The Bathtub Heroine

I have 384 memories of my husband. But I can’t remember the first time I realized I was his wife.

I do remember, with vivid clarity the first time I saw one of his paintings. It was here, in my great aunt’s house. I was 16 or so and visiting her as I do every now and then. She lives in a tiny one bedroom house in Montpellier. Which means I spend the night on a little made up bed on the dining room floor. It’s an old ladies house complete with white linen tablecloths and hanging pottery on the walls. So there is of course a little bookcase too. And one evening, some years ago, I pulled out a book on post impressionism. I flicked through the different paintings, some I recognized, some I didn’t. Gauguin, Matisse, Pissarro, Rousseau. And then I saw it. It was a painting of a woman in a bath. But the painting wasn’t about her, it was about the moment. Colours filled the bathroom in block sections; glowing up the walls in blue, purple, orange, white, yellow. I didn’t see the colours, I felt them. I felt what they meant. Blue meant sunset, orange meant moon glow, white reflection, purple candlelight. Yellow meant escape. It wasn’t a moment captured; it was a moment still alive. I lingered over the painting for a long time. I looked at the name of the artist, Pierre Bonnard.

Every time I visit my aunt, I always pull out the book and take a look. Only this time as I turn to its page, the painting seems to tease me.    

I haven’t been able to take a bath for a long time. I’ve been in university for three years now, and my room only has a shower. And it seems wherever I go life never hands me a bath. A hotel room, or a friend’s house- always a shower. And if there is a bath, the boiler is broke or the drain is blocked. I have come to develop an overwhelming desire to take a bath. I dream of taking baths. I fantasize about it. I long for that satisfying nothingness of being in a tub, door shut, world outside; just water, water, water and peace.

“I’ve put you a big towel and a little towel and a flannel on the handrail. There’s lavender oil, use that.” My aunt says, as she walks by with a basket of laundry. Fate has finally given me a break. The old lady has a lovely white bathroom, with a nice big fat tub.

“Thank you. I might take a long time if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, of course.” She says.

I go straight in, turn the hot tap, and undress. Naked and alone, I let out a deep sigh. Once the water is full enough I get in. A bath opens me. If I soak long enough, I get lost inside my own body. There are all sorts of things inside. Organs, trauma, blood, nerve endings, the subconscious- which is a bottomless minefield of meaning. And then there’s also the soul. And the soul has a sweet spot for sentimental journeys and all things that can never be explained.

I watch the heat of the water rise up over my body. I take a deep breath, and I push my head slowly down until I’m entirely beneath the surface. I run out of breath, but I keep my head under. Darkness comes. And I sink deeper yet again. And whatever is left of me fades.

I feel so dizzy, my body pulsates. I burst upright out of the water, struggling for air. I sit and splutter and eventually begin to I laugh. I rub my water soar eyes and squint into the dark room. My eyes adjust slowly, but it seems to take longer for my mind.

A door creaks open and a man walks in. He startles me. I grab my boobs and sink back down. But he walks to the sink without looking at me. His steps are quiet and his movements are gentle. I watch his back as he washes his hands. He looks at me from the corner of his eye as he grabs a hand-towel. I know him. I know him, of course I do. And I know this place. It is not the little white bathroom in my great aunts house. But I recognize it very well.

The man walks towards the tall window. My presence isn’t foreign to him, I’m not an intruder, I’m not a guest; I live here. I live here. And I think it has been a very long time since I was last home.

“Cold?” He says.

“No.” I say.

He opens the window to let the evening summer in. He walks to the corner of the room and sits down in a chair. He watches me, and I look back at him. In the dim light I can’t completely make out his face. I wonder if he is old or young. I stretch my head just high enough to look in the mirror across the room. All I manage to see is a shadowy segment of my face. I look at my legs, thinly covered in long hair. I wonder when we are. How old we are. How long we have been in love. I look at my hands, wrinkled from the water. I observe my surroundings long enough to notice that it is black, bright yellow, dark green and bright yellow. It’s 1898.

I look at the man. Every memory I have of him is fractured. Our time together is spent in fragments. Silent moments spent in our home in Le Cannet. Sitting at the breakfast table, undressing in the bedroom, lounging in the garden. And of course, soaking in the bath. The human mind lets all the best things of this world slip away, but an artist keeps them safe. When a moment in life seems bland and insignificant, an artist sees enough importance to make it last forever.

I lived this life with this man a long time ago. I was a woman once. But now I am a woman in a painting. And a woman in a painting can never die.  

“My love.” I call to him and he comes to sit on the edge of the tub. I stretch my neck and kiss his hand.

“You want to get out?” He says.

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“The water is cold.” He says, as he slips his fingers in.

“So.”

“You will get sick again. Come on.”

“No.” I say firmly.

“My wife is a fish.”

“Let me stay as long as I like. And don’t leave.”

“Ok.”

384 times my husband put me on canvas. 384 hazy glimpses of my body painted from his memory. I have slipped into this memory, many, many times. But all memories fade away as quickly as they spring upon us. I look up at the man next to me. I’m afraid to move. I’m afraid that if I step out of the tub, I might step out of this moment with him too. Because a memory cannot easily be changed. But if I am quiet, subtle and very convincing- it might just be persuaded.   

“Pierre” I say, standing up and stretching out my hand. He comes to me and I drape my wet arm over his shoulder. I press my cold face into his neck and breathe in deep. I touch his wispy beard. I stroke his soft brown hair.

“I am not your towel.” He says with a little snort of laughter.

I look through the bathroom door, and there I see a warm smudge of yellow candlelight. I wonder how long I will have him before I fade away. I put my other arm around him and hold him tight. I cling on as he takes me to the bedroom.