CHASING LIFE

by Steve Jovanoski

  ‘Bloody hell, it’s cold!’ he cursed while looking up at the gloomy sky.

  At 8:30 in the morning, traffic congested the small one-way street. He was out on rue Buffon, looking left and right a couple of times, trying to work out quickly which direction he should go. He quickly realised the map he had was only for the train systems; he needed a better one. His teeth chattering out of control, Dave decided to walk toward the area where most traffic seemed to diverge.

  He passed a primary school and watched parents escort their kids. The tiny little bodies were wrapped up in thickly padded jackets, warm-looking boots, and scarves scurried around like multi-coloured bouncing balls. They ran around screaming excitedly while their parents fussed over them and constantly called their names. It was springtime in Europe, but it felt like winter in Melbourne. Raindrops pelted Dave’s head and punished his unprepared body. The highest item on his to-do list was now a warm jacket, like the ones those kids wore. He jumped over puddles and crossed streets, scribbling street names on a notepad with a shaking hand as he went so that he could retrace his steps.

  Grand old buildings in a baroque architectural style towered over the small streets and permitted him a view only of the nearest corner or bend. The similar design of the buildings and the white stone of multi-storeyed levels were disorientating; it was like walking through a maze, beautiful but endless and claustrophobic. He couldn’t see the city skyline at all. This is beautiful but no fun, he thought, his teeth still chattering. A runny nose was adding to his misery.

  He came across rue Mouffetard, a tight cobblestone street crowded with international restaurants, fashion shops and little crêpe shops. They were all squashed up next to each other like cards in a deck, each one unique in its own way. A fruit-and-cheese market at the far end of the street looked inviting, but he left it for another time. The buildings here were smaller and much older than the ones on the main streets. Some even had exquisite Renaissance paintings on their exterior walls. It was an open-air gallery of art and architecture.

  A neon sign on one read ‘Easy Traveller Hostel’. Because it seemed a good place to get directions, Dave walked inside and found a map of Paris. It was in English with tourist attractions, museums, clubs and pubs all conveniently marked. He asked the girl behind the counter where the nearest clothing stores were so he could buy something to keep him warm. She took the map and gave him directions. She was American, going by her accent.

  He consulted with the map and found that he was in the Latin Quarter. It looked to be a lively display of Parisian Bohemia and baroque-style fountains. According to a little blurb on the map, it was historically a student zone and continued to be so to this day. High schools and the prominent Sorbonne University were nearby. On the map he read: Famous young revolutionaries once held protests on these very same streets.

  He would enjoy letting his imagination run loose at another time. Right now he had to get to St Germain before he froze his arse off. It was one of the main streets that intersected the central area of Paris, and it was buzzing with tourists. He eventually reached a shopfront displaying winter jackets and pants. Finally, he thought. The pleasantly warm air washed over his body and defrosted his bones as he entered. Behind the counter was a brown-skinned man with a finely groomed moustache. He was folding T-shirts when he saw Dave walk in. Dave greeted him in English. The man smiled and welcomed him in a thick accent that seemed to be a complex combination of Indian or Pakistani and French.

  ‘How are you, sir?’

  ‘Good, thanks. I’d like to try on some jackets and maybe a pair of jeans.’

  ‘No problem, sir. Let me know if I can be of help.’ The man couldn’t hide his enthusiasm. Even his moustache seemed to wriggle when he spoke. Dave tried on a couple of jackets and chose one. He then called the salesman over for assistance with choosing the right measurements for a great pair of jeans he had spotted. The man was more than happy to oblige, and flung three pairs of jeans of various sizes over the change cubicle partition while he was still trying on another one.

  ‘How is that, sir?’

  ‘They’re a little tight.’ Dave could hardly breathe in the snug jeans. When he bent over, he felt his arse-crack reveal itself to the world.

  ‘Yes, let me see,’ the man said, shooing him out of the cubicle and checking him out as if sizing up a second-hand car. ‘You’re right. They won’t do.’ He walked to another section and pulled out another pair. ‘Try these ones, sir.’ He then handed him another pair. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Australia.’

