“So, tell me,” he says, “what would you recommend I do not miss in the cultural life of Paris.”
I shrug. “I don’t know what your likes and dislikes are.”
“I could make a fool of myself now, but will just say I know what I like when I see it.”
“I intend to see the Picasso Museum and the Centre Georges Pompidou.”
“I confess I have never been.”
“You should, maybe you will see something you like very much.”
He smiles sceptically, yet confidentially: “Yes, I might, you never know. If you don’t mind maybe we could go together.” I don’t instantly respond but look at him, wondering about the invitation, the expression with which he asked it. He is a perplexing combination of confidence and doubt. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to impose myself on you. You obviously like to do these things alone.”
“No I don’t,” I say plainly. “I do them alone. Of course it would be very pleasant to go together, but do you not have business to see to?”
“I am in Paris,” he responds with a mild flourish, “I deserve at least one day’s grace. But be warned, I know absolutely nothing about art in any of its forms.”
“Is that true?”
“Yes it’s true.”
“You’re probably wrong. You must have been touched by song and dance, everyone is.”
“Oh yes,” he responds with mild, comic determination, “I’ve been a hit on the dance floor, master of jazz fusion and soul.”
I smile, and again look at him, wondering about the clearly self-mocking expression, the ever so slightly hopeless undertone. I eat some of my starter, which has been sitting untouched for a while. The taste is exquisite, crab with apricot mayonnaise served with julienne vegetables and flowers drizzled with truffle oil. I can’t remember the last time I ate such food. I drink more wine and rediscover the relationship of wine and food. I can’t deny the pleasure I feel. I eat some more and then put down my knife and fork and say: “I wasn’t being evasive earlier. Today was a waste of time. I learnt nothing new.”
“Did you expect to?”
“I don’t know.”
“What exactly was said?”
I eat a bit more. He waits, opting not to apologize for his question, true to his word. I swallow and drink another mouthful of wine. He refills my glass, his own scarcely touched. “I presume they think me a grief stricken, crazy mother, when in fact I am a grief stricken, crazy mother.”
“My turn. Is that true?”
“Grief stricken, yes, crazy, probably.”
“Why crazy?”
“Because a tune keeps going round and round in my head, Spiegel im Spiegel.”
“Mirror in mirror.”
“Yes.”
“A real tune, you mean?”
“Oh yes, a real tune, a real, very beautiful tune, but somehow it’s telling me that something is not quite right, something is altogether wrong. Is that crazy?”
“Yes, I would have thought so, but it doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
“No, maybe not. I was fobbed off, but why?”
“Are you sure?”
“No, of course not. The young man might have been doing his best to humour an insane, wounded mother. I don’t know.”
“So what now?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a number, a girl. I should have rung her by now but I keep putting things off. The person who gave me the number was nervous. I keep coming across people who are nervous. I sometimes think I’m making them up, not them as such, but how they are, because it doesn’t make sense. It must be the way I’m looking at them.”
“Just a number, not a name.”
I look at him again without responding. He is comfortable with that now. We have progressed from having any need to apologize. It suggests that big steps have been taken. Strangers apologize, intimates rarely do. I speak very slowly, as if meditating on it, which I’m not. “Yes, just a number, no name. Someone gave me a number and said it was the number of a friend of Joseph’s.”
“Someone handed it to you, you mean.”
“No, no, it was a message on the phone, left for me, but no name.”
I smile, wondering why I am lying so much. I don’t trust myself, don’t trust my motives or my behaviour. Am I dramatizing everything, enlisting him, because the truth is maybe as they said? I certainly have no intention of telling him that my son was under the influence of drugs and alcohol.
As if he has read my mind he says: “I know it’s none of my business, and tell me that’s the case if you want, but you haven’t said how your son died, just that the circumstance were unusual.”
