I eventually ask Pierre about our building owners. Heloise, the one with the hearing problem, has been partially deaf for more than 20 years. It happened tragically on her first — and last — trip to the United States. She was convinced to attend the Colorado State Fair by the daughter of her hostess, who wanted her to experience a bit of Americana. As it happened, there was a Willie Nelson concert in the fair grandstand that night. Heloise had never heard of Willie Nelson or even heard country music before, but trying to be a gracious guest, she agreed to go. The seats were all sold out, but standing-room-only tickets were still available. The two women stood down in front, next to the giant speakers that carried the music all over the fairgrounds. When Willie began to play, her right ear, then her left, began to feel numb. By the time the concert was over, and Willie had sung “Whiskey River,” Heloise’s ears were throbbing in pain. The pain subsided in a few hours, but her hearing was gone. Her hostess was of course horrified to have Heloise subjected to a noise level that would create such a dire infirmity, but it was too late. It has also affected her balance a bit, so that she lurches slightly to the right.
The other sister, Bibi. When I tell Pierre about how angry she was with Bernie and me when she caught us going down in the elevator, he laughs until he starts coughing and then he coughs until he chokes and then he chokes until he cries. Bernie stares at him in alarm. It goes on and on until I am afraid I’ll have to do CPR or the Heimlich maneuver. All that laughing and coughing and choking and crying loosens his cute little “piece’ on top of his head., slipping it down toward his white bushy eyebrows. I pretend I don’t notice. It seems rude to say, “Your hair is slipping,” especially when you’ve just met someone.
When he regains his composure, he makes a subtle move with his right hand to check and then adjust his toupee and then tells me the story. “Ah, but it is so funny what happened to you and so sad what happened to her,” he explains. “Funny and sad. That often describes life, no?”
Long ago — nearly 50 years now — Bibi was a dancer at the Moulin Rouge. That’s where and when he met her. That’s also why he moved into the building. They lived together. They were lovers. “She was a beauty and many men tried to win her affection,” he says sweetly, “but I succeeded.” They were together for five years, he said.
“Oh my God, how she loved to dance!” Every Friday and Saturday night, the second act of the show was Bibi’s performance of the ballet “Firebird,” the old Russian tale of a magic bird who dances the forces of evil to death, thereby transforming an evil kingdom into a magical realm.
The scene began with her being slowly lowered from the ceiling to the stage, her back arched and her arms reaching up to the sky. She was covered in gold paint and long white feathers, with her feel in her gold pointe shoes, pointed in a tight fifth position. She moved her feather-covered arms like angel wings, as if she were flying. Offstage round fans aimed at her made the exotic feathers quiver. She was a confection — a gold and white vision descending from heaven. As she appeared, the audience rose to its feet, shouting her name, “Bibi! Bibi! Bibi!”
“Those were the best years of my life. And I would like to think the best years of Bibi’s life as well,” Pierre says softly, his eyes welling with emotion. At this point, Pierre takes a deep breath and so do I. Even Bernie stares at Pierre, caught up in the story.
“Then she had the accident. In the elevator.” Pierre continues. “She was a little late for rehearsal and ran down the hall from our apartment upstairs on the fourth floor. She was carrying her red dance bag. If I close my eyes, my dear, I can see her now. She opened the gate, stepped into the waiting lift, closed the gate and pushed the down button. The lift began to descend. One second. Two seconds. And the old cables, which had carried people safely for many years, shredded. The lift rapidly plunged and crashed at the bottom. I was in our apartment. Her screams rising from the shaft of the lift will always fill my ears. Sometimes when it is very quiet in the middle of the night, I’m sure I hear them still.”
Bibi was in the hospital for weeks, bones in both legs and both feet shattered, her dancing career forever ended. Pierre went to the hospital every day but she refused to see him. He grieved for her. He grieved for them. He sent notes and flowers. But still she kept him away. When he left the hospital each time, he sat outside on the hard iron bench and sobbed.
When Bibi came home from the hospital, she moved into her sister Heloise’s apartment on the first floor. She never spoke about Pierre or their past together or the accident. And she wouldn’t let anyone ride down in the elevator. I guess Bernie and I will be walking down the stairs from now on.
“Sometimes I hear you singing in your apartment,” I mention to Pierre. “Ah yes,” he says, ” I sing to soothe Bibi. I think she hears me and it helps her to sleep.”