‘You? I imagine not.’
‘You imagine right.’
He lit up contentedly and blew a stream of smoke into the air above us. ‘No-one does these days. No Brits anyway. It’s one of the things I like about this lot.’
‘They certainly haven’t got the message.’
‘Or don’t care to. Santé!’
We clinked glasses. I was warming up nicely under the influence of the steamy fug, the hot chocolate and the first mouthful of calvados. I put my glass down and began shrugging off my parka. He caught the nearest sleeve and helped me loosen it, then he hung it by the collar loop on a hook under the bar.
‘Think it’s meant for handbags, but if you don’t mind the bottom dragging on the ground …’
‘God no, it’s only …’
‘I see you’ve kept yours safely out of the way.’ He nodded towards my midriff and I found myself involuntarily tightening my muscles. ‘Your handbag. Very wise.’
‘Only after I was nearly robbed, I’m ashamed to say.’
I explained to him what had happened. While I did so I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was being assessed, though I also sensed that this wasn’t particular to me. The bar woman, the married ladies eating crêpes, probably every female in the room had been assessed by this confident, raffish old man – I’d say gentleman, but he was no gentleman.
‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Here on your own?’
‘I am, yes. I like my own company,’ I added, in case he should infer anything pathetic from my answer.
‘Me too!’ he exclaimed, as though surprised and delighted by our having so much in common. ‘I was always a loner.’
‘But now you’re married,’ I reminded him. There didn’t seem to be any of the usual boundaries in place; all bets were off in this conversation.
‘Did I say that?’
‘I’m not sure – but you implied …’
‘You assumed.’
‘All right.’
‘I’m here with someone, but I’m a loner at heart. She knows it too.’
I wondered if she did, and if so what she understood by it. Might that explain one or two things about my companion? He still hadn’t introduced himself, so I certainly wasn’t going to.
‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Any love interest?’
It was usually women who got to the nitty-gritty quickly, but he and I had cut to the chase in a single bound. I’d have called him a fast worker if he hadn’t been so old. I realized, with surprise, that I was starting to enjoy myself.
‘There was,’ I said, ‘sort of, until quite recently. But it’s over now.’
‘Yes, yes …’ He nodded as if this only went to show something or other. ‘Sad about that?’
‘Relieved. It was me that ended it.’
‘Poor bastard.’
‘He’ll be fine. He’s gone to Borneo.’
‘Best place for him.’ This made me laugh, and he said, ‘What?’ but he was laughing as well. The laugh turned into a nasty cough and I waited for it to die down.
‘Jesus.’ He thumped his chest and took another drag on his cigarette. ‘So what was the problem exactly? With Mr Borneo?’
‘Oh, I don’t know …’
‘Yes you do, you just don’t want to say.’ This was true, and made me laugh again. ‘Go on,’ he begged, ‘do tell. My lips are sealed, and anyway we’ll never see each other again which is the perfect basis for an exchange of confidences.’
So it was going to be an exchange, was it? A sort of game.
‘I’ll tell if you tell.’
‘I’ve got nothing to tell.’
‘Of course you have,’ I said. ‘Everyone has.’ I had a brainwave. ‘Think of what you’d least like anyone to know, and tell me that.’
‘God but you’re a hard woman.’ He sighed dramatically and quirked a finger for more drinks. What the hell. ‘All right, you twisted my arm. I’ll do it. But it was my idea, so you first.’
I realized I had never done this. I’d never talked about Gus, because no-one had ever asked, and there was a heady exhilaration in the prospect of doing so now with this complete stranger.
‘He was a chap I met at work—’
‘So far, so dull.’
‘Not dull at all. He was very nice, very handsome, very admirable—’
‘Admirable? Christ! That bad?’
‘And I think he fell in love with me.’
‘You think?’
‘It’s what he believed.’
