Reprise: A Story of Reincarnated Love

*** 5 May 2007 4pm – Paris , France , Outside the Banque Populaire ***

The bank was ordinarily just a few minutes’ walk, though it took nearly ten since they were forced to wait for the traffic signal and weave in and out among the tourists. “Vite! Vite alors! Hurry up!” Sean barked at Angelo. In contrast to his near stupor upon first hearing Angelo’s account of the Felicia look-alike, Sean had become a man with a mission. He cruise-directed his friend to increased haste in their expedition to the Banque.

As they strolled along – quite a bit faster than Angelo usually moved – he filled his friend in. “She told me her name was Dominique Vasser. She’s probably, uh,” he seemed to try to think, but in the process nearly got plowed down by a group of young Austrians coming out of a shop with more speed than was prudent. He fell back and came around to Sean’s other side, his breathlessness becoming more apparent. “Damn foreigners,” he muttered…

“Vasser. Dominique … Dominique Vasser,” Sean repeated to himself, exaggerating each syllable and stressing the consonants. A name to an unseen someone, he thought. The name rung somewhere in a recess of his mind. Not familiar or remembered, but, somehow significant.

“Dominique Vasser,” he again repeated to Angelo. “Is she …. not too tall or short … trim, or thick?”

“Yes, yes, I was going to say she’s about 1.5 meters, though it’s hard to tell, since she had on heels and we were mostly sitting down.” He sounded sorry about that. “She looked petite though, and frail as a baby bird. Just like in your sketch..” Sean inhaled deeply as they cantered along. “Ah, oui,” he replied.

They had finally come to a crosswalk and had to wait to keep from getting run down by the traffic. “She’s got muscles on her though. I could see definition in her arms. So maybe not so frail as she looks.” As was common for LaRussa, he had trailed off into his own thoughts, the tangent taking his mind far away from the conversation.

Sean took complete leave of the crosswalk, his friend, the city for an instant when Angelo’s description registered. He saw – was with, felt – Felicia that last time. Embracing her and relishing in the feel of her taut, firm body pressed tightly to his; hot, smooth flesh; falling …. falling down … bodies bouncing upon the unyielding mattress; his body jouncing upon hers; strong, delicately defined upper arm muscles straining against his hands pressing her wrists down by her ears; the urgent caress of toned, muscled thighs clasping the outsides of his ….

The reverie popped away as a rattling lorry lumbered through the intersection. “She was fit, then?” Sean asserted as much as asked no one in particular. Could this ever possibly, possibly be, he wondered.

The older artist had barely caught his breath before they were off again, trotting across the street and dodging oncoming pedestrians. They turned into the tree-lined rue de Rivoli. Two blocks distant, they could see the arbored narrow parkway that scored the bank of the Seine . The Banque Populaire loomed up ahead like a fat, pompous toad. When Sean finally came to a halt outside, LaRussa puffed to a stop, his pipe long forgotten in his hand.

“Alors, uh, ecoutes-tu bien, mon ami, ca c’est tres important – Now, listen well, my friend, this is very important. I do not want to actually speak with her, meet her. Please, point her out if she comes from the bank. But … here, let us stand here by the trees so she will not see you and think to come to see you again.”

“You don’t want to meet her?” Angelo was incredulous. “But why not!? I thought that that was why we had chased her down here, so you could talk to her!” He sounded like a petulant child. LeBeque was making absolutely no sense.

“No, no Angelo. I am sorry! I only wanted to see. This may not at all be my sketch. Well, how can it be in any event? I have never seen her.” His agitation revealed itself as he stammered. “I, uhm, so, well, perhaps in a crowd at some time … she was there. A subliminal impression on my inner eye. Look, Angelo, this would be awkward at best … to speak with a total stranger. Please, please leave it be. Let us just see her from afar Oui?”

Still puzzled and unbelieving, Angelo nodded. He had looked forward to engaging the young beauty in conversation again. Another time, he thought with reluctant resignation. He might indeed see her here or at the Quai de l’Hôtel de Ville at some future time.

* * * * * * * * * *

Dominique did not know whether to be happy or not. While she thought the interview had gone well enough, they had been unwilling to give her an answer, saying that they would call the school once they had interviewed all the candidates. In addition, it had not taken nearly as long as she had feared it might. If she hurried, perhaps she could catch the train before all he commuters filled it up.

She forced herself to walk out of the bank as if she had nowhere particular to go, her pocketbook swinging against her hip as she started blinkingly for the station. Perhaps if she had not been so preoccupied she would not have walked within three meters of Angelo LaRussa without even looking in his direction. But then her eye had been caught on the man standing with him.

