The Widower (short story)
By Luke Labern
'Eight decades is enough for me.'
The elderly man paused and tried to readjust himself in his armchair. In reality, he didn’t move an inch, being too weak to do so. Comfort was something he had long since forgotten about. It was now nothing but a habit that had long since become irrelevant. He sighed, looking about the dim room. He took a glance at the light in the ceiling, and thought that it was a touch too dark. He could barely see Alex, or himself for that matter. The curtains were also closed; there was an indeterminate amount of light outside. It was either the evening or very early in the morning, but it was too difficult to tell. He glanced at the fifty-year old clock on the mantelpiece, but, just like every day for the past few years, he realised that it had stopped ticking a long time ago. He could just about make out the minute hand – but that might well just have been a shadow.
‘Yes, eight decades is enough,’ he continued. It wasn’t quite clear if he was talking to Alex or simply outside, to quell the ennui – it seemed to change from time to time, in the middle of sentences. ‘A lot of people seem to want to live forever, but I don’t understand that. I suppose it all depends on the person. What does one want to accomplish? It can’t go on forever.’
He was forced to pause again to let out a hacking cough – each involuntary movement seemed to take a little bit more of his daily energy out of him, and there was an unquestionable look of pain racking over his face with each subsequent motion.
‘Don’t mind me, Alex – I’ll be alright. I’ve been through a lot worse. I’ll tell you what: if anything, this room is what needs looking after, not me! When was the last time those walls were cleaned? I can’t tell if that’s the pattern or some sort of grubbiness all over it. Are the walls yellow, or brown? …’ He seemed to peer intensely at the wall, but this was more a motion for the sake of it: all he could see was a dim, blurred collection of uninspiring colours on a flat surface. Suddenly, he seemed to remember something.
‘Ah, I’ve forgotten my tea!’ He had forgotten his own thirst. He turned very slowly to his side – his left, then his right – and looked for the cup and saucer he had used for the past fifty years. But he couldn’t find it. ‘Where is it…? I’m sure Leah made me some tea a few minutes ago.’ Leah was his carer, who came every day at nine in the morning. She hadn’t come that day, leaving him a message on the relatively-modern phone he didn’t know how to use, informing him that her sister had gone into labour. It was left unheard along with the other thirty messages he had never heard. In reality, she hadn’t made him tea in two weeks because he had refused, becoming quite annoyed with her for asking: he was sure he could make his own tea.
‘I hope she hasn’t stolen it. No, no, I’m sure she hasn’t. She’s a lovely girl, that Leah. I don’t know why she spends her time looking after me! But I do wonder where that tea has gone.’ He was lost in a poignant moment, and then began to talk to Alex again: ‘I cannot believe Diane and I got that cup and saucer all that time ago. What an awful wedding present that was! I can’t believe the Thompsons bought us a bunch of cheap pottery for our wedding. I’ve used the same set, in spite, for all these years.’
He and Diane had been married for forty years, and he still wore the wedding ring on his finger. He had never taken it off since that day in June, when he had thick, lustrous brown hair – when his eyes had watered as he saw his bride come down the aisle. Catching a glimpse of his hand, resting quite still on the side of the armchair, his face lit up. ‘The most beautiful woman I ever saw,’ he said, lost in reverie. After an indeterminate pause – longer than usual – he returned to his favourite topic. ‘Alex – did I ever tell you about how Diane and I met?’ In truth, he had told this story almost every day – whenever he saw the ring on his left hand, or enough light pierced through the curtains enabling him to see the photo of the two of them, aged thirty, outside of the church they had just been married in.
He closed his eyes as if he was travelling somewhere, and a powerful flicker of emotion ran across his face – the only time he ever felt like he used to was when he started this story, which he had refined down to an anecdotal art form. He was preparing for his performance.
‘I had just received the advance for my first book. It was a novel about a young man – a lothario – who ends up in Paris, having run away from England after stealing so many women that he was a wanted man. There, of course, he starts his new life, learning the language and embracing Parisian culture and whatnot, becoming infatuated with everything around him. Eventually, the tables are turned and he has the love of his life taken from him – and so on.’ The pace of his speech had quickened upon embarking this story – it was the only part of his day that was certain, that was easy to recall from memory. It was the routine upon which he kept hold of his sanity – his personality. His identity.
