Down six flights of stairs I held her. The most precious object in my life. The whole time I prayed and whispered in her ear. Hang on my darling. You will be fine. I promise.

It was a frigid Paris night. No moon. No stars. With the little money I had from Valfiero I hired a taxi. A luxury I was unused to. It bumped over cobblestones and I shouted at the driver to slow down. A moment later I begged him to speed up! I clutched Simone to me. Her skin was burning. Despite the noise of the street I could hear a rattle in her chest. I cursed myself for waiting so long.

Over and over I told her we would be there soon and begged her to hold on. I smoothed back her damp hair. Kissed her eyelids. I saw by the light of a passing streetlamp that her skin had gone from flushed to ashen. I begged the driver to go faster. I held Simone tighter. Though I worried I would not be heard by the God I had long ago abandoned I prayed and prayed.

She clasped my hand and whispered my name. Told me I was a great painter. I must remember that. And to be happy.

I told her it was no time to speak of such things. That we were only minutes away from the hospital. But she would not stop. Said it was important that I remember.

I told her to be quiet. Lay a finger gently on her lips. Felt they had gone cold.

She asked me to promise to be happy when she was gone.

I could not bear to hear her say such things. Repeated there was no need. That she would be fine. But she would not stop. So I promised her. Promised I would remember. Promised I would be happy. Begged her to save her strength. Told her how much I needed her. Beside me. Her belief in me. That without her I was nothing. I made her promise she would always be with me.

And she promised. Whispered my name. Said she would always be with me. Told me to look for her in the shadows.

I begged her not to say such things! It was her fever talking. She would be fine. Healthy and happy and painting her own beautiful paintings. I pleaded with her to hang on. For me.

I kissed her cheeks. Her forehead. Her lips. I held her firmly as the taxi bumped along the Parisian streets.

She said she loved me. And I said I loved her.

I told her she was my world.

I felt tears in my eyes and on my cheeks. Simone closed her eyes and nestled her head against my neck. And I felt her tears too.

Then she asked me to sing to her.

Sing what? I asked. And why?

She said sing. Sing anything.

My mind was spinning. All I could think of was that silly ditty Picasso had sung and so I sang it.