Sottopassaggio

by Nick Alexander

  I stroke the saxophone. I had imagined Tom playing this, somehow making it his, somehow making it all OK. I imagined that Tom would delimit the past by opening a new paragraph for me, maybe even a whole new chapter.

  I lift the sax and hold it in my arms, but it is cold and metallic. I wish I could have heard it; wish I could have known it alive in Steve’s hands.

  My eyes are misting and my mouth is filling with saliva so I put the sax back in the box, and unsteadily stand and walk through to the bedroom. I switch on the ceiling fan and throw myself on the bed.

  The covers smell musty. I lie staring at the fan, watching as the white blades start hesitantly to turn, and I wait for its predictable, rhythmic creak to begin and for sleep to take me away, anywhere but here.

  Here and There

  The next morning, as they say, is a whole new day.

  Unexpectedly, amazingly in fact, I wake up feeling bright and optimistic. I throw open the shutters and stare at the sheer brilliance of the light, the deep blue of the sky.

  Jenny is still sleeping, so I dress quickly and head downstairs into the bustling streets.

  The fish sellers on Place St Francois are hollering and the air is filled with market sounds and foody smells, and that unique, fading freshness that announces a scorching day to come.

  I buy coffee and croissants, oranges and yoghurts, then I hurry back to wake Jenny up. I want to get out and about before it gets too hot to breathe.

  Jenny is in the shower, so I wipe down the dusty table and set about making coffee.

  “God!” she says, when she appears. “Food! Thank God!”

  I smile at her. “Fresh croissant maam?” I ask.

  Jenny crosses the room and rips off a chunk of croissant and pushes it hungrily into her mouth.

  “I checked the cupboards,” she says, her mouth full. “I was actually considering the tinned tuna!”

  We drink strong black coffee and munch the croissants. When I squeeze the oranges, the zest makes my nose tingle.

  “How come foreign food always tastes so much better?” Jenny asks. “I mean; it’s not like we don’t have croissants and coffee back home.”

  I nod. “I know,” I say. “You forget, don’t you?”

  Jenny makes a mock grrrr, sound and rips off another bite of croissant with her teeth.

  “I suppose it’s just that the croissants were baked an hour ago by a real man, with real ingredients,” I say.

  Jenny nods. “And the coffee?” she asks. “I buy the best coffee they have, but it never tastes like this.”

  I shrug. “That too,” I say. “They were roasting the beans in the shop. She ground this in front of me.”

  Jenny sips hers. “Being starving helps too I guess,” she says. “Anyway, whatever the reason, it’s bloody lovely.”

  I convince Jenny to leave the cleaning till later, and we wander through the shady streets, down towards the beach.

  “It’s such a different life here,” Jenny says. “The way you just come out of your flat and everything’s happening on the doorstep.”

  We round a corner, and the huge Cours Saleya market comes into view.

  “And markets,” she says. “Why don’t we have vegetable markets in England anymore. Can you tell me that?”

  We wander between the stalls, then along the seafront, and down onto the packed pebble beach where we squeeze our way between the towels, and tiptoe around the greased sizzling bodies to dip our heels in the Med.

  “I must find my bathers,” I say, as we walk back towards the house.

  “I must buy some,” Jenny says. “If I can find any big enough, in the land of the thin.”

  In front of the Palais de Justice, a pianist has set up in the middle of the square. He’s playing the Brahms piano concerto beautifully.

  “Can we sit over there and listen?” Jenny says nodding towards a bar.

  Seated beneath the red awning Jenny sighs contentedly. “This was such a good idea,” she says.

  I laugh. “And surprisingly obvious really,” I say.

  Jenny nods. “God knows what you were doing in Brighton anyway,” she says. “I mean; there’s really no comparison.”

  I nod thoughtfully and look out across the sun-drenched square.

  “I know what you mean,” I say. “And in some ways… In most ways in fact, you’re right.”

  “But?” Jenny says.

  I shrug. “But Brighton has things going for it too,” I say.

  Jenny nods. “Brighton’s nice,” she says. “With the sea and the beach and everything... But I’d still say here’s better. I mean what does Brighton have that Nice doesn’t?”