‘Of course, this was all just an excuse to research. I could easily have set it in the Cotswolds, but I fancied going to Paris. I was only twenty-one at the time, and I was in the prime of my life. With the advance money, I could afford all sorts. I could afford to lounge around in the cafes and watch the world pass me by. I would sit there each morning, studying those around me, listening to snippets of conversations, watching people argue, break up, put the world to rites – and of course, I would bask in the utter beauty of all the women. I wasn’t bad looking back then – I promise, Alex; now is no indication! – and I had my fair share of good times. The French women were… different from English women, that’s for sure. More passionate. And they had a distinctive look. But the language barrier was always a factor, as was the fact that I was just very English – with all that that entails. My sense of humour was always on a different page to them, and I would often be quite sardonic and laid back. We didn’t often gel. It was nearly always a temporary thing. I began to crave English women, but I was still only halfway through my novel. I was living too much, and not writing enough.’
He had to pause to catch his breath. He went to reach for his tea, again, but then realised it wasn’t there. He was aware that Alex was looking at him, and his pride became to sting him. He pretended that nothing had happened, and continued his story. He was always quite confident when he told it – it was as if he was twenty-one all over again.
‘And then, of course, I met her. We were at a Parisian nightclub and all the best-looking young men were following her around. She really was a sight to behold. Long, chestnut hair that ran just past her shoulders – chestnut eyes that would envelop you whole if you weren’t careful. She had a small frame, but she was… Magnificent. As soon as I saw her, I knew she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I wasn’t short of confidence, at any rate – but even I was intimidated. Of course, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. That entire evening, I could barely focus on drinking my whisky – I just caught quick glimpses of her through the smokey bar, the Jazz in the background melting away, until all I could think about was the life she and I could have. I began to wonder what it was that I wanted out of life.’
He stopped, this time not to pause for breath but to simply reminisce. This was one of his favourite parts of the story – the part where he became a young man again, of the same mind-set, with his whole future ahead of him.
‘Suddenly, I had a resurgence of confidence: what would be the point of this chance – the chance to live – if I didn’t go for all the things I wanted? What would be the point in living -- when so many don’t get the chance -- just to get to that moment and say, “well, she is gorgeous – but I can’t have her”. What else would have happened? I would have gone on, finished my book, being an unauthentic author; found some stable woman, and lived out that way. No, I couldn’t have that. At the least, I had to try.’
‘As she was leaving, I decided that I was going to go and speak to her. What about, I had no idea. But luckily, some brutish fellow put her hands on her, just as I was approach. If I could go back in time and thank him! I immediately rushed to her aid, pushing him out of the way and asking her if she was okay. “I’m fine,” she said, stopping me dead in my tracks. I have never encountered a look like that since. “But I can handle myself,” she quipped, walking off before I could catch her name or anything else.’ He smiled what was once a cheeky grin, but was now somehow more sombre. ‘I was devastated.’
‘You know, Alex,’ he started, going off in a tangent; ‘It’s funny how important memories are. You don’t realise it at the time, but that’s all we – I – have now. I have that photo there, and the images in my head. Nothing remains of my youth but the memories and the knowledge that I did it. It seems so long ago that it’s almost as different lifetime. Back when I was a little boy, about ten or so, I would try to compute the numbers in my head. “I can’t believe I’m in double figures!” I would say, shocked at how quickly time had flown. And now I’m eighty-three? Eighty-four? I can’t even remember. It seems impossible that you’ll grow up, back then. You almost assume that you’ll be a child, or a teenager, forever, and that the older version of you is a different person entirely… But, back to the story!’