  ‘A beautiful country, sir. Which city?’

  ‘Melbourne.’

  ‘That’s a beautiful city, sir. I have a cousin in Sydney.’

  ‘Sydney is nice but Melbourne’s better.’ Dave replied with a wink.

  ‘Ah, we always brag about our own cities, don’t we?’ The man laughed.

  Dave tried the new pair of jeans—they were spot on. ‘These will do,’ he said, satisfied with the man’s suggestion. He was shopping in Paris. It wasn’t a Gucci store, but it was unexpectedly satisfying—and he didn’t even mind the over-enthusiastic salesman.

  ‘You want to see some T-shirts too? I have some great ones here,’ the man said as he rummaged through his stock.

  ‘Nah, I’m fine with these.’

  ‘How about a pair of runnering shoes?’ he opened a couple of boxes and brought a few pairs out in an instant.

  ‘Not, really,’ Dave said. ‘I tell you what. I’ll buy two pairs of jeans and the jacket, but you have to give me a good discount. A free T-shirt maybe?’

  ‘Oh, goodness! You must have plenty of money to come here on holidays from Australia,’ the man pleaded.

  ‘No, the euro is too much for us. Come on, look how much I’m spending in your store.’ Dave never haggled, but he found he didn’t mind it. What was getting into him? He was enjoying himself, he realised, giving the friendly salesman a hearty slap on the shoulders.

  ‘Maybe I can do a little for you. You like the cricket?’

  ‘Of course.’ Dave lied.

  ‘Who is better, India or Australia?’

  ‘I’d be lying if I didn’t say India is one of the greatest,’ Dave grinned, ‘next to Australia.’

  The salesman laughed. ‘Very good. Ten percent, okay?’

  ‘You can do better than that. How about twenty percent?’

  ‘I can’t! You are very bad.’ The man yelped at Dave’s brazen suggestion and shook his head from side to side.

  ‘Come on, you know you can,’ Dave persisted.

  ‘Fifteen percent. Because you are from Australia, and I like your cricket team.’

  ‘Thank you very much my friend, I’ll take ‘em.’

  Proud of his accomplishment, Dave walked out wearing the jacket. The rain had stopped and he was a whole lot more comfortable. It was time to go through his to-do list, ticking off each item. He first bought a phrase book from a tourist bookstore. He wanted to at least attempt to learn the usual French greetings. He just wanted enough to get by without looking like a complete idiot who didn’t want to try beyond merci, bonjourand comment-allez vous. The French didn’t warm up to the English, he’d heard, so any effort at speaking their language would surely be welcomed. Parisian’s emphasis on fashion had already put a mark on him. Dave never fancied himself a fashionista, but he couldn’t help being drawn to shopfronts displaying some eye-catching clothing and footwear. He continued on and explored what this city had to offer.

  The cafés were brimming with people under outdoor heaters. Coffee and some tea were the most common beverages consumed. He was being unusually observant, and he picked up on people’s faces as they walked by, mannerisms as they held conversations, the little gestures they made with their hands when responding to comment, it was all so fascinating. The simple and elegant dress sense of the Parisians complimented their surroundings. There was no such thing as excess, overuse of colour or tackiness. The buildings and cafés were uniform in design, y
et unique in individuality. If Honk Kong people were visiting guests, they’d be considered vulgar and loud.

  Older men had their pants and shoes perfectly pressed and polished, little kids were bundled in colour-coordinated hats, scarfs and jackets. And there was an almost visceral sense between women about their beauty and fashion. In Australia, Dave knew right away when certain fads were ‘in’. There, trendsetters ignited a horde of followers, but he didn’t see it in Paris. The women showed a sense of individuality through their clothes. It was as if their personality came though their fashion. Everything they wore fit. There were no sweatpants, tracksuits or the daggy old shoes used for a quick trip to the store. It wasn’t expensive but rather well kept clothes. The incredibly subtle use of makeup was also noted—used just enough to enhance the facial features and show lines gracefully, rather than hiding behind a mask.

