us," Beth said.

"Well," said Angie, "we sort of stayed in touch after that, so Myles knew that I moved down south and really liked it. So when he decided to get out of the city, he came down to check out the area." Beth nodded.

"He certainly didn't move down to be with me," Angie continued. "By that time I was very sure about what I wanted in a partner—like a female—and he spends more time traveling around doing shows than being at home anyway. And when he's home he's usually either working or doing the reclusive artist hibernation thing.

"Since he moved down we've sort of stayed in touch in a very loose way, but our lives have taken us in very different directions as you can see. So to make a full confession—I didn't just run into him in the store. I called to ask his advice about our trip." She looked at Beth and smiled. "I didn't want to go into the whole saga with you then, but I'm pretty sure he'd make a little time to help you."

Beth leaned over and kissed Angie. "Well, it probably won't do any good—I don't think Picasso himself could fix what's wrong with me—but I would like to give it a try."

"Ok," Angie said. "When we get back, I'll give him a call."

As they walked back from dinner they stopped to watch the sunset over the city, and back in their room they watched the lights of upper Manhattan glow from their Central Park hotel. Angie kept the lights low and prepared for her evening meditation, assuming a cross-legged position on the bed, facing the window.

Beth undressed and softly came up behind her, kissing the back of her neck. Angie started slightly and a smile slowly crossed her face. Her eyes remained closed and her breathing continued to slow and deepen as she dropped deeper into her meditative state.