He turned up in the park one day. I was sitting on a bench beneath a linden tree. The bright sunlight found its way between the leaves and branches, spreading light across the white pages of my book. Suddenly, a shadow fell over me, and when I looked up, I found myself staring straight into a pair of eyes. They glittered, as though the man was laughing. Even now, I can remember exactly what he was wearing: white shirt, crumpled; red lamb’s-wool sweater; beige trousers. No suit, no stiff collar, no belt with a golden buckle. No outward signs of wealth. But he had silky smooth skin, and his serious mouth was so beautifully shaped, I immediately wanted to lean forward and kiss him. It was a strange feeling. He glanced at the empty space next to me as if asking a question; I nodded and he sat down. I struggled to keep reading, but all I could focus on was the energy pulsing between us. And his scent—he smelled so delightful. It found its way into my soul.
“I had been planning to go for a stroll.” He raised both feet in the air and showed me his worn canvas shoes, as if to explain. I smiled into my book. We listened to the rustling of the treetops in the breeze, to the birds twittering to one another. He glanced over at me; I could feel his gaze.
“The lady wouldn’t by any chance want to join me for a while, would she?”
After just a moment’s hesitation, I said yes, and that afternoon we walked until the sun disappeared behind the trees. The world came to a standstill; everything else lost importance. It was just he and I, and that much was clear from the moment we took our first steps, side by side. He kissed me farewell by my door. Held my head between his palms and came so close that it almost felt like we had merged. His lips were soft, warm. He breathed in wonderfully, a deep breath, with his nose against my cheek. Held me tight. For a long time. Whispered into my ear: “Meet me tomorrow, same time, same place.” Then he quickly backed away, looked me up and down, blew me a kiss, and vanished into the warm night.
His name was Allan Smith and he was American, but he had close relatives in Paris and was there to visit them. He was full of enthusiasm and grand plans, studying to become an architect and dreaming of changing the world, of redrawing the silhouette of the city.
“Paris is turning into one big museum. We need to inject some modernity, something scaled back and functional.”
I listened admiringly, found myself drawn into a world I had never even been aware of. He spoke about buildings, about exciting new materials and how they could be put to use, but also about the way we humans lived, and how we might live in the future. A world in which both men and women worked, where the household could be managed without maids. He was passionate about everything he said, jumping onto benches in the park and gesturing wildly when he wanted to illustrate a particular point. I thought to myself that he must be crazy, but admired his vitality. And then he took my cheeks between his hands and pressed his soft lips to mine. He tasted of sunshine. The warmth of his lips spread to mine and then continued, through the rest of my body. He gave me such a wonderful sense of peace; I found myself breathing more calmly, and my body took on a different weight when I was with him. I wanted to stay there forever. In his arms.
Money, status, and the future couldn’t mean less to me than they did right there, right then, in that French park one warm spring day, as I walked alongside the man in the tattered canvas shoes.
10
“It’s awful to see you lying there like that! Are you still in pain? Should I fly over?”
“No, Jenny, what good would that do? You over here, with an old biddy. You’re young, you should be out there having fun, not looking after a cripple.”
She turns the computer, which the priest did actually fetch for her, and waves to the nurse, who is making the bed across the room.
“Alice, come and say hello to my Jenny.”
The nurse comes over, peers curiously at the screen and Doris’s only visitor.
“Skype, I see? You’re certainly not afraid of technology.”
“Nope, not Doris, she’s always been first with the latest thing. You’d struggle to find a tougher old girl than her.” Jenny laughs. “But you’re looking after her, aren’t you? Will her leg be OK?”
“Of course we are, we’re giving her the best care possible, but I can’t say how she’s doing. Would you like to talk to Doris’s doctor? If so, I can book you in for a call.”
“Sure. If that’s OK with you, Doris?”
“Yes, you’ve never believed what I tell you anyway. But if he says that I’m going to die soon, you’ll have to tell him I already know.”
“Stop talking like that! You’re not going to die. We’ve already decided that.”