He covered his eyes with his hand – in spite of the nicotine he had nice hands, long-fingered and strong-looking, with pronounced veins on the back. ‘The whole thing was doomed.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
The drinks arrived and he took away his hand. His eyes were bright; he was enjoying this.
‘What about you?’
‘I wanted to have sex with someone—’
‘Now you’re talking!’ He raised his glass.
‘And he was very keen—’
‘Of course he was.’
‘So we did, and—’
‘Hang on, hold hard – is that it?’ He made a rewinding gesture. ‘I want details.’
‘No.’
‘You said you were mad to have sex with him—’
‘I didn’t, I said I wanted to have sex with someone.’
‘What, anyone?’
‘No!’ He’d made me laugh again. ‘Not anyone. Someone nice.’
‘Nice?’ He made it sound like leprosy. ‘Nice?’
‘Someone attractive then.’
‘Wait a minute.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘This was your first time.’
‘Yes.’
Now he chose not to make fun of me. ‘Perfectly sensible. Did the experience come up to scratch?’
‘I suppose – yes, it was fine.’
‘So this – whatsisname …’ He clicked his fingers but some instinct of loyalty kicked in and I didn’t supply a name. ‘He passed muster between the sheets?’
‘Yes.’
‘But that was it – no flame, nothing extra?’
‘No. Not for me, and I think if he was honest not for him either. He was heartbroken when I told him—’
‘Good man.’
‘He left work and it all ended badly. Which I’m sorry about, because—’
‘He was nice.’
‘Is it a cliché to say I never wanted to hurt him?’
He shrugged. ‘Clichés are clichés because they’re a statement of the blindingly bloody obvious. I’m sure you didn’t want to. You were being cruel to be kind.’
‘I didn’t even think I was being cruel.’
‘M-hm.’ He seemed to be waiting for me to add something, but then went on, ‘And now look at you. Free as a bird, in the City of Love.’ He pronounced it ‘lurv’.
I took a sip of the second calvados which I knew I was going to regret. The pause lengthened, I was being lured into saying something else, which I might also regret. There was, however, no need to be polite.
‘Your turn,’ I said.
‘But we haven’t finished!’
‘I have.’
‘Fair enough I suppose. Well now, let me see. Long, long ago, before you were born, I fell head over heels in love with a beautiful girl I’d never even spoken to – and here she is!’
Saved by the bell, I thought. Jammy. A woman was threading her way between the tables and the people standing at the bar. My companion held out his arm and hooked her into him, I saw her close her eyes for a second as he kissed her forehead.
Even now he didn’t ask my name; he introduced me as his ‘new drinking companion’ and her as ‘Barbara, my better half’. Her hand was small and slim in mine but her handshake was firm. She smiled and said ‘Hello’ as if this were an everyday occurrence, which didn’t surprise me, and even in old age – she must have been seventy – there was the ghost of a soft, luminous prettiness in her eyes, and her still-full mouth. She wore her grey hair in
a loose coil on the nape of her neck, and tendrils of it had come loose in the rain; a plain brown coat, flat boots; what Zinny would have called a ‘good bag’; no wedding ring. If I’d been asked to sum her up, I’d have said sweet, and tired – very tired. In response to his question she asked for a coffee. I probably should have left, but I was curious.
‘So did you buy a hat?’ he asked, looking her up and down as if she might be concealing the purchase.
‘Yes, though whether I shall ever wear it …’ Her voice was gentle and a little plummy – like a shy schoolgirl.
‘Wear it now, show us.’
‘Oh, Johnny …’
I thought, If I was her I wouldn’t like to be told ‘show us’, when one of the other people is a stranger. But once again she seemed not to mind the way he spoke to her. She opened her bag and took out a soft package. Inside was a black velvet beret, with a jaunty red embellishment. She pulled it on with quite a flourish, tweaking it on one side and cocking her head. She was such a pretty, charming lady. I warmed to her.
‘Aah, yes!’ He flicked with his finger the red decoration (I saw now that it was a flower) while she stood quite still, smiling gently. ‘I see.’