  I smile at her. “That’s because you’re English,” I say. “You don’t see it.”

  “You’re English too,” Jenny points out.

  I laugh. “Yeah, I mean you live there all the time,” I say. “So there are things you don’t notice.”

  “Like?” Jenny says.

  I shrug. “Like people wearing the first thing they found this morning, because it’s the weekend and it just doesn’t matter,” I say.

  Jenny frowns and looks around.

  “And people with reggae plaits in their hair and pierced noses, and men walking down the street wearing leather chaps and teddy-bear backpacks.”

  Jenny smiles.

  “And literally thousands of gay men who are fairly happy about who they are,” I say. “And plumbers who ask if you or your partner can be in around three.”

  Jenny nods. “I see what you mean,” she says. “It’s the culture you miss. The relaxed easy-going...”

  “Look at Tom,” I interrupt. “He’s a pure product of Brighton.”

  Jenny nods. “Tom’s lovely,” she says.

  I nod. “And he doesn’t exist here,” I say. “He couldn’t.”

  Jenny sighs and wrinkles her nose. “I guess,” she says, looking around. “He’s with Antonio now, right?”

  I nod. “I’ll phone him at some point I suppose,” I say. Then I shrug. “Then again, there’s not much point.”

  Jenny smiles sympathetically at me. “I really thought that was going to work out,” she says. “For you two I mean.”

  I snort sadly. “Me too,” I say. “Stupid and selfish really,” I say. “To just assume that Tom’s relationship with Antonio was of no importance.”

  “Will you go back?” Jenny asks. “Or do you think you’ll stay here now?”

  I shrug and think for a while. “I don’t know really,” I say. “I need both I think.”

  Jenny nods. “I can understand that,” she says.

  “The trouble is organising it,” I say.

  Jenny wrinkles her nose. “Organising it?”

  “I mean, finding a way of earning a living that lets me do both, finding a way of having a relationship that lets me do both,” I say. “I guess it’s a lot to ask.”

  Jenny shrugs. “Tom goes back and forth,” she says. “It could happen.”

  I smile. “Yeah,” I say, thoughtfully. “Back to Tom. Sacré Tom!”

  Jenny smiles. “Sacré Tom!” she repeats.

  “Funny to think he’s probably only about a hundred miles that way,” I say nodding towards the east.

  Jenny nods.

  “Maybe I should phone him,” I say. “Then again…” I shrug. “I have trouble seeing Tom as a mate really. And I don’t even like Antonio.”

  “I need to phone my mother,” Jenny says. “She’ll be hysterical by now.”

  I nod. “So we go back, clean the apartment and while you phone home, I’ll make lunch,” I say.

  Jenny nods and lifts her handbag from the back of the chair. “OK,” she says.

  “And then it’s siesta time,” I say.

  Jenny grimaces. “I’m not sure about that,” she says. “I’m not sleepy yet.”

  I laugh. “You will be,” I say. “Once the thermometer hits 35.”

  Thus slips by the best part of a week. Simple shopping excursions, cups of strong black
coffee, and long sweaty siestas.

  Isabelle brings back Paloma, my cat. With her purring and rolling around, the apartment feels a little more like home.

  We take the train to Antibes – Jenny is too pregnant for motorbikes – and we swim for the first time at the little sandy beach near the port.

  On Friday, we take the train again, but this time in the other direction, to Ventimiglia, the first town after the border.

  The journey is gorgeous, and the train’s plunging in and out of tunnels with its now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t views of the Mediterranean is simply stunning.

  “Next stop Italy,” I tell Jenny as the train lurches out of Menton.

  “Borders are so weird aren’t they,” she says shaking her head.

  I nod. “I know. Every time I go to Ventimiglia I think that. The fact that there’s like, just this line; and a baby born on one side speaks Italian, and on the other side, French.”

  Jenny nods. After a pause, she says, “Actually, I was wondering, I mean, I’m not sure how it would work, but I wondered, well, if I stayed here. Do you think I could have the baby here?”

  I smile and shrug. “I don’t know,” I say. “But it would be really good… If it’s doable.”