‘I was devastated. But I couldn’t be beaten. Although I did wander around Paris for more than a few nights, completely drunk, starting fights with all sorts of people – anyone that reminded me of myself – I had resolved to see her again. And the next time I saw her, I was going to make it count. My novel sat unfinished in my hotel room, and I began to loathe it. How could I write about love when I couldn’t master my own lovelife? Who would want to read the ramblings of someone who couldn’t capture the person they desired more than anyone else in the world?’ The grin had returned to his face again, and for some reason the vigour with which he smiled was something extra-special: he had told this story so many times before, but he felt especially alive at this moment. His heart began to beat faster and he felt a shiver run down his spine that he hadn’t felt for many years. He was reliving the moment in especial detail.
‘I was nursing my wounds over some coffee in a café near Notre Dame – both physical, having taken on a group of men and barely walking away, and in my head – when I saw her. I only caught a glimpse, across a busy road and in a crowd. I had seen a woman walking with the most sensational walk I had ever seen, and then I realised it was her. There was no mistaking it. I bolted from my seat, spilling coffee all over myself and probably other people too, but I had no time to look behind me: everything I wanted was right in front of me. I darted into the traffic and barely made it across the road in one piece, but I eventually found her after looking around like a headless chicken. I couldn’t let her run away again.’
He began to not only adjust himself, but leant slightly forward, towards Alex. It was as if his body has rolled back the years and was coursing with a new lifeblood. There was something different in his veins.
‘I spotted her again and tapped her on the shoulder, with no idea what I was going to see. I was expecting horror, from the look of my face – and I did get that, but I also received something else I wasn’t expecting: a smile. “You found me,” she said, instantly touching my face with her delicate hands and looking at my wounds. “It looks like, far from me needing your help – you need mine.” She had no idea how right she was. I begged her – it seemed like begging, though in reality I tried to speak as smoothly as I could – to have some coffee with me. I just needed one chance to get to know her. I knew that this was my only opportunity to do so, and I succeeded. She said I had “a silver tongue,” and agreed.’
‘What followed was the most important conversation of my life. I realised so much about myself, and the world, that I couldn’t believe it. It was a revelation. It was nothing like I expected: not only was she the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, she was also the most intelligent. She was cleverer than I, or at least it seemed like it; she challenged everything I said, made me doubt my beliefs, my convictions and my desires. All expect one: that I wanted her.
‘”So, what is your book about?” she asked, looking into my eyes with intrigue and an interest I had never known before. It was as if she was more interested in me than I was about her – which couldn’t be possible. “It’s about a young man – a heartbreaker – who runs off to Paris –“ “To get his heart broken,” she finished. “Poetic justice,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. Her voice sounded honey-like, and I felt an array of emotions wash over me. The bruises all over my face ceased to pain me, and all I could feel was unabashed joy; ecstasy.
‘”So, what do you want to do with yourself?” she probed, and I almost blurted out “be with you,” but ended up affirming that I wanted to write successful books for a living, and to travel the world. We discussed everything: whether there was a God, what our ethical codes were, what our favourite drink was (we both like whiskey). I finally remembered that I hadn’t asked her name, and when she said her name for the first time, I knew I would never forget it. “Where are you from?” I asked, intrigued. “I was born in London but brought up in Paris.” It was perfect. She was exactly what I needed: she had all the English blood in her that run through me, and made me eventually repulsive to the French women, whilst simultaneously having the passion, delicacy and culture of a Parisian woman.
‘She was utterly perfect, Alex.’
‘I don’t know how long we conversed for: hours, I think. It was dusk by the time we left. Of course, we were completely inseparable from that moment on. I don’t know how, but somehow – and this is the best thing that ever happened to me – she seemed to be as taken with me as I was with her. We went straight from the café to my hotel room… and we were together from then on. I finished my book in a couple of weeks, spending all of my time with her, writing at night, whilst she slept. I would glance over from my desk, exhausted, take one look at her asleep, and instantly feel rejuvenated. I wrote so voluminously, so thoroughly, so passionately. It was all down to her. And the book was a success – it had her all over it. She was in each passage, in every character, in every line of dialogue. I was completely in love with life, and in love with her. And it’s been that way ever since. Ten years later, we were married. And then we travelled the world. We went to every major city in the world, off the money I earned from the books she inspired and I wrote. In every city she dazzled people with her beauty, and each night she would dazzle me with her conversation and intelligence.
