I died on a Tuesday afternoon, struck by a car as I was crossing Avenue George V. It was raining heavily. I had just come out from the hairdresser. The time, judging from the traffic, increasingly violent but not yet congested, was shortly before six. I sighted a free cab, waved to it. I stepped off the curb watching for a chance to cross. Just then I saw the doorman of the hotel on the opposite side head toward the taxi with an oversize umbrella, blowing his whistle shrilly. I made a dash for it. I was flung into the center of the road by a car and struck at once. The rest is blurred. Because of the rain only a handful of bystanders gathered. The police and an ambulance arrived within a few minutes. And in less than half an hour normal traffic was resumed.
It happened so suddenly, and besides my mind was on something else at the time. But it’s quite certain I am dead. It’s in the newspaper. The doctor’s statement lies on the desk of the police even though an official death certificate can’t be made out till tomorrow morning; “Femme décapitée en 18° arrondissement,” it said in France Soir, and the sensation of my head severed from my back is still vivid. My body growing enormous, its thousands of trillions of cells suddenly set free, spread, speeded, pressed jubilant, rushing to the seven gates of Paris, out Porte de Clichy, Porte de la Chapelle, Porte d’Orléans, Porte de Versailles; the fingers of my outstretched arms plunged into the woods of Boulogne and Vincennes.
DEAREST,
I’m coming. Don’t be misled by the Crillon stationery. I’m on my way, flying out of Paris tonight. Five days in Amsterdam (I wrote you about the conference); perhaps I can cut it down to three and be in New York by Sunday morning the eleventh by Icelandic. Will cable when I know exactly. Leave a key under the loose tile just in case. I hope this reaches you in time. It was impossible to write the last weeks. Work deadlines, settling the children with my sister-in-law for the summer, and then the final clearing out—a depressing amount of stuff. But now it’s done. I am free at last, the keys turned over to the new tenants, my one suitcase checked at the aérogare. I walked all day, wonderfully light with only my papers and your picture in my pocket.
Wandered through different markets staring at the same varieties of cheeses and beautifully displayed fruit, even the green string beans arranged in perfect rows; got lost in the flower market. Sat in the lobby of the Crillon for almost an hour trying to write to you. Then strolled around Place Vendôme looking at window displays. Not till all the stores closed for noon did I begin to think perhaps I should have a plan for the afternoon—shop, visit the Musée Grévin, see the new exhibit of ancient Chinese calligraphy or take a last look at the Cycladic heads in the Louvre. But continued in a daze past Châtelet looking into every junk shop along the quai, blocks of sporting goods, fancy tropical birds and fish for sale and back on the other side of the river felt suddenly how senseless all this delight, the fine blue sky, a sudden impatience and anger as I saw women starting homeward with small children from the playgrounds and crowding before butcher shops and bakeries. Braced myself for the standard tourist sunset boatride along the Seine, the ferry packed with a crowd of boys from some German youth organization, the “Wundervogel.” And now it’s time.
Forgive this late and hurried note; I hoped to get it off earlier this day; now I might as well mail it at the airport. Haven’t even begun to think about paper I have to give on Spinoza. Count on spirit of place. It will be my first visit to Amsterdam.
Love, SOPHIE
WHILE traveling, Sophie Blind carried her accumulation of some thirty-five years in boxes, suitcases, trunks, barrels, crates and the like. Not on her person, or necessarily accompanying her person. On her person she carried only what was necessary depending on the nature of the journey—whether by boat, plane, train, bus or foot—its length and destination and, finally, the number of persons traveling.
This seemed the obvious way to deal with things: pack and unpack and pack again if you were traveling, and Sophie had been traveling all her life. When she married she continued traveling with her husband. Ezra Blind was working on a book that might take all his life to complete, or at least the next twenty years; his work required going to libraries and meeting scholars of different countries. Fortunately Ezra managed to get invited as a visiting lecturer to good universities on both sides of the Atlantic as far as Jerusalem. So they lived in many different cities, sometimes for only a few months, sometimes for as long as two years, and traveled to other places in between. Sophie liked traveling. She also liked to have some things she cherished, a few familiar objects around her, wherever she was, beyond the more or less same sky with its same sun and moon and more or less same walls. Some things she found, some she stole, some she bought. Sophie liked traveling. For a wedding present from her father-in-law Sophie asked for an extension of their honeymoon trip instead of a fur coat. Not want a fur coat? Their daughter-in-law must have a fur coat. When at the birth of a son a fur coat was bought, it was for their respective family pictures. She wore the coat for them. She was their daughter-in-law. But did she have to take it along with her everywhere while traveling with her husband? Yes, because Ezra paid part. His father had said, “I want to buy Sophie a five-hundred-dollar fur coat.” Ezra said, “Buy her one for seven hundred dollars. I
