She turned to stone, a pillar. A statue of salt.
God had moved to Paris a long time ago. At least Loth had had that feeling for a few decades now. Ever since she had left, so to speak. He knew he was a man of his city and shared its delirious memories of the nineteenth century when it had been dictating culture and science to the rest of the world.
By just being there she had added an extra dimension to his two-dimensional life. She had been able to pull him out of that life with her mad dancing and horrendous tastes for popular music, all the while toying with the Great Romantics on her instrument.
She still got the sound right, even in those slight tunes he had just heard her perform. Her hands had suffered. He could take her to a good doctor, the best.
Her skin was flawless now that she was up close to him. It had been the cruel light that made her look gaunt. She was skinny and her hair was dyed too harshly, but that could be remedied easily enough back home. He still felt attracted to her. He had been listening to her speak for hours. She was quiet now, waiting for him to say something. Tell her what to do, to improve her marriage maybe. They were sure to be a lot better off if one of them turned into an angel. It was bound to be bliss. He did not know where his voice came from when he added that she should come home now, back to Paris with him. He had seen enough.
She agreed without much hesitation. Sam could visit her there when he had time off boarding school. She wanted to go back to one spot. Torca Point. See the landscape once more and try to understand just once more how the son of that landscape could be evil. She would join Loth in Paris. He would leave her ticket at Dublin Airport for the following night. That should leave her time for her last sentimental journey. Again she agreed and kissed him on the cheek. It was a cold evening. He gave her his coat and took a taxi back to his hotel.
There were so many flowers that reminded him of her back at his apartment. Camelia floating in crystal pink and red skin and lips. White tulips in the bathroom, petals dropping from a fresh erect stem. Primroses, bushy and mildly wild like her, in her uncrushed hair. The big roof terrace overgrown with her fairytale stockroses.
He stood on the terrace looking at the fountain on the Place de la Concorde. Had she turned into one of those mermaids, the one staring straight at his apartment keeping her stone gaze fixed on him?
They raised their glasses to her and her beautiful taste in flowers, Loth and all her old friends. They drank to her funeral.