“You’ve always been naive, Jenny dear. But you can see what I look like, can’t you? Death waiting in every little wrinkle, clinging to my body. It’ll break me down soon enough. That’s just how it is. And you know what? It’ll actually be very nice.”
Jenny and the nurse glance at each other; one raises an eyebrow and the other puffs out her cheeks as though she is slowly sighing. The nurse does, at least, have somewhere to go; she straightens Doris’s pillow and disappears through the doorway.
“You have to stop talking about death now, Doris. It’s too sad, I don’t want to hear about it.” Suddenly, Jenny switches to English. “Jack! Come here, say hi to Auntie, she’s badly hurt and in the hospital.”
The lanky teenager shuffles over to the computer. He waves and smiles. His quick smile reveals a flash of silver braces before he comes to his senses and closes his mouth.
“Look,” he tells her in Swedish, before switching back to English, “check this out.” He turns the computer to face the floor in the hallway. Then he steps onto his skateboard, with his feet wide apart. He pulls back one foot, kicks up the board, spins it beneath him, and lands. Doris applauds and cries bravo.
“No skateboarding in the house, I’ve told you!” Jenny hisses. She turns back to Doris.
“He’s totally obsessed with that thing. What is it with him? A piece of wood on wheels takes up his entire day. If it’s not wheels that need tightening or changing, it’s tricks that need practicing. You should see his knees, the scars he’ll have to live with for the rest of his life.”
“Leave him be, Jenny. Can’t you just buy him kneepads?”
“Kneepads? On a teenager? No, I tried, but he refuses. And I can hardly staple them to his skin. Protection isn’t cool, you see.” She rolls her eyes and sighs.
“He’s young, let him be young. A few scars aren’t going to kill him. Better to have them on the surface than on the inside, on his soul. He seems happy, anyway.”
“Yeah, he’s always been happy. I’ve been lucky, I guess. They’re good kids.”
“You have wonderful children. I wish I could fly over and give the whole gang a hug. It’s great to be able to see you like this. It always used to be so difficult to stay in touch. Have I ever told you how young I was when I last saw my mother?”
“Yeah, you have. I know it must have been hard. But at least you made it back to Sweden in the end, like you always wanted.”
“Yes, I came back. Sometimes I wonder whether it wouldn’t have been better if I had stayed with you, with you and your mother.”
“No, uff, don’t say that. Don’t start regretting things now; you’ve got enough to think about as it is. If you feel like being nostalgic, think about all the good things instead.” Jenny smiles. “Do you want to come over here? Should I find you a nursing home here in San Francisco?”
“You really are the sweetest. I’m so glad I have you, Jenny. But no, thank you, I’ll stay here like I planned. I don’t have the energy for anything else . . . And speaking of energy, I need to get some rest now. Sending you hugs, my love. Tell Willie I said hello, and speak again soon?”
“Hugs to you, Dossi! Yeah, same time in a week? You’ll just be out of the operation then . . .”
“Yes,” Doris sighs, “I will be.”
“Don’t worry about it, it’ll be just fine. You’ll be back on y
our feet in no time, you’ll see.” Jenny nods, her eyes widening, encouraging.
“Same time next week,” Doris mumbles, blowing the usual kisses. She hurries to disconnect Jenny and her enthusiasm, but the silence falls over her like a heavy, damp blanket. She stares at the dark screen. Doesn’t have the energy to move her hands and get some writing done, as she had planned. Her breathing is strained, and there is an acrid taste of bile in her mouth. The pain medication they’ve put her on has upset her stomach, which is bloated and aching. She pushes the still-warm computer onto her belly, closes her eyes, and allows the heat to work its magic.
A nurse comes into the room. She places the computer on the lower shelf of the bedside table. Then she pulls the blanket over Doris’s sleeping body and turns out the light.
