"My piano teacher . . . ordinarily a stuffed shirt . . . believes my blindness makes my playing sharper. He sounds almost envious at times. He confessed to me that he has taken to blindfolding himself when he is alone and plays. Can you imagine?'
"Yes," I said.
With his fingers still on the keys, his body postured for him to play another piece, he continued to speak instead. "I've never had a girl . . . a young woman . . . beside me before," he confessed. "I've never been this close."
"Why not?"
He laughed. "Why not?" His smile faded. "I don't know. I've been afraid, I suppose."
"Afraid?"
"Of being at a great disadvantage. For Grandmother's sake, more than my own, I pretend I'm all right. Of course, she doesn't see me groping about. I make sure of that. She doesn't hear my moans. I can't remember the last time she's seen me cry. We do a lot of pretending here. I'm sure you've noticed. We pretend everything's all right. We pretend nothing's happened.
"But I'm tired of pretending," he said, turning around. "I want . . . some reality too. Is that wrong?"
"Oh no."
"I heard something in your voice when you first came in here, something honest and true, something that put me at ease, that gave me hope. It was almost as if . . . as if I could see you," he said. "I know you're beautiful."
"Oh no, I'm not. I'm . . . ″
"Yes you are. I can tell from the way Grandmother speaks to you. My mother was beautiful," he added quickly. I held my breath. My heartbeat started to quicken. Was he going to tell me the tragic tale? "Would you mind if I touched your face, your hair?"
"No," I said, and he brought his fingers up to my temples and slowly, gently, traced the lines of my face, running the tips of his fingers over my lips and down to my chin.
"Beautiful," he whispered. The tip of his tongue swept over his lower lip as he continued down my neck and found my collarbone. "Your skin is so soft. Can I go on?"
My throat felt tight. My heart began to pound. I was confused but afraid to deny him. He seemed so desperate.
"Yes," I said. His fingers moved down to the border of my collar and followed it to my cleavage. I saw his breathing quicken. He ran his hands over my breasts, turning and pressing his fingers as if he were a sculptor shaping them. His hands moved down my ribs to my waist and then back up again so that his palms flowed over my breasts.
Then, suddenly, he pulled them away as if he had touched an uncovered electrical wire. He lowered his head.
"It's all right," I said. Instead of replying, he brought his fingers to the keys again and began to play, only this time his music was loud and hard. A line of sweat broke out along his temple. His breathing quickened. He seemed determined to exhaust himself. Finally he concluded, this time slapping his palms over the keys.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have had Grandmother ask you here."
"Why not?"
He turned his head slowly.
"It's a torment, that's why," he said. "I'm nearly thirty-one years old, and you are the first woman I've touched. My grandmother and my cousin have kept me in mothballs," he added bitterly. "If I hadn't thrown a temper tantrum, Grandmother wouldn't have called you today."
"That's terrible. You shouldn't be kept prisoner in your own house."
"Yes, I am a prisoner of sorts, but my prison isn't the house. It's my own thoughts that lock me up!" he cried, bringing his hands to his face. He groaned deeply. I put my hand on his shoulder. He lifted his hands from his face and asked, "You're not afraid of me? I don't disgust you?"
"Oh no."
"You feel sorry for me, is that it?" he asked bitterly.
"Yes, somewhat, but I also appreciate your talent," I added.
He softened his expression and took a deep breath. "I want to see again," he said. "My doctors tell me I'm afraid to see again. You think that's possible?"
"I guess so."
"Have you ever run away from anything you couldn't face?"
"Oh yes," I said.
"Will you tell me about it sometime? Will you return?"
"If you'd like me to, yes."
He smiled. "I made up a melody for you," he said. "Want to hear it?"
"You did? Yes, please."
He started to play. It was a wonderfully flowing piece that, remarkably, made me think of the bayou, of water and of beautiful birds and flowers.
"It's very beautiful," I said when he had finished. "I love it."
"I call it 'Ruby.' I'll have my teacher write out the notes, and the next time you come I'll give you a copy, if you like."
"Yes, thank you."
"I'd like to know more about you . . . especially how you came to be brought up in the Cajun world but ended up living with a well-to-do Creole family in the Garden District."
"It is a long story."
"Good," he said. "I'd like it to be like Scheherazade and the Arabian Nights . . . A story that goes on and on, just so you would be here on and on."
I laughed, and he brought his fingers to my face again and again he traced the lines down to my lips, only this time he held his fingers there longer.
"Can I kiss you?" he asked. "I've never kissed a girl before."
"Yes," I said, not quite sure why I was allowing him such intimacies. He leaned toward me and I guided him with my hands to my lips. It was a short kiss, but it quickened his breath. He dropped his hands to my breasts and leaned in to kiss me again, holding his lips to mine longer as his fingers brushed my breasts as lightly as feathers. He tried to push the material away from more of my breasts and was frustrated.
"Louis, we shouldn't . . . ″
It was as if I had slapped him. He not only pulled back but this time rose from the stool.
"No, we shouldn't. You should go now," he said angrily.
"I didn't mean to . . . ″
"To what?" he cried. "Make me feel like a fool? Well do. I'm standing here aroused, aren't I?" he asked.
One glance told me it was so.
"Louis."
"Just tell my grandmother I got tired," he said. His arms dropped stiffly to his sides and he started away, moving toward the door.
"Louis, wait," I cried, but he didn't stop. He hurried off. Pity for him flooded through me. I followed to the doorway and gazed down the corridor after him. He seemed to be absorbed by the very darkness in which he dwelt and in moments was gone. I listened for his footsteps, but there was only silence. Curious, I walked farther into the west wing of the house, passing another, smaller sitting room and then going around the corner to stop at the first door. I knocked gently.
"Louis?"
I heard no response but tried the handle anyway. The door opened, and I looked in on a beautiful, spacious bedroom with a grand canopy bed, the mosquito netting draped around it. The room had a damp, fecund odor, and I saw that the flowers in the vases were all dead. Two small lamps that looked like antique oil lamps were lit. They were on the night stands and threw just enough illumination to outline what looked like someone lying in the bed, but on closer inspection, I saw it was just a woman's nightgown laid out for someone's use.
I was about to close the door when suddenly, an adjoining door on the right was thrust open and Louis appeared. I wanted to call to him but he groaned deeply and slammed his fists into his eyes, falling to his knees at the same time. The act took away my breath. I stood trembling in the doorway. He wrapped his arms around himself and swayed for a moment, then he clawed at the door jamb and pulled himself into a standing position. Head down, he turned and closed the door. I waited a moment, looked over the bedroom once again, and then stepped back and closed the door softly.
Practically tiptoeing, I made my way back to the center of the house and finally to the sitting room in which we had had our tea. Mrs. Clairborne was in her chair, staring up at the portrait of her husband.
"Excuse me," I said. She turned slowly. I thought I saw tears winding down her pale cheeks. "Louis said he was tired and went to his room."
"Oh. Fine," she said, rising. "Your driver is waiting outside to take you back to your dorm."