‘I couldn’t have wished for anything more in life.’
Whilst he had spoken these things, he had seemingly been getting younger with each breath. By the time he reached this point he was speaking with such vigour it was as if he thirty years old again, on the night before his wedding. He hadn’t paused for a moment, as he reached the climax of his story. His past -- his memories -- were his fantasy.
‘And then she passed away.’ He was ripped from fantasy back into reality – from the passion and action of hotel rooms, of bars and clubs and all-night conversations; of kisses and palpitations, back into the silent, darkened, motionless room he had been living in for the past ten years. Seated in the armchair he always sat in – the throne of immobility -- staring at the clock which didn’t move and the picture of his finest hour covered with dusk. The time was still indeterminate and the light-levels still confusing. It was either day or night, either one day or the next. He still wasn’t sure what colour the wallpaper was: yellow or brown.
‘Now I remember,’ he said with a sigh, sinking back into his chair, his age and his body. ‘She died of cancer ten years ago. I remember I stood over her in the hospital bed as she clasped my hands. She said to me, “Do you remember when we first met? I loved you from the moment I saw you, in that jazz club. I knew you’d find me.”
‘I kissed her on the forehead, tears rolling down both of my cheeks onto her skin,’ – a single tear rolling down slowly across his wrinkled face as it did each time he came to this part of the story, the tear coming to rest softly on his slightly parted lips before falling into the empty teacup and saucer which had been on his lap the entire time – ‘and I told her, “How could I forget? That was the moment I came to life. I love you.” And I promised her that I would always remember. Because memories are all we have.’
His voice trailing off into a whisper, he repeated: ‘We’ll always remember, won’t we, Alex?’ And, just like he did yesterday and would do tomorrow, the German Shepard finally replied, barking quietly as if to agree that they would, indeed, remember. Alex approached his master, curled up next to his feet, and they both fell softly asleep.
The elderly man paused and tried to readjust himself in his armchair. In reality, he didn’t move an inch, being too weak to do so. Comfort was something he had long since forgotten about. It was now nothing but a habit that had long since become irrelevant. He sighed, looking about the dim room. He took a glance at the light in the ceiling, and thought that it was a touch too dark. He could barely see Alex, or himself for that matter. The curtains were also closed; there was an indeterminate amount of light outside. It was either the evening or very early in the morning, but it was too difficult to tell. He glanced at the fifty-year old clock on the mantelpiece, but, just like every day for the past few years, he realised that it had stopped ticking a long time ago. He could just about make out the minute hand – but that might well just have been a shadow.
‘Yes, eight decades is enough,’ he continued. It wasn’t quite clear if he was talking to Alex or simply outside, to quell the ennui – it seemed to change from time to time, in the middle of sentences. ‘A lot of people seem to want to live forever, but I don’t understand that. I suppose it all depends on the person. What does one want to accomplish? It can’t go on forever.’
He was forced to pause again to let out a hacking cough – each involuntary movement seemed to take a little bit more of his daily energy out of him, and there was an unquestionable look of pain racking over his face with each subsequent motion.
‘Don’t mind me, Alex – I’ll be alright. I’ve been through a lot worse. I’ll tell you what: if anything, this room is what needs looking after, not me! When was the last time those walls were cleaned? I can’t tell if that’s the pattern or some sort of grubbiness all over it. Are the walls yellow, or brown? …’ He seemed to peer intensely at the wall, but this was more a motion for the sake of it: all he could see was a dim, blurred collection of uninspiring colours on a flat surface. Suddenly, he seemed to remember something.
‘Ah, I’ve forgotten my tea!’ He had forgotten his own thirst. He turned very slowly to his side – his left, then his right – and looked for the cup and saucer he had used for the past fifty years. But he couldn’t find it. ‘Where is it…? I’m sure Leah made me some tea a few minutes ago.’ Leah was his carer, who came every day at nine in the morning. She hadn’t come that day, leaving him a message on the relatively-modern phone he didn’t know how to use, informing him that her sister had gone into labour. It was left unheard along with the other thirty messages he had never heard. In reality, she hadn’t made him tea in two weeks because he had refused, becoming quite annoyed with her for asking: he was sure he could make his own tea.
