Deborah Swain

Nobody knew that I was waiting for you. Our appointment was discreet. Nobody would have thought that inside I was really quite terribly nervous; they’d have thought I was there to look at the paintings. But you were always sensitive like that. It was like you to have chosen this place.

I come on my own now. Felt a bit shy the first time – those big steps leading up to the entrance, groups of students sprawling all over the place – but I breezed on in as if I did it every day. Frightened the life out of me, he did, that chap in the uniform that always wants to look in your shopping. Well, you don’t go shopping for bombs in Safeway’s, do you? But he said it’s just the sort of thing they do. Bombers, that is. Terrorists. They put it all in a carrier bag and leave it somewhere. Anyway, I know the routine now. I always leave my bits and pieces in left luggage and keep my purse out. Well, they advise it you see, valuables should be kept with you at all time, madam. But it’s handy, the purse, because I always like to buy a couple of postcards or a pamphlet. That way I’ve got something to look at when I have my cup of tea in the little cafe. And a flap jack. He’s a nice boy, very polite. The one that’s there mostly in the afternoons. Always neat and tidy. I used to feel a bit uncomfortable sitting here on my own, but when I get a hello from that boy it makes me feel quite a regular. He’ll make some girl a lovely husband one day.

That was what they used to say about you, do you remember? That you’d make a lovely husband. What a lucky girl I was. I still think that. That I was lucky. In spite of everything. I waited all day in front of our painting. Even now I still half think I’ll see you sauntering up to it and squinting at it in that funny way of yours when you look at pictures. Would you know me? Would you recognise the grey haired woman standing in front of "Bouquet with Flying Lovers"? I had long black hair then – I still keep it long – they say that older women shouldn’t, but, I like it. Marc Chagall and Bella were like us, you said, made magical by their love for each other, so in love they could fly above the roof tops.

So, I waited my darling. You’d said that it was the most important thing you’d ever wanted to say to anyone and well, I’d sort of guessed what it was. With Bella wearing a bridal gown and everything and Marc with his arm stretched out to pull her towards him. We hadn’t known how sad it was, that painting. Secret moonlit lovers in an indigo night, the dawn creeping up on them – we only saw ourselves. But I found out all about it, you see, while I waited for you. I was curious about the date. I’m not an expert of course, but it seemed such an awfully long time to take over a painting: 1934 – 47. I bought a little guide book and rushed back to our spot, afraid I might have missed you. There were some benches in the middle of the gallery. They were too far away to see the picture properly, but I sat down anyway. I would be able to see when you arrived and it gave me a moment to read my little book.

It shocked me, reading that Bella was dead. That she had died suddenly in 1944 and that it had all been different, the picture, before then and that heartbroken Marc Chagall had repainted his beautiful Bella. I got up and went to stare at our painting feeling all panicky. I hadn’t eaten and I was faint headed. Icy cold all over and my heart was beating too fast. Funny isn’t it? How I knew, that is? I knew that you wouldn’t be coming. When my legs had stopped trembling I left. I caught the bus home. When they came to tell me, I was ready; I knew that I’d lost you. Strange that it should have been you; strange that it should have been Marc, not Bella.

Copyright © Deborah Swain 1999

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