I let his words percolate through me for a while, taking the opportunity to drink some more. He is very patient and doesn’t force any response from me. At the same time his inquiry hangs there demanding an answer. He makes it so it can’t be ignored. I’m struggling to find the right words to convey what is strange without it reflecting badly on Joseph. The strangeness is Joseph. He left his wife and child, his occupation which he loved, and his body contained drugs and alcohol. He was run over, three times, in the dark. And that is the only strangeness I am left with. He was run over three times in the dark, and no one is comfortable talking about it. And I was given a name and a number. Who on earth would be comfortable talking about the death of a child with the grief ravaged mother? “He was run over in a village, miles from Paris, miles from where he was living, run over three times, and I know it sounds crazy but there is something not right about it.”
“Look, if you want any help, I don’t know what, talking to the girl, I don’t know, anything, just say?”
“Did I say it was a girl?”
He smiles warmly, sympathetically, amused: “Yes, you did.”
“I suppose I must have.”
“Louise, I don’t know what has happened, and you tell me just whatever you want, but trust me, really.”
“Nothing’s happened to me, it’s just that things don’t make sense. Sorry, maybe I should go.”
“No,” he says without aggression, but decisively, “you’ll eat your dinner.”
I acquiesce with a brief nod, gratefully I think. I sit back, determined to speak no more about Joseph. I have no right to burden Bill with it. I look around the restaurant, its tables lit discreetly in silver dulled light. No one is sitting in silence. Of course the French are great talkers, presumably happy with cold food, which they consume slowly in the very brief pauses between speaking. I imagine what it would be like now at this precise moment if someone walked in with a machine-gun and started shooting indiscriminately. There would be mayhem and pandemonium, and then the stillness of corpses. In my narrative the gunman then shoots himself, for convenience sake I suppose. There would be so many endings, but also so many beginnings. Why was the English woman, a married woman, mother of a dead child dining with a man who went by the alias of Bill? Why was anyone with anyone? And of course we would be missing from all future presence. The same woman would be doomed forever never to unearth the mystery of her dead child. Bill’s real name would probably be discovered, but his undemonstrative confidence would be missing from the world.
Every commonplace is marred by the fact that someone can’t experience it. It isn’t the first time I’ve had such a thought, it is in fact quite commonplace for me. The first time was whilst watching Joseph on stage with a tea-towel on his head in a nativity play in the part, naturally, of Joseph. It was a wonderful performance, six year olds performing as if they were in a Japanese Noh play, big expressions, moments in time, brief staggered lines. I thought of the smiling faces in Nazi news-reel, thought of the way such innocence is up for grabs, and felt so fortunate. And then I thought, what if someone strolled in and blew it all away. The image is devastating, the smiling child, and then the silence of corpses. My whole being crumbles at the thought. I hear the scream of brakes, the noise of collision, the silence of corpses. There is no escape, no redemption.
Bill breaks into my reve
rie: “Your fish is going cold.”
“Oh yes, of course, but I think the French like food cold.”
He shrugs and smiles, really having no opinion on the subject.
“You’ve been quiet for a while,” he says halfway through the main course – cutlets of sea bass and salmon served with two separate sauces and a mould of rice and a mould of pureed green vegetables – “is everything all right?”
“Of course, it couldn’t be nicer.”
“Not just the fish.”
I look at him again, unsure how to answer, probably unsure of the question. Yes, I am all right, though my imagination engages with the highly destructive. “Women,” I say, “you don’t know what they’re thinking.” I immediately balk at what I’ve said. It smacks of disloyalty. I want to retract, but existence isn’t like that. The deed cannot be undone, and damage is so easily effected. I hope he makes nothing of it, but that is a vain hope.
He laughs out loud and says: “When you don’t they get annoyed and when you do they go crazy.”
I smile, pleased that he overdid it, cancelling out what I’d said. “Everything is nice, thank you,” I say.
“You didn’t say whether you wanted me to help with anything, talking to the girl for instance.”
“Maybe, I don’t know that I will.”
“Of course, do whatever feels right, and only you can know what that is.”
