Paris Letters #51

Pearl was sitting at the the bar next to the cigarette machine counting pennies. She was 6 foot tall, pure-bred Irish, with long red curls flowing over her breasts. Very soon after I met her I knew: she was a real mermaid.

It might have been the way she dressed that tipped me off: her shiny blue sequin dress that seemed to have scales, her fake sharkskin handbag, or that she crossed her legs, as if hiding a tail, under the table. It was like she had slithered to dry land, from Twillingate or Trinity or Gander, or whatever tiny seaside town in Newfoundland she was from. The slight awkwardness of her gait also gave her away: she hadn’t she yet learned to inhabit her earthly legs yet. She was so very pale, almost bloodless — she had to be a mermaid.

I don’t know how I found the courage to speak to her, let alone try to seduce her — but I found myself transported. Her girlfriend soon slinked away, and we were left alone gazing into each other’s eyes. She told me she had come to the ‘big city’—St. Johns, Newfoundland—because she wanted to be a fashion designer, which explained why she dressed in such a folksy manner.

Feeling some gesture was necessary in our courtship, I wrote her a poem—on a greasy napkin that smelled of codfish. It was something about a mermaid and a lost sailor. She swooned and told me that we were fated to meet; she said her mother was clairvoyant and had predicted she would meet a tall stranger from the mainland. As our gaze deepened I felt myself coming back from the dead. Here I was, just out of a halfway house, gazing at Venus, in all her fluid and potent power.

How old are you? I asked. What does it matter? She said holding my hand tight. She was just 19 — I wasn’t breaking any laws. I whisked her out into the northern night and down Water Street, and we walked past shipyards and bright stars blazing and up Pilot hill. I kissed her, but when tried to get to second base she backed off. She seemed to have something to confess, but it was caught in her throat.

Finally, she told me she was a virgin — like every mermaid of course. My desire and maleness frightened her, and I felt a bit ashamed; she was pretty young. So we just held hands, like teenagers. She seems to need that. The electricity of hands grounded her.

As strange as it sounds, after about a week of kissing, courting, and holding hands, I broke up with her. Why is a mystery to me still — my God was she a beauty! And, moreover, she was kind, forbearing, and truthful in her heart. I might have stayed with her in St. Johns forever—we might have grown old together. To remember those blushing cheeks and her funny otherworldly voice fills mind with every kind of contrary emotion. But I guess she didn’t belong to me. She was still a part of the sea.