‘I hope she hasn’t stolen it. No, no, I’m sure she hasn’t. She’s a lovely girl, that Leah. I don’t know why she spends her time looking after me! But I do wonder where that tea has gone.’ He was lost in a poignant moment, and then began to talk to Alex again: ‘I cannot believe Diane and I got that cup and saucer all that time ago. What an awful wedding present that was! I can’t believe the Thompsons bought us a bunch of cheap pottery for our wedding. I’ve used the same set, in spite, for all these years.’
He and Diane had been married for forty years, and he still wore the wedding ring on his finger. He had never taken it off since that day in June, when he had thick, lustrous brown hair – when his eyes had watered as he saw his bride come down the aisle. Catching a glimpse of his hand, resting quite still on the side of the armchair, his face lit up. ‘The most beautiful woman I ever saw,’ he said, lost in reverie. After an indeterminate pause – longer than usual – he returned to his favourite topic. ‘Alex – did I ever tell you about how Diane and I met?’ In truth, he had told this story almost every day – whenever he saw the ring on his left hand, or enough light pierced through the curtains enabling him to see the photo of the two of them, aged thirty, outside of the church they had just been married in.
He closed his eyes as if he was travelling somewhere, and a powerful flicker of emotion ran across his face – the only time he ever felt like he used to was when he started this story, which he had refined down to an anecdotal art form. He was preparing for his performance.
*
‘I had just received the advance for my first book. It was a novel about a young man – a lothario – who ends up in Paris, having run away from England after stealing so many women that he was a wanted man. There, of course, he starts his new life, learning the language and embracing Parisian culture and whatnot, becoming infatuated with everything around him. Eventually, the tables are turned and he has the love of his life taken from him – and so on.’ The pace of his speech had quickened upon embarking this story – it was the only part of his day that was certain, that was easy to recall from memory. It was the routine upon which he kept hold of his sanity – his personality. His identity.
‘Of course, this was all just an excuse to research. I could easily have set it in the Cotswolds, but I fancied going to Paris. I was only twenty-one at the time, and I was in the prime of my life. With the advance money, I could afford all sorts. I could afford to lounge around in the cafes and watch the world pass me by. I would sit there each morning, studying those around me, listening to snippets of conversations, watching people argue, break up, put the world to rites – and of course, I would bask in the utter beauty of all the women. I wasn’t bad looking back then – I promise, Alex; now is no indication! – and I had my fair share of good times. The French women were… different from English women, that’s for sure. More passionate. And they had a distinctive look. But the language barrier was always a factor, as was the fact that I was just very English – with all that that entails. My sense of humour was always on a different page to them, and I would often be quite sardonic and laid back. We didn’t often gel. It was nearly always a temporary thing. I began to crave English women, but I was still only halfway through my novel. I was living too much, and not writing enough.’
He had to pause to catch his breath. He went to reach for his tea, again, but then realised it wasn’t there. He was aware that Alex was looking at him, and his pride became to sting him. He pretended that nothing had happened, and continued his story. He was always quite confident when he told it – it was as if he was twenty-one all over again.
‘And then, of course, I met her. We were at a Parisian nightclub and all the best-looking young men were following her around. She really was a sight to behold. Long, chestnut hair that ran just past her shoulders – chestnut eyes that would envelop you whole if you weren’t careful. She had a small frame, but she was… Magnificent. As soon as I saw her, I knew she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I wasn’t short of confidence, at any rate – but even I was intimidated. Of course, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. That entire evening, I could barely focus on drinking my whisky – I just caught quick glimpses of her through the smokey bar, the Jazz in the background melting away, until all I could think about was the life she and I could have. I began to wonder what it was that I wanted out of life.’