It was as though she was keeping him amused, letting him play. Passive, but not, I thought, helpless.
‘That looks lovely,’ I said. ‘It really suits you.’
She raised her hand hesitantly towards the beret, not quite touching it. ‘Thank you. Not mutton dressed as lamb?’
‘Not at all,’ I said, truthfully.
‘How nice of you to say so.’
‘Anyway I hate that expression,’ he said, and for the first time he sounded a touch out of sorts, almost rattled. ‘All of those platitudes about ageing, they’re ridiculous.’
I wasn’t going to remind him of his own analysis of clichés, especially as that would have worked against her, and she was so nice. Instead I took this as my cue to leave.
‘Not going, surely?’ he asked, cheerful again as I put on my parka. ‘The party’s only just started.’
‘Oh you know,’ I said, ‘sights to see and all that. It was really nice meeting you.’
‘And you,’ she said, ‘have a wonderful time.’
‘Au revoir.’ He raised his glass. ‘Bon chance!’
As I left I glanced back. She had taken the beret off and was sitting on the stool I’d vacated, sipping coffee while he said something vastly amusing to the bar girl.
I won’t say ‘that was it, and I never thought of them again’. That hour spent in the crowded bar in Montmartre remains vivid in my memory to this day, both for the oddness of the conversation, and of the old couple. I had only met them for the shortest time, and yet I felt I’d glimpsed their story. If I’d had longer, the gist of it might have disappeared, fogged by detail. The next, the only other time I saw them was at a distance, and they weren’t aware of me.
I’m not religious in any formal sense. Outside school assemblies, I’d never attended services, but I liked churches and here I was in a city with an embarrassment of them. Walking back from the station that evening I passed one or two that were advertising the Easter vigil that night. When I asked the concierge at my hotel, she recommended I go to Notre Dame, where the vigil would be incroyable – but I would need to be early to secure a place. Together we consulted her leaflet and established that I’d be wise to leave no later than six thirty.
Back in my room the thought of going out again into the chilly drizzle and schlepping across town to attend a service which I wouldn’t understand in respect of an event I didn’t believe in became rapidly less enticing. I lay down on the bed and fell asleep for a couple of hours, waking up hungover and out of sorts. Still, I decided I would probably feel better for sticking to Plan A and making the effort. I took a shower in the tiny pod, and the diffuse needles of boiling water woke me up. My concession to changing extended only to dry jeans. I reckoned in a Catholic country that the tone would be democratic, and anyway who would know or care? Downstairs there was a different concierge on duty – she didn’t admire my virtue, or even look up as I left.
The chaplain at Holland House, an amusing man, had approved of what he called ‘mortification of the flesh’ but walking two miles in the continuing rain seemed altogether too much virtue. I grabbed a coffee and a croque monsieur at the tiny cafe next to the hotel and caught the metro, arriving soon after seven. Queues stretched from both sides of the cathedral like embracing arms and for the second time I nearly gave up on the project. But people seemed to be moving, and when I joined them, with others arriving behind me, the atmosphere was benign, almost celebratory, with people sharing hot drinks and cake and responding to my schoolgirl French in excellent English.
Just as well, because it was well over an hour before we got inside, and then a further hour in a pew well to the back and side, before the service started. The first concierge had told me that the vigil would last three hours so I’d already decided I wouldn’t stay for the whole thing and made sure I sat on the aisle. It was so crowded that I left one arm hanging over the end of the pew, holding the candle I’d been given.
Perhaps being a non-believer, and not much of a linguist, was an advantage. I was completely unprepared for and overwhelmed by the solemn beauty and emotional impact of what followed. The sheer scale of the building, soaring and arching above us, was enough to suggest the possibility of God. The crowded, scented darkness of the huge congregation was like an embrace. A great candle was processed through the church and as it passed so all our candles were lit, a gentle, flickering dawn that crept along the pews and up the aisles, lighting thousands of faces and all the assembled belief, unbelief, and hope. People talk of the soul being soothed – I felt it then. The edges of me seemed to soften and to melt so that I was part of the whole, this great mass of people, this ancient rite of redemption, this movement of darkness into light.