  Half his day was spent on shopping. He’d never before bought so much at one time: black leather boots, casual brown shoes, polo tops, a fitted linen sports jacket, running shoes and a number of dressy T-shirts. It made him feel renewed. So, this, he thought, is why women call shopping ‘therapy’.

  Dave couldn’t remember ever taking such interest in his appearance. He considered himself a practical man, the ‘why change it if it still works’ type. He’d always bought clothes for their functional purpose. While married, he’d completely relied on Julia’s guidance in the clothes department. When he tried to look fancy, she’d say, ‘I refuse to go out with you if you keep dressing like a golfer.’ When he tried a more conservative look, she’d say ‘You dress like a fifty-year-old politician.’ Eventually he gave up, and she took over decisions about his attire. It was an arrangement they’d both been happy with.

  Now Dave found himself glancing at his reflection in windows to check out how he looked. Having exhausted his spending quota for a whole month, he sat down for a coffee at a restaurant opposite the Notre Dame Cathedral. He watched the line of people waiting to enter the magnificent structure, its heavenly spires majestically reaching for the sky. Staring at that remarkable edifice, Dave’s mind drifted. He questioned his course of action once again. Was this the right thing to do? Should he be back in Melbourne finding himself a girl to settle down with and start a family? What was he doing here in Paris when he should have had a family of his own by now? Was Amy right in saying he was being hasty?

  Dave was frustrated at the thought of how his life had turned out. His mood was being ruined again, in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. He seemed to be capable of destroying a moment no matter how perfect it was. Control yourself, damn it, he thought. He had to stop these moments of anxiety and trepidation, but he seemed to keep recycling the same destructive thought patterns no matter how hard he tried to stop it. How could he come to a place like Paris as a single man? Julia should have been with him.

  He hated that he had to be starting over, going through the ordeal of not knowing whether he’d ever find the right girl again. The right girl? He’d already lost the perfect one. All his friends had partners. They were moving on and going way beyond the point he was at. What was he doing wasting time and money in a foreign country?

  He breathed in and released a long breath, trying to relax and distract himself by observing people. It didn’t work. The same thoughts kept going round the roundabout.

  Dave suddenly chuckled when it occurred to him that he was running away from a past that he was carrying with him. The irony. Why not go back to Melbourne? It wouldn’t be hard to relapse into a life of monotonous mediocrity, and if he was going to stay stuck in this funk, he may as well.

  No, he thought defiantly as he finished his coffee. He had to make a mark in his life. Was it selfish to want more? To want the best? Was it wrong to aim for better than just good enough, even if it meant never achieving it? He knew Julia would be backing him all the way.

  ‘Oh Julia, I’m trying so hard,’ he whispered. Reaching into his jacket, he took her letter out of his wallet. I can’t go back to the same job and the same routine, he thought, as if justifying himself to her as he held it. Under all the clutter of thought something else stirred, something eager for more in life. Whatever it was, he had to pursue it. It felt like his last chance. Whatever feeling told him to quit his job was now telling him to keep trying. If only he knew where he was meant to be. He picked up the menu and realised that what he needed just then was a good meal. He ordered the biggest steak and chips available and indulged in it wholeheartedly.

  After finishing his meal, Dave felt much better. He collected his overflowing shopping bags and left to look for a café where he could watch people pass by, from another view this time: opposite the Louvre. The Louvre, he thought to himself. He was excited again. One day he was in Melbourne, then Hong Kong, and now he was about to see the Louvre.

  ‘Excusez-moi. May I have a café latte s’il vous plaît?’ he asked a waiter in what he suspected was a mangled accent.

  ‘Café au lait? Yes,’ the man replied, indifferent to Dave’s attempt to show off his linguistic skills engraved on his face. The waiter moved about quickly, wiping down tables for waiting guests.

  ‘Great, but can you please make sure it’s made right?’

  ‘It’s just coffee and milk,’ the waiter scoffed, offended at the question and looking at him with the disdainful expression one gives to an ignorant fool.

  ‘Yes, but it’s the way it’s made …’ Dave searched the man’s eyes for understanding but there was no reciprocation.

