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A Love Story in Three
Photographs
Meg Claudel I
The back of the photograph is marked "Peter with Paris behind him." The Paris day is dark in the photo, more than cloudy. You are even darker though: your pitch-black straight hair, inherited from native Canadian ancestors, is let loose for the day but only the very ends are blown by the wind; your copper complexion, freckled even in February; your eyes the color and depth of distressed pine. The most sincere and serious smile. The photo has a Wim Wenders feel. You a dark angel with a stormy Paris behind you, below you, but close. The advantage of the view atop the Pompidou is that Paris is close. Notre Dame, L'Arche de la Défense, La Tour Eiffel, are at your level. The many rooftops seem neighbors' roofs. From the top of the Pompidou, Paris feels much more intimate than from the top of the La Tour Eiffel, or at Sacre Coeur, or even from the hilltop in Belleville. I had brought you up the Pompidou to show you Paris, that weekend we went away, that weekend that made us an us, the weekend before Dover immigration took you aside. The photo shows nothing of the Pompidou. Its famous pipes on the outside of the building painted in bright orange, yellow, blue and green, are not seen. There is you, and there are the clouds, the rooftops, and the high landmarks of Paris. But you could be suspended in air. In my seven years in Paris I had never gone inside the "Le Centre national d’art et de culture Georges Pompidou ." I walked past it often, going from the metro in Les Halles to the Marais for falafel, vegetarian food, bagels, cheap bars, or just the feel of a gay neighborhood and the openness it brings. I would usually stop and watch the mobile statues in the fountain next to the museum. These metal constructions, painted in the same bright yellow, blue, orange, green as the pipes on the Pompidou, were able to paddle around in the shallow pool of the fountain. Some spouted water like whales. You said something about them being the ducks of the future. You and I had walked from the little, cheap hotel on the rue de Rivoli, through the Marais and up the Pompidou. We stood for a long time in silence looking out over Paris. I clung to your arm for warmth and noticed once again the odd almost-wet feel of the oilskin of your Australian trench coat. Then you said that we had come home. You looked at me and said, "We've come home." We were living in London. It was your first time to Paris. I hadn't lived in the country of my passport, the United States, for over ten years. You could be nothing but Canadian. Yet, there on the top of the Pompidou, together, we were at home. We'd arrived home. "Then, let's stay," I said. You stepped away, turning your back on Paris in order to face me, to see if I was serious. I stepped back and took your picture. We should have stayed. I waited eight hours at Dover before being informed that you were not to be let back in. I gave Brenda a copy of your picture atop the Pompidou, and we got angry together at the injustice. She said she would see you when she went to Vancouver. I was grateful. And I went back to work. Safe in the knowledge that we were inevitable, and it was just a matter of time. We sent each other a lot of emails full of facts and hopes. II
Brenda sent me some photos from your backpacking trip. One image will never leave me. You two are before a rope bridge, about to cross an awesome river, rippled white with its swiftness. It is a bright, spring day and the sky is large with the North American grandness. Someone else must have been in that wilderness to take the photo of you together. In an adventure, together. The river behind you, the spring green framing you. You each have your hands on your hips, your feet squared and rooted to support the packs on your backs, and your braids - hers red and yours black - flipped to the front of your right shoulders. You both look so rugged in plaid, flannel shirts, khaki shorts and hiking boots. So strong and fit and tan and made for the out-of-doors, made to be dwarfed by deep green trees and silenced by wide, white-blue rivers. She told me. You didn't. She gave me the courtesy of writing a real letter by hand, in neat, round, even script. "I hope you don't take it personally," she wrote. "You know we both love you," she wrote. She had assumed I knew. You must have told her that I knew. "You will come for the wedding," she wrote. I didn't. I stayed in London and worked. III
"Peter with Paris behind him" is pinned above my desk. There is one other photo, to the left of yours. It is a photo of myself. Taken by a tourist I stopped in Trafalgar Square. The National Gallery is behind me. Next to me is the pillar on which Nelson's statue sits 180 feet above me. There are more pigeons in the picture than pillar. It is a bright, sunny, London day and the dozen people between me and the museum are all wearing shorts. I am wearing the kelly green overalls we bought at Camden market that I made into cutoffs. I am wearing the black tank top you gave me because you said I looked sexier in it than you did. My brown hair is cropped short and neat. I have under my right arm a small stack of books, my day's heist from Charing Cross Road. I am English-pale and I have the silliest, laughing grin. I am not looking into the camera, but off to my left. Obviously something forgettable off- camera was delighting me. This photo of me is looking at the photo of you, looking at me, sitting at my desk, at home. |
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