I give a circumspect nod but say nothing. The wine bottle is empty, I’m pretty sure that I drank most of it. As I’m working it out the waiter replaces it with another. I didn’t see it being ordered. Of course I’ve drunk too much to know how to stop. What am I in danger of being, maudlin or fun?
Without fully realizing it I begin to cry. Suddenly I am aware of the restaurant again. Bill is smiling, calmly, looking at me, unperturbed. “I’m sorry,” I say, hazarding the catch-phrase that has become ours.
“I think it’s been an emotional day for you. You’re taking on too much alone.”
I can’t answer. I want to go. Suddenly I feel desperately tired and I want to sleep. I make to move. Bill stays me for a moment, telling me he’ll pay first and then we’ll go. I fish around in my bag insisting that I pay half. He won’t hear of it, adding that it won’t be put down to expenses either, he wouldn’t want to sully the evening in any way. I don’t really know what he’s saying.
He has his arm around me and supports me all the way back to the hotel. I am aware of everything, but it all has that wonderful speed and imprecision of intoxication. I know what is happening but can’t control events. All I can do is look. He collects both of our keys and guides me to the lift. He leads me to my door and puts the key in the lock for me. I suppose this is the moment. I don’t know what will happen, or what I want to happen. I have no volition. If he comes into the room with me I don’t know how I will respond. In truth I ache for him to come into the room with me and equally I can’t bear for it to happen.
“Goodnight, Louise,” he says, and he lifts his hand and trails his fingers down my cheek, his touch as delicate as feathers. “I don’t know what you’re going through, but I can see that it’s hell. I’m a widower so maybe I know a bit of it, but I wouldn’t claim more. Try to sleep, tomorrow you have to teach me all there is to know about Art.” He pushes open my door and ushers me through. He takes out the key and puts it into my hand, wrapping my fingers around it, whilst telling me to keep it safe. The door closes behind me and I’m standing in the cold and dank room. I begin to cry, noiselessly but painfully. It is too cold to undress. I wrap a gown tightly around me and crawl beneath the covers. I expect to fall straight to sleep but instead lie there listening to the sounds of the street, disconnected, remote sounds, forming shapes and then collapsing. It seems to go on all of the night, but I assume some of it is dreaming.
Chapter Twelve
The sounds of the hotel wake me, water rushing through pipes, cisterns flushed, the watery start to the day. The room is as cold as ever. There are televisions playing, loud enough to be audible, but not loud enough to be understood. I am sick of having to work so hard just to understand, worn-out by it. Today I am to be escorted, so I will be able to share the burden. The thought is pleasing, soothing even. I wish I had slept better. I want to be good company, attractive, not washed out with dark, sunken eyes. My vanity shocks me. I am so wrapped up I feel as if I am in a strait-jacket, but moving is uncomfortable, cold and damp. I am still dreaming, my mind in so many places at once, in the street, in the room, in unknown regions. My mind is in my body, my body is in the world, the world is in a hall of mirrors, I am inside a hall of mirrors, the tune signals my confusion. I need to get on, ground myself. I have a date. The thought flatters and frightens me. The televisions crackle in the air, impossible to locate.
He knocks at eight fifteen precisely. I call out telling him to wait just a moment. I don’t know why because all I do is sit on the side of the bed. I am flustered, marginally breathless. It crosses my mind that I wish I had a drink. The thought lifts me out of my stupor. I am not so far gone – I am a grieving mother, not a dipsomaniac. I open the door wide, already smiling, signalling welcome and anticipation. It is the first time I have seen him not wearing a suit and tie. Casually dressed he looks well: grey polo-shirt, loosely tied scarf, black jeans and boots. Boots! – I must have looked him up and down, head to toe. I ask him to step inside a moment. He crosses the threshold and stands in exactly the same pose as he had outside the door, loose, relaxed, his jacket draped over his arm. I collect a few things and put them in my bag. He comments on the fact that the room is freezing. I say that I assumed all the rooms were cold. His room is perfectly warm and recommends that I report it; my radiator is obviously not working properly. His advice is so obvious I wonder why I never thought of it. It is evident that I need advice; I’m not seeing things clearly.