While Dominique was not ordinarily one to oogle men, there were simply very few men in her acquaintance that could, even on their best days, compare to this man. He looked, both in person and in dress, like a model from a trashy romance novel. His long dark hair seemed made for a woman’s fingers. His tan skin promised muscles granted from outdoor play, and set off the most intense ice-blue eyes she could ever remember seeing. For a fraction of a second she locked eyes with him, first only wondering at their beauty before she really saw his expression. He looked like a frightened predator.

In a single, blush-inducing glance, she visually stroked down his body, her pace faltering as she grew level with him. And then – realizing what she had done when her gaze met his – she excused herself softly and scurried away, willing herself not to break into a run, though she was thoroughly mortified now. He had caught her staring at him! She wished the earth would swallow her up! For she knew how horrid such appraisals made her feel when she was on the receiving end.

She was fortunate enough to catch the crosswalk and broke into a trot as if hurrying to cross the street, but even once on the other side she did not slow, but rather broke into as much of a run as her heels would allow once she was free of the confines of the crowd.

* * * * * * * * * *

It all happened as in a nightmarish sudden traffic accident. The unforeseen collision of existences that, but for some chance of time or motion, might never have come together.

“There --- there,” Angelo had said, pointing across the way to the bank entrance. Sean peered at the figure emerging through the broad glass doors. Yes, about 1.5 meters without shoes, he guessed. Hair. Her hair caught his eye first. Shorter a bit than in his sketch, but clearly the same fine, straight, silky hair framing her face. Her figure was svelte, graceful, poised. He was so captivated by her appearance that he failed to realize she was making a bee-line for their so-called clandestine observation point.

As she drew nearer, Sean sucked in a huge draught of air, visibly shaken, and much to Anglo’s distress. “Mon ami,” he whispered, “que’est que ce? What is it?” Sean only sighed deeply, and folded his arms tightly across his chest.

Her sleeveless, tight fitting business-white blouse revealed fine, pert breasts that neither shouted nor hid beneath the fabric. Her skin was smooth and clear, the complexion of her face complete perfection. As she moved, her narrow waist, quite well displayed beneath the tapered blouse, gave the slightest outward tilt with each other step. Sean raised a hand to his mouth to muffle the cry that boiled up from his craw. It was HER gait! Felicia’s distinctive, signature gait which he at that moment remembered from a past he now knew must surely have been – not just imagined or dreamed. All his visions and sketchings and longings and passionate pain converged deep in his breast when he saw her move. His mind, if not his body, withdrew into a swoon.

And then, she was upon them! Eyes! Nothing but eyes. HER eyes!. She passed closely enough to touch. He stood frozen. She was staring at him. Her eyes danced a quick survey of his frame, and then locked for an eternal instant with his! The almost transparent liquid blue eyes that had captivated and mesmerized him in Spain a century earlier were again before him, dominating her lovely face, piercing through to his soul. His mind cried out to her, and then, she was gone.

LaRussa’s brow rose as he watched the girl go by, frowning when his nod went unheeded simply because the child had seen LeBeque first. But then all women everywhere saw LeBeque first. It was like running around with a celebrity. “That’s funny, when I mentioned your name; she reacted like she had never heard it before.” He commented with a scowl.

Sean stood silent. He was impervious to sound or sight now. The vision had returned after she passed by for only a merciful second, but it seemed like hours to Sean.

He regained his senses, but not his composure. He turned to Angelo, his eyes humid with salty tears. He grabbed for his friend’s shoulders to brace himself.

“What is wrong, Sean?” Angelo asked, leading him to a bench to sit. “Ahh, oh, Angelo,” Sean lied weakly, “a sudden wave of something. I may be catching something, or maybe it’s an early reaction to the pollens of the Spring, mon ami. I’m fine. I will be fine.”

“Well, but, was it her?” Angelo quizzed him. “Yes … no …. oh, what can I say” Sean replied. “Of course, it looks like her, does it not? But she did not model for me. I don’t know, Angelo. I just cannot say right now.”

The two sat for half an hour, each lost in his own thoughts, exchanging occasional insignificant comments about the view to the river, the passers by, and the season. Finally, Angelo rose to head off to meet other artist friends at a nearby café. Sean declined his invitation to go along.

They parted, and Sean walked back to the gallery in a total fog. He felt far away somewhere, disconnected from Paris , disconnected from himself. He let himself into the gallery, walked behind his desk, swiveled the chair around, and collapsed into it. He sat until late into the night, staring at the charcoal portrait. He had no visions. She was now there, with him, now.