Clara
Initiation on an August Paris night. The Freemasons make their Book of Blue debut...
AUGUST IN PARIS is languid and quiet, especially in the wealthier parts of the city. Everyone departs for a month at the seaside, usually to the south. It is a mass migration to Côte d'Azur and Provence; to Nice, and Cannes, Saint-Tropez and Aix-en-Provence. I still do not understand how the population of the city would fit into those charming little towns. There are many mysteries in France.
For the eleven months I had been living in a little flat at 7 rue des Chantiers, I frequently encountered a young woman whose name I would learn was Clara. She lived with her family upstairs from me, still a lycéenne or high school student.
When I would be arriving in the lobby, she would be on her way out. When she was coming home I would be stepping out. She always made eye contact as we passed. I thought she was so beautiful I would swoon a little, and I suspect that she noticed this. The look in my eyes said, “You are a woman.”
I don’t think we ever uttered a word to one another, except perhaps bon matin or bon soire. But she would hold my gaze intently for just a moment, and give me a glimpse into her soul. We never expected to have the opportunity to get together. The feeling exchanged was, we would, if we could. I took deep satisfaction in her recognition of me, as I suspect she felt of my recognition of her.
Rue des Chantiers means “the street of the builders,” which was a historic fact. There was still a guild carpentry shop around the corner on Cardinal Lemoin, the one remaining vestige of the construction trade.
The inscription above the outer gate of the courtyard at number 7 said, “Société du Cercle des Ouvriers Maçons et Tailleurs de Pierre.” Translation: “Society of the Circle of Masons and Stonemasons.” This was formerly some kind of headquarters that dated to 1867. The archway was further inscribed, “This Circle offers Masons meeting rooms, professional courses, a library, and honest entertainment.”
The building seemed to have been transformed into apartments at some point. I loved living here; I knew that if the worst earthquake in European history had struck, it would still be standing. This place was also the birthplace of Book of Blue — the first of the three Blue Studios.
Our building had a distinctive quality.
There were windows in the front overlooking the courtyard, and then to the rear of each studio, the kitchens were all connected by a single air shaft.
This bit of Masonic architectural wonder had perfect acoustics. You could hear every conversation in every household; you could hear the dishes being washed in the sink, the sound of the water running and toaster popping and the refrigerator door closing. It seemed nobody bothered with air conditioning in the summer; they just left the windows open.
Much like in Amsterdam where you could see into every apartment, in this building you could hear the details of life as impeccably as Foley effects in a movie — and everyone knew it.
One afternoon in early August, Clara’s family was shipping out for their annual summer holiday. I happened to walk into the lobby as she helped them carry down a diversity of bags and suitcases and load them into a car that idled by the curb. Her little sister scampered behind her, carrying a satchel of beach toys. There were so many bags it seemed they would be gone for a year.
Walking out again a few minutes later, I saw the car pull away and in our usual uncanny way, Clara and I crossed paths. She was not taking this vacation with them. She was old enough stay home — probably going into her senior year. I’m sure she was grateful to not be spending hours in the back seat with her little sister, jammed up on the autoroutes, and enduring endless weeks of her parents doing the same boring things she had done as far back as she could remember.
As she passed, this time, she smiled. So far as I knew, we would be the only two people in the building. Everyone else was on holiday. The two beauties from Peru, sisters who were students at Sorbonne and who lived up in the penthouse, had not shown themselves since late June.
I came and went a few more times that evening, and on the way out mid-evening, I saw her walking in holding the hand of a boy a bit older than her. She glanced at me nervously; I returned a sly smile of acknowledgement and approval.
At about 10 o’clock I came home from taking night photos of street life and made myself a glass of iced coffee — my preferred beverage that particular summer, even at night. Through the kitchen window, I heard a woman moan, rather beautifully. Her voice had the rich depth of polished wood. I knew it was Clara.
And then she moaned again, longer and more beautifully — and then called out, full-throated, in the rhythm of being fucked. I could hear the gentle thumping of the bed or the table.
To this offering I devoted my attention fully. I could barely believe I was being given such a gift. I say offering because she knew her voice was reverberating for any and all to hear, and she called out boldly. She understood that I could, and would, hear her.
I had seen her face many times and imagined how beautiful she must be in this condition. It was easy to envision.
Then the thumping stopped, and her moans took on a different quality, more drawn out, like streaks with a paint brush. She vocalized parts of words and was just exuding and swimming in beauty. Then she vocalized the most beautiful orgasm I have ever heard, in layers, in music that hung in the warm, misty air of the night.
Then they paused. Then they resumed. This went on for a long time, so long that I was falling asleep, but before I did, brought myself to a fast and shaking orgasm, caught my cum in my hand and gave myself cunnilingus. I passed out to the sound of them making love, my mouth sticky with myself and — for the fist time — openly craving the scent of her, right at her core.
At about seven the next morning, I woke up, feeling like I had dreamed the whole thing. I went out with my book and journal to the same café at the bottom of St Germain where I ate breakfast every morning. I was dimly aware of thunderstorms overnight. The air was fresh and cool with the scent of ozone.
An hour or so later, I came home and Clara was stepping out — on her first morning of independence. As we approached one another, everything slowed down to half-speed. We did not walk but rather drifted weightlessly past each other, holding one another’s gaze and studying one another’s faces.
My whole being melted into the most delightful compassion for her, taking in all of her beauty from her gentle, serious face to the gentle way she moved. She knew that I knew she truly was a woman now. I held the door for her and smelled the air around her as she stepped outside into the courtyard.