When we go down to breakfast he mentions it on my behalf. The owner stands up and deserts his television for a moment and genuinely apologizes. I find his attention uncomfortable. He will be jumping to conclusions. I don’t know why I am so uncomfortable with that but I am. I wave away his need to apologize. I think I object to the fact that I seem more real in his eyes with a man than I did without. Is that just impertinence or something more fundamental? He and Bill talk some more after I have gone ahead into the breakfast room.
Bill wants tea and presumes I do, Earl Grey the same as yesterday. There is something mildly absurd about it as if he’s showing me how comfortable he is taking charge, demanding something not obviously on offer, coffee the norm. However, I agree and say that tea would be lovely. He calls over the woman who clears the tables and asks for tea, Earl Grey. She makes no comment but goes off and returns with two cups of boiling water with a tea bag each on a saucer. He watches me as I eat and drink, his lips parting and coming together, his eyes fixed on me. I can’t guess what he’s thinking. He certainly isn’t uncomfortable, doesn’t find any need to talk, to entertain me. I find it all unnerving, the scrutiny, the apparent patience, the ease. I am not used to a man like this. My trust in men is built around John, his gentle care: except he’s in America and I’m here. I know I have croissant all over my lips. It seems that at our most vulnerable we let ourselves down. I certainly feel that I am letting myself down. For a moment, catching the unguarded intensity of his interest, I feel stripped of dignity. The moment hurts and matters. I feel a welling of tears. I am being unfaithful, unjust to my husband and I really don’t know why. I tell myself that this is about me, not him, but, of course, that is a lie. I stop eating and carefully wipe my mouth intending to tell Bill that the museum trip is off.
He must sense that something is coming and anticipates me: “How did you sleep?” he asks.
I consider whether my response should be honest or small-talk and opt for the former. “I slept like a mummy, wrapped up in layers, cold and dazed.”
“A mummy?” he questions, and cocks his head in a pleasant half-smile. He is wise enough to pick up such a
simple pun. Yes, a mummy, bandaged but not healing, bandaged but dead to the core. I have no answer to give, other than to return the half-smile. “So have you thought anymore about what you’ll do next?” I shake my head. “The offer is always there, any help I can give, really.”
“I know. It’s kind. I’m struggling to work it out.”
“All right.”
He finally looks away, the lines of his face instantly relaxing as if his thought patterns have altered. I never have to wonder what John is thinking, which doesn’t remove mystery from him simply makes everything easeful. I am not competent enough for this encounter. I would escape if I could, but already it’s too late for that.
Outside it’s as cold as ever, though still it doesn’t actually snow, just flakes and flurries. Bill takes my arm and laces it through his, taking charge of me. The gesture is warming, satisfying yet uncomfortable.
Bill looks amused in the Centre George Pompidou. On the ground floor there is a temporary exhibition called Reflections. The work is varied: shrunken heads, blurred images, video clips (one of someone shivering continuously), anatomical shapes, a sequence of hats, face painting for children, distorted mirrors. Art would naturally imitate and mock life. I put my head inside a box and can see all sides of me, profile and back, images public yet personally unknown. I look older than I think, my face patterned with fine lines: lack of sleep, alcohol, nightmares. I remove my head grieving for what the box has so casually removed. Bill chooses this inauspicious moment to demand an explanation, his art lesson.
I shrug and smile, the question he poses is so comical and slightly petulant. “It is about looking, about alteration, not necessarily self-expression. It is about shifting boundaries so that reality is recast. It affects the mind not the eye, abstract rather than narrative ideas. Pure idea, I suppose.” I smile, embarrassed by the gravity in my voice. “It’s fun as well, reshaping our perceptions, the way we see human form, the motives for dressing the human body in the ways we do. It’s about ways of seeing.” He smiles and nods, then throws up his hands in mock surrender.
The Extinction of Snow Page 12