Page 28 - WTP Vol. XIII #3

“You were devouring her with your eyes.” That’s what Claire’s sister said in an email to me, let-
ting me know that Claire died of diabetes. She was describing me looking at Claire in a photo taken on Christmas day 1964 at their home in Waterloo, Bel- gium. I had fallen in love with her the evening before, when I saw her listening to a choir in the main square of Brussels, surrounded by medieval buildings, illumi- nated by spotlights, as heavy first snow redecorated the world.
That snow reminds me of the refrain in a poem by Francois Villon (1431-1463) — “Where are the snows of yesteryear?” A professional thief, Villon purport- edly wrote his best poetry while in jail. Some critics say that the “snow” in that poem is a metaphor for beautiful women he had known. I believe he meant that the past is irretrievable; what’s done can’t be undone; and our memories fade like snow melting.
I was 18. It was Christmas vacation at Brentwood School, in Essex, near London, where I had landed through vain stupidity, instead of at a college in the U.S. I was biking through Belgium; and, after that, I planned to bike, alone, through Holland.
I arrived in downtown Brussels soon after sunset. The snow had just begun. The streets were blocked with traffic and the sidewalks with pedestrians head- ed toward the square from which I heard Christmas music. I had to walk my bike, had no map of the city, and didn’t know where the youth hostel was. I hoped to find it before it closed for the night.
~
The driver of a delivery van on the street beside me frantically waved to me. I deciphered that he needed help delivering coffee to a nearby restaurant. He couldn’t leave his van in the middle of the road. Would I carry the boxes in for him? I helped. He was grateful. The traffic started moving. He invited me to go with him to the square up ahead where his wife and daughters were listening to the choir. Why not?
Claire caught my eye immediately; and after a few minutes of introductory chatter, the family treated me like a long-lost relative. The setting was magi- cal. I was in a dream that I didn’t want to end. But
I needed to get to the hostel. I asked for directions. Instead, they invited me to spend the night, Christ- mas Eve, at their home in the suburbs. By morning,
the blessedly heavy snow was blocking the roads. I ended up staying three days. It felt like the begin- ning of an alternate life.
My French was passable. Two years before I had spent a summer in Paris and Strasbourg on a student exchange. Claire didn’t speak English, so soon I found myself thinking and dreaming in French.
She had a twin sister, Collette, equally cute, but in a different way, whose interests were closer to mine. But I was focused on Claire and she on me; and for most of my time there, we were together. She in- troduced me to poems by Jacques Prévert and Paul Valéry, especially Valéry’s love poem Les Pas. Here’s my translation of it:
Steps
Your steps, born of my silence, blessedly and slowly,
quietly and calmly
approach the bed where I await.
Pure being, divine spirit,
how sweet are your reluctant steps. Muse! All your gifts
come to me on your naked feet.
If by extending your lips,
you prepare to sate
my starving mind
with the nourishment of your kiss,
~
Don’t rush,
sweetness of being and not being,
for I have lived to wait for you
and my heart has been nothing but your
steps.
After I returned to school in England, I wrote to her often and long. I even wrote her a poem in the style of Prévert, in French. Here’s my translation:
Together
He wandered the streets,
alone and lost.
fog inside and out,
nothing but his hands in his pockets,
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Claire at Christmas in Brussels
riChard selTzer