The Red Address Book
S. SMITH, ALLAN
It was like carbon dioxide in my veins. I could barely sleep that night, and the next day, at work, I was in a cloud. When I finally finished, I ran from the warehouse, threw myself down the stairs three at a time. By the time I got to the park, he was already waiting for me on the bench. Sketchbook in hand. He was busy drawing with his pencil. A woman, with long hair flowing down over her shoulders. She looked just like me. He turned the pad away when he saw me watching. Smiled bashfully.
“I was just trying to capture your beauty,” he mumbled.
He flicked through his pad with me by his side, showing me other pictures, most of them buildings and gardens. He was good at drawing, captured details and angles with sweeping lines. On one page, he had sketched a magnolia, its thick branches overloaded with elegant, delicate flowers.
“What’s your favorite flower?” he asked as he absent-mindedly continued to draw.
I thought about his question, remembered the flowers back home in Sweden, the ones I missed so much. Eventually I said, “Roses,” and told him about the white ones that had grown outside my father’s workshop. I spoke about how much I missed him, about his death and how it happened. Allan wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close, so that my head was resting on his chest. Slowly stroked my hair. There, in that moment, I no longer felt alone.
Darkness fell over the park and the bench where we were still sitting. I remember a sweet scent of jasmine in the air, the birds falling silent and the streetlights coming on, casting their dim glow onto the gravel path.
“Can you feel it?” he suddenly asked, unbuttoning the top two buttons on his shirt. “Can you feel the warmth?”
I nodded, and he took my hand in his, pressing it against his forehead. The droplets of sweat were glistening on his hairline; he was damp.
“Your hand is so cool, my love.” He took it between his and kissed it. “How can you be so cool when the heat is so oppressive?”
His face lit up. The way it always did when he had an idea. As though he was amused by his own imagination. He pulled me up from the bench, spun around with me pulled tight to him.
“Come on, I want to show you a secret place,” he whispered, with his cheek against mine.
We wandered through the night, slowly, as though we had all the time in the world. It was so easy to talk to Allan. I could share my thoughts with him. Tell him about my longing. My sorrow. He listened. He understood.
Eventually, we caught sight of the grand Pont Viaduc d’Auteuil. The two-level bridge that allowed the railway to cross the wide river. He took me down several flights of stairs, toward the beach where the riverboats rested for the night.
I hesitated, stopped halfway down. “Where are you taking me, what is this secret place?” Allan ran back up to fetch me. Eagerly.
“Come on, you’re not a Parisian until you’ve taken a dip in the Seine.”
I stared at him. A dip? How could he suggest something like that?
“Are you crazy? I’m not going to get undressed in front of you. You can’t think I will?”
I pulled away from him, but his hand clung to mine; he was so irresistible. It wasn’t long before I was in his arms again.
“I’ll close my eyes,” he whispered. “I won’t look, I promise.”
We clambered over the boats. Three were moored in a row. The farthest had a ladder at the stern. Allan took off his shirt and trousers and cut through the surface of the water in a perfect dive. Silence descended over me, and the ripples on the surface of the black water became still. I shouted his name. Suddenly, he reappeared by the boat. He hauled himself up to the edge and hung there from his arms. Water was running from his dark hair. His white teeth, visible thanks to his wide smile, glittered in the night.
“I stayed away so the lady could jump in unobserved. Come on, hurry,” he laughed, disappearing again.
I knew how to swim; I had learned in Stockholm. But it was so dark, I can remember that I hesitated, that my heart was racing with fear. Eventually, I kicked off my shoes and allowed my dress to drop to the boat. I was wearing a corset; they were common at the time. Made from thick silk, skin-colored, with rigid cups. I kept it on. When I moved my foot toward the surface of the water, Allan grabbed hold of it. I shouted loudly and fell into his arms with a splash. His laughter echoed beneath the arches of the bridge.
The Red Address Book
S. SMITH, ALLAN
Allan made me laugh. He turned my entire worldview upside-down, though I still used to think he was a little crazy. It’s only now, with hindsight, that I realize his opinions were based on genuine knowledge of people and the direction in which the world was heading. When I look at today’s young families, I see the people he talked about so long ago.