  “I mean,” Jenny continues. “I could rent a holiday flat or something. I bet they’re cheap after the summer. I wouldn’t have to be under your feet all the time.”

  I shrug. “We’ll see,” I say. “I’ll ask Isabelle if you want, find out how it works. She’s a nurse.”

  The train rumbles into a tunnel and we sit listening to the roar.

  When we burst into sunlight again, Jenny leans over and peers at the beach below. “It’s just so beautiful,” she says, shaking her head in wonder, then sitting back in her seat. “I guess it’s just because it’s so different being here… But I’ve hardly thought about Nick at all.”

  I nod. “He must be out by now,” I say.

  Jenny shakes her head. “Weird,” she says. “It seems so far away now. I’m surprised he hasn’t been in touch with my mum though.”

  Rumbling and squealing, the train trundles through another, shorter tunnel.

  “Buongiorno Italia,” I say as we come into the daylight.

  Jenny leans out and looks up at the hill on the left. “Funny,” she says. “It actually looks different too.”

  I nod. “Greenhouses instead of hotels,” I say.

  Ventimiglia market is a mad frenzy of dodgy deals.

  The official market traders are outnumbered two-to-one by beautifully built North Africans selling counterfeits of everything I never wished for.

  “If you ever wanted one of those awful Louis-Vuitton handbags, now’s your moment,” I tell Jenny.

  The nearest trader apparently overhears and grabs my arm. “You want Vuitton?” he says. “I do you good price. Very good price.”

  I actually have to shake my elbow to get him to release his grip.

  “They’re very aggressive,” Jenny laughs.

  “I know,” I say. “Avoid eye contact or you’re done for.”

  Despite Jenny’s assertion that, “Those things never work once you get them home,” I buy a miracle tin opener from an overly cute Italian demonstrator.

  Jenny finds another cheap swimming costume, and I manage to replace my wallet with a new model. It has the advantage of having a big chain connecting it to my belt loop.

  “You won’t lose that in a hurry,” Jenny laughs.

  Down on the seafront we choose a small restaurant on a wooden platform overhanging the beach, and order beers and panini sandwiches.

  “It’s such an amazing place to live,” Jenny says again. “I mean you really have it all here, don’t you.”

  I laugh and look out at the sea. “Yeah,” I say with a sigh.

  Jenny touches my hand. “You OK?” she asks.

  I nod. “Just a moment of melancholy,” I say. “It doesn’t mean anything. A passing cloud.”

  Jenny frowns at me.

  “Look!” I say, forcing a grin. “It’s gone!”

  Beneath the faded Gini parasol, we quietly eat our sandwiches and drink our beer and watch the sun beat down on the beach below.

  “The men on that beach,” Jenny points out, “all have really long trunks, and really short legs.”

  I grin and nod. “You’re right,” I say. “How funny.”

  “Cute though,” Jenny says.

  I nod. “Yeah, cute.”

  “You’re not into Italians much are you?” she says.

  I shrug and sip at my beer. “Actually I think they’re unbelievably gorgeous,” I say. “It’s just the only Italian men I have ever slept with were either suicidal that they were gay, or pretending they were straight.”

  “Antonio seems OK though,” Jenny says.

  I snort lightly. “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”

  Jenny pulls a grimace. “Sorry,” she says. “Shouldn’t have mentioned the A word.”

  I shrug. “Nah, it’s fine,” I say. “Hey, shall we be real pigs and order desert?”

  Jenny’s eyes flash. “Do you think they have profiteroles? I love profiteroles.”

  I wink at her. “Dunno,” I say, “but I certainly intend to find out.”

  “Oh my God,” Jenny says forking the first one into her mouth. “If you hear any strange noises, it’ll just be me… Having an orgasm.”

  Sottopassaggio

  Around five we head back up to the station. We stop en-route to pick up some cheap bottles of Martini.

  There’s a wait for the train, so we sit in the little café on platform one and drink another round of cappuccinos. The waiter smilingly serves us, then returns to a deck chair at the far end of the bar where he resumes reading his newspaper.

  Jenny nods at him. “It’s a hard life,” she says.

  I laugh. “Yeah,” I say.