  ‘Sure, whatever,’ the waiter answered, disappearing into the kitchen while calling out in French. The coffee arrived so quickly that Dave was hesitant to try it. The colour was all wrong, and it was boiling hot. He couldn’t take another disappointment, not another mockery of the beverage he loved so much. The drink that was made with love and admiration back in Café Trieste seemed to be served as ‘coffee and milk’ here in this café. A travesty, he thought. He took a sip and decided that from now on he would stick to espresso. They couldn’t get that wrong, surely. In any case, he was glad he’d been distracted from his previous state of mind, even if it meant getting all worked up over a beverage.

  Chapter 15

  Dave opened his map of Paris and took a look at the location of the Jazz Inn for the umpteenth time. Just the thought of Erin excited him. Tonight, he’d be dressed to impress, unlike the shabby Dave he was in Hong Kong. In the meantime, there was much to explore in this beautiful city. He finished his sad excuse for a latte and continued prowling through the cobbled streets of Paris, at every turn stumbling upon a magnificent fountain or a statue of some fallen hero from the old empire. It would be smarter, he thought, to catch one of the sightseeing double-deckers he saw everywhere to cover some ground.

  Dave boarded one and climbed to the upper deck where the cityscape gave him a magnificent view. Sudden gusts of chilly wind ruined an otherwise comfortable ride. His fingers cramped with cold and he blew on them for warmth. He plugged himself into the audio guide with the complimentary earphones and flicked through a number of languages before settling on English. The particular route this bus took encompassed the Champs-élysées, the Eiffel Tower, the Invalides Hotel, passed the Grand Opera building and then back to the Louvre. New passengers were picked up along the way while others departed from the tour to explore on foot.

  By the time the bus arrived back in front of the Louvre, he was getting weary of history lessons. The enormous queue for entry at the Louvre dissuaded him from going in. He was exhausted. Once on foot again, he decided to walk back to his apartment, since it was getting late anyway. The peaceful openness of the grand boulevards of Paris was a stark contrast to the claustrophobic clutter of Hong Kong. However, he did find himself missing the hideous intrusions of that neon city. David found it incredible that all these beautiful buildings that looked like museums were homes and shops, places where people went about their everyday lives.

  Back in his apartment Dave prepared dinner with some simple i
ngredients he’d grabbed on his way home, and afterward he sprawled on his bed, lazily flicking through French television channels. It was 10:30 in the evening. Should he start getting ready for a night out, or sleep? His brain advised him to get dressed, shave, put his shoes on and get himself out there—he was in Paris, after all. But his body had other plans. He stayed on the bed, surfing through the hundred-plus channels, only a handful of which were in English—BBC, CNN, Bloomberg—antidotes for an insomniac.

  In the morning, Dave cursed himself for not making an effort to go out the night before. Today he decided he would go straight to the Louvre. He prepared himself with a hearty breakfast and a shower before setting off. He grabbed his bag of rubbish before venturing out. Outside the air was so cold that it felt like fingernails scraping his skin, but he slowly acclimatised, and the layers of clothing soon warmed him like an oven.

  He looked around, searching for bins to dispose of his rubbish. A short, heavy man who looked to be in his sixties was shifting cardboard boxes about, cleaning the courtyard. Dave figured it was most likely the superintendent. The man called out in Dave’s direction in a husky smoker’s voice. Dave glanced around, then realised it was him the man was calling to. The sparse hair on his head grew unkempt around the perimeter of his scalp, like last year’s Christmas decorations. His wide flat nose flared with each laboured breath and, when he spoke, he lazily extended his words. The man pointed to Dave’s rubbish bag.

  Dave yelled back, trying to explain that he couldn’t understand what he was saying, and that he was only searching for a rubbish bin. It was hopeless. The man understood not a word of English.

  ‘Rubbish! Look, see? I must throw away,’ Dave repeated the same words louder, but had no idea what the man was trying to say in return. He knew it was hopeless, and he found the tone of the man’s voice quite rude. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t understand you,’ Dave said, waving him off and walking away. Obviously the man was objecting to his attempt to dump rubbish in his apartment complex, Dave thought. How rude! He went off in search of a bin on the street while the man yelled louder after him.