Page 125 of All That We Are Together

I clicked my tongue. She’d corralled me, but I agreed to shower and make myself presentable. A half hour later, I was walking with my family among stalls filled with handicrafts and artisanal goods, and the festive air grew as night started to fall, and everything seemed to be falling into place. For the first time, at least for a few hours, I didn’t regret coming back, even if I’d left behind the person I loved most in the world.

116

Leah

I’d never painted so much. Not that way, at least. I didn’t have the same feeling as I did back when I used to shut myself up in my attic in Brisbane and let myself go until night fell. This was different, stranger, heavier. At some hard-to-determine point, holding the brush stopped being liberating and turned into an obligation. I wanted to believe this was more real, more mature, because in the end, this was work, something serious, and yet, at the same time, I couldn’t escape that feeling of discomfort that seeped further and further into every corner of my studio as the days passed.

I started going out for walks. Maybe I needed to clear my head when I noticed how empty the apartment was and felt the brushes in my hands sucking away my soul. I learned to appreciate what Axel discovered as soon as he’d set foot in Paris: how nice it was to walk aimlessly through the streets, just taking one step and then another. Sometimes I felt as if I’d discover the answer to my questions right around the nextcorner. At other times I didn’t think of anything; I just let my mind go blank as I moved.

Painting was no longer a relief.

Compliments no longer mattered.

My smile lost its glow.

117

Leah

I asked myself if you could ever forget yourself. Not pay attention to yourself. Not look at yourself in the mirror. Not stop to think about what you really want and, more importantly, why you want it. I guess there are weeks when the days of the calendar pile up and you don’t even have time to cross them off and life goes by so fast, and I got lost in that: everything I had to do, obligations, some real, others that I just imposed on myself at some moment I couldn’t remember.

And all at once, you’re not you anymore. You’ve turned into another person.

The same, but with different goals, expectations, dreams…

And I kept repeating to myself,Who do I want to be?

118

Leah

I was at a party at the same hotel where Axel had climbed up to the roof to run away from a world he didn’t understand. I remember how I told him, not long before he left, that I was happy when I was with him, despite everything. Maybe that was the little push I needed to realize that this place wasn’t for me, because with Axel gone, all that was left were the dresses, the parties, meeting people I’d never talk to again, trying to be pleasant with everyone. Not that there was anything wrong with that; it just wasn’t for me. It didn’t satisfy me. The void I was trying to fill was still there, deeper and deeper, harder and harder to ignore, as if it were growing.

I tried to enjoy the dinner, but not even a few drinks could calm the butterflies in my stomach. Everyone around me was speaking French. I’d thought about signing up for classes, but part of me knew I wouldn’t stay long enough to make serious progress. After several weeks on my own, painting more than ever, getting better reviews and more congratulatory claps on the back, I didn’t feel any more whole or more satisfied. I was unhappy, apathetic.

I talked to a few people I knew from the studio during dinner, and when it was over, I left the multitude behind and climbed the stairs to the roof. I swallowed nervously as I walked over to the exact spot where I’d been with him, where his hands had been under my dress while he nibbled at my cheeks and made me laugh whispering silly remarks into my ear.

I leaned on the railing and looked down at the city.

Down below, the lights formed constellations. I thought how nice it would be to capture that image on canvas: Paris, the night, the lives throbbing amid the streets and streetlights, the bridges, the cobblestone streets. I closed my eyes as the hot summer breeze blew over me. I imagined the soft brushstrokes, the dark tones, the dazzling lights, the shadows rendered in damp paint…

Then I took a step back.

I returned to the party even though I knew no one would notice if I didn’t. That was a moment of clarity, a flash, right then, as I walked among unknown faces and tables laden with drinks.

“Where’d you get off to?” Scarlett grabbed my arm.

“I needed a breath of fresh air.”

“Come here, I want to introduce you to a friend.”

Claire Sullyvan was a charming Englishwoman who ran a small gallery in London. Her eyes were friendly, her smile timid, and she didn’t seem cowed by Scarlett’s presence. I said nothing while Scarlett spoke to her of the progress I was making and all I had accomplished since coming to Paris, but I did ask myself what it was about that woman that had fascinated me so much when I first met her. She had presence, sure, but somehow she made me feel…smaller. Pleasing her had for some reason become more important to me than pleasingAxel or the anonymous people in Byron Bay who had chosen to spend their money on one of my paintings at an exhibition of works that were truly mine. I should have been astonished by those people and not by someone I’d never win over, because she didn’t like my style or the way I expressed myself through painting. She didn’t like the way I put my feelings out there. So why had I worried so much about getting her to accept me, to recognize me? Why do we often put more effort into people who don’t deserve it than into people who do, even when they’re right there in front of us?

The ground seemed to quake beneath my feet.

“Are you all right, honey?” Claire looked worried.

“Yeah, sorry, I just felt a little faint.”