  “It’s so easy to forget,” Jenny says. “Living somewhere like England. You forget how relaxed other people’s lives can be, you know?”

  I nod.

  “Especially in the hea…” Jenny freezes mid sentence. Her mouth drops.

  “Oh my God!” she exclaims.

  I frown at her.

  She smiles madly and stares into the middle distance.

  “What?” I ask. “What is it?”

  “It moved,” she says. “The baby, oh my God! It moved!”

  I grin broadly. “Is that the first time?”

  Jenny nods. “Yeah!” she says, wide eyed. “Wow, that’s so weird. Gosh.” She pulls a face and bites her bottom lip. “It’s a bit freaky actually. Like having an alien inside.”

  I grimace. “Is it moving now? Is she moving,” I correct myself, anxious to banish the idea that it’s an alien.

  Jenny pauses then shakes her head. “No,” she says. “Just a one off.”

  She laughs and nods. “Wow though!” she says.

  “I expect there’ll be lots more of that,” I say. “Did you think any more about names?”

  Jenny shrugs. “I liked the Stevie idea, I mean, I liked the idea of the link, but the Nicks part kind of put me off. Depending how things work out, I may well want to try and forget that particular aspect of things.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “I thought it was a bit dodgy.”

  “I actually like Catherine,” Jenny says. “Or Sarah.”

  “Catherine will become Kate I guess,” I say. “Kate bush, Kate Winslett, Katey Boyle…”

  “And Sarah?”

  I grimace and shrug. “Sarah Ferguson? Sarah… Sarah Lee’s Black Forest Gateau?” I shrug. “Actually there’s another Fleetwood Mac link there. On the same album we heard the other day there’s a song called Sarah. It was the big hit as I recall.”

  I glance at my watch. “But we better make a move,” I say. “The train will be here in a bit.”

  Jenny pulls her bag towards her and stretches.

  I nod towards the underpass. “Platform numéro quattro,” I say.

  Jenny nods and stands, placin
g a hand on her belly. “Sottopassaggio,” she says, reading the sign above the underpass. “Isn’t Italian beautiful?”

  I nod. “It means exactly the same thing though,” I say. “Under-pass.”

  Jenny takes my arm. “Yeah,” she says, starting to walk. “I know, and I expect Italians probably think underpass sounds more exotic, but I still prefer Sottopassaggio.”

  As we descend into the tiled tunnel the temperature drops. Involuntarily I shiver. “It’s cold down here,” I say, my voice echoing off the tiled walls.

  Pools of sunlight illuminate the tunnel at each set of stairs. We wander arm in arm towards the far end, the bottles clinking in the carrier bag.

  “Hey, here come the alcoholics!” I laugh, shaking the bag.

  Jenny squeezes my arm. “Don’t joke about that,” she says.

  I pull a face. “Sorry,” I mutter.

  “So how far away did you say Tom…” Jenny glances up the first flight of stairs and pauses. She looks like she’s listening for some distant sound.

  “The baby again?” I ask.

  Jenny shakes her head but continues to peer up the stairwell. I follow her gaze. The aura of evening sunlight at the top is beautiful and I wish I had my camera. Thinking that Jenny has got the wrong platform, I tug on her arm.

  “Our train’s platform four,” I say nodding forwards. “Down the end.”

  At the top, silhouetted against the evening sunlight, a figure has appeared.

  “I know!” Jenny says, in an irritated tone. “Wait!”

  I glance at her, and then back up at the figure, now heading towards us.

  “Isn’t that…?” Jenny says.

  As the figure comes closer I see it’s a man. He’s carrying a bag over his shoulder. He continues down until only his spiky hair remains silhouetted against the orange sky.

  I shudder.

  Jenny says his name first. “Tom?”

  He pauses, now only one step above us. I stare, mouth open, speechless.

  Tom takes the final step down to our level. He looks pale and drawn, so washed-out in fact, that for a moment, I doubt that it is him.

  His expression is wide-eyed but emotionless. He looks frowningly at Jenny, then at myself. He drops the heavy green army bag from his shoulder to the ground, and silently stands before us. Then he looks from Jenny’s face to my own, and then back again over and over.