“Your home is your own little world,” he used to say. “Your own dominion. That’s why a home should be adapted to the way you live your life. A kitchen should be adapted to the type of food that’s cooked in it, to the people who actually live in the house. Who knows, in the future, maybe our houses won’t even have kitchens. Why should we have them when restaurants cook better food than we ever could?”
It amused me greatly to hear him talk about homes without kitchens just as the first refrigerators and other large appliances became available. While everyone else strove to fill their kitchens with as many modern conveniences as possible.
“Maybe in the future, our kitchens will look like they do in restaurants.” I laughed. “Maybe it’ll be the norm to have your own chef and a waitress or two?”
He always ignored the sharp hint of sarcasm in my comments, and remained serious.
“I mean that everything is changeable. Old buildings are torn down, replaced by new ones. Decoration is replaced by functionality. As a result, rooms will take on new meaning.”
I shook my head, unsure whether he was joking or serious. I loved his ability to use his imagination, to create abstract images as surreal as some of the art being produced in Paris at the time. To Allan, architecture was the basis of all human relations, and consequently also the solution to all of life’s mysteries. He lived for materials, angles, façades, walls, and nooks and crannies. Whenever we went for a walk, he might suddenly stop and stare at a building until I threw something, a scarf or a glove, at him. Then he would pick me up in an embrace. And spin me round, like I was a child. I loved that he laid claim to me as if I was a possession, loved it that he took the liberty of kissing me in the middle of Paris’s crowded streets.
Sometimes he would sit and wait outside the studio where I was working. When I came out at the end of the day, fully made up, he would proudly wrap an arm around me and escort me to a restaurant somewhere. It’s strange. Allan and I had so much to say to each other; there were never any awkward silences. We strolled through Paris, oblivious to the bustling life surrounding us, engrossed in each other.
He didn’t have much money of his own. He also had absolutely no idea how to behave in fine company. He couldn’t even get into the more upmarket places because the only real set of clothes he had was far too big for him and rather old-fashioned. He looked like a teenager wearing his father’s suit. In fact, if he hadn’t r
adiated such charm when we first met on the park bench, I probably wouldn’t have even talked to him. The memory of that meeting has always made me try to avoid judging people by their clothes.
Sometimes you don’t need to have the same interests or the same style, Jenny. Making each other laugh is enough.
The Red Address Book
S. SMITH, ALLAN
I continued to work hard. Smiled with blood-red lips, posed as I was told to, appealed to Paris’s society ladies, cocked my head for the photographer’s square box. But my mind was full of love and longing. I thought about Allan constantly when we were apart. When I sat next to him on the bench in the park, he would sketch lines in his pad, lines that became buildings. There was an entire city in that little sketchbook of his, and we often used to fantasize about which of the houses we would live in.
Every so often, I had to leave Paris for work. Both he and I hated that. On one occasion, he came to pick me up from my place in a borrowed car—I can remember the model even today, a black Citroën Traction Avant. He said he would drive me all the way to the castle in Provence where I would be modeling dresses and jewelry. He was an inexperienced driver; it might even have been his first time driving. The journey was a bumpy one, and at first he kept stalling the engine. I almost laughed myself silly.
“We’ll never make it if you keep bouncing around like this!”
“My darling, I would drive you to the moon and back on a bicycle if I had to. Of course we’ll make it. Hold on now, I’m accelerating!”
And with that, he pressed the pedal to the floor, and we sailed forward in a cloud of black fumes. When we eventually turned onto the road leading to the castle, several hours late, I was both dusty and sweaty. We were still in the car, kissing, when Monsieur Ponsard suddenly tore open the door. He stared at Allan. The fact that I was kissing a man I wasn’t married to was scandalous, and he let Allan know. He had to run off, down the gravel road, to avoid being punched. Despite the gravity of the situation, I could hardly stop laughing. In the distance, Allan turned and blew me a kiss.
The Red Address Book Page 8