As I stood there with my small flame, peace and, yes, redemption, seemed a distinct possibility. I was glad I’d come.
An hour or so later the flock of priests were well into their, to me, incomprehensible liturgy. This was of course a mass, the idea of which I’d always struggled with, and I left, slipping out of my pew as everyone knelt to pray, the movement making a sound like wind moving a vast pile of leaves.
I had never expected to see them, and had actually passed before I realized, and glanced back to check. They were among the latecomers, a small group of whom stood near each of the doors. Actually, she had been provided with a hard chair so it was him I saw first. His collar was up, his hands were in his pockets, his face set in an expression of irritable bafflement. She sat with her hands folded on her lap, eyes closed, in the correct attitude for prayer – I would say childlike, but because her face wasn’t animated she looked older. She was still wearing the beret with the rose.
I’d passed them in a second. But as the usher closed the huge door I caught one last glimpse, and saw that, in spite of the irritation, he had placed one hand on her shoulder.
I thought, They’ve been redeemed, too. From what, I didn’t know, but I walked out into the vast, shiny-wet square with a light heart. And it had stopped raining.
I’d like to say that the Easter vigil in Notre Dame was a road to Damascus, that from that point on I became a believer, lived a better life and attended church for good Christian reasons. I’d like to, but it wouldn’t be true. The real legacy of that evening was twofold: a lifelong affection for churches, either completely empty or so full that I could go unnoticed; and a sense of the protean nature of love, and its unfathomable oddness.
Zinny used to sing a song, the chorus of which was I’ll be true to you darling always in my fashion, I’ll be true to you always darling in my way … It might have been the theme tune of the old roué and his pretty, sweet-natured partner. Who knew what complications and imbalances had affected their shared past. Whatever their story, I wasn’t going to knock it. On the face of it they were an odd couple, but they had rea
ched – not just an accommodation; I sensed it was more than that. More even than simply an understanding. They had found balance. Peace.
TEN
1999
I’d been employed by Edwin Clayborne for just over a year. Dead in the Water, the novel with the female protagonist, was delivered and due out in the autumn – E.J. Clay was a big enough name to do battle with the seasonal heavyweights. This was the first book to come out, on my watch, and what with that and my own small part in its creation I felt like a proud parent.
One morning in late July, Edwin came into my office with a shiny hardback and put it down on the desk.
‘Present for you. Just arrived.’
‘Thank you!’ Thrilled, I riffled through the pages.
‘Don’t worry, I shan’t quiz you. It’s just to say thank you for setting me right on a few things. Important things, incidentally.’
I was mumbling something about that being nothing, when he added, ‘Look at the beginning – no, er, the flyleaf.’
I did so, and nearly fell off my chair.
For Flora
That was all, and all that was needed. I was momentarily overcome.
‘There were all kinds of things I might have put,’ he said, ‘but perhaps you’ll take them as read.’
‘I will. Thank you so, so much.’
He smiled and tapped my desk with his fingers. ‘My absolute pleasure.’
When he’d gone I flipped through the pages of the book, returning all the time to the dedication to check it was still there. I think it was the ‘for’ that I found affecting. That one word sounded as if he hadn’t simply dedicated the book to me, but that he had written it with me in mind. Though I knew this couldn’t be true, it nonetheless gave the dedication a personal ring and I was more touched than I could say.
After this it was business as usual, and following the publicity round he had a three-week holiday planned in Utah of all places. I had no clear picture of Utah, except for Salt Lake City and the Mormons, but he’d showed me pictures of the swirling desert and the great bridges and arches of red slip-rock, and explained that he was going to be hiking with a couple of American friends before travelling south and going to stay with them in New Mexico.
Love in a Mist Page 11