He stopped, this time not to pause for breath but to simply reminisce. This was one of his favourite parts of the story – the part where he became a young man again, of the same mind-set, with his whole future ahead of him.
‘Suddenly, I had a resurgence of confidence: what would be the point of this chance – the chance to live – if I didn’t go for all the things I wanted? What would be the point in living -- when so many don’t get the chance -- just to get to that moment and say, “well, she is gorgeous – but I can’t have her”. What else would have happened? I would have gone on, finished my book, being an unauthentic author; found some stable woman, and lived out that way. No, I couldn’t have that. At the least, I had to try.’
*
‘As she was leaving, I decided that I was going to go and speak to her. What about, I had no idea. But luckily, some brutish fellow put her hands on her, just as I was approach. If I could go back in time and thank him! I immediately rushed to her aid, pushing him out of the way and asking her if she was okay. “I’m fine,” she said, stopping me dead in my tracks. I have never encountered a look like that since. “But I can handle myself,” she quipped, walking off before I could catch her name or anything else.’ He smiled what was once a cheeky grin, but was now somehow more sombre. ‘I was devastated.’
‘You know, Alex,’ he started, going off in a tangent; ‘It’s funny how important memories are. You don’t realise it at the time, but that’s all we – I – have now. I have that photo there, and the images in my head. Nothing remains of my youth but the memories and the knowledge that I did it. It seems so long ago that it’s almost as different lifetime. Back when I was a little boy, about ten or so, I would try to compute the numbers in my head. “I can’t believe I’m in double figures!” I would say, shocked at how quickly time had flown. And now I’m eighty-three? Eighty-four? I can’t even remember. It seems impossible that you’ll grow up, back then. You almost assume that you’ll be a child, or a teenager, forever, and that the older version of you is a different person entirely… But, back to the story!’
‘I was devastated. But I couldn’t be beaten. Although I did wander around Paris for more than a few nights, completely drunk, starting fights with all sorts of people – anyone that reminded me of myself – I had resolved to see her again. And the next time I saw her, I was going to make it count. My novel sat unfinished in my hotel room, and I began to loathe it. How could I write about love when I couldn’t master my own lovelife? Who would want to read the ramblings of someone who couldn’t capture the person they desired more than anyone else in the world?’ The grin had returned to his face again, and for some reason the vigour with which he smiled was something extra-special: he had told this story so many times before, but he felt especially alive at this moment. His heart began to beat faster and he felt a shiver run down his spine that he hadn’t felt for many years. He was reliving the moment in especial detail.
‘I was nursing my wounds over some coffee in a café near Notre Dame – both physical, having taken on a group of men and barely walking away, and in my head – when I saw her. I only caught a glimpse, across a busy road and in a crowd. I had seen a woman walking with the most sensational walk I had ever seen, and then I realised it was her. There was no mistaking it. I bolted from my seat, spilling coffee all over myself and probably other people too, but I had no time to look behind me: everything I wanted was right in front of me. I darted into the traffic and barely made it across the road in one piece, but I eventually found her after looking around like a headless chicken. I couldn’t let her run away again.’
He began to not only adjust himself, but leant slightly forward, towards Alex. It was as if his body has rolled back the years and was coursing with a new lifeblood. There was something different in his veins.
‘I spotted her again and tapped her on the shoulder, with no idea what I was going to see. I was expecting horror, from the look of my face – and I did get that, but I also received something else I wasn’t expecting: a smile. “You found me,” she said, instantly touching my face with her delicate hands and looking at my wounds. “It looks like, far from me needing your help – you need mine.” She had no idea how right she was. I begged her – it seemed like begging, though in reality I tried to speak as smoothly as I could – to have some coffee with me. I just needed one chance to get to know her. I knew that this was my only opportunity to do so, and I succeeded. She said I had “a silver tongue,” and agreed.’
‘What followed was the most important conversation of my life. I realised so much about myself, and the world, that I couldn’t believe it. It was a revelation. It was nothing like I expected: not only was she the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, she was also the most intelligent. She was cleverer than I, or at least it seemed like it; she challenged everything I said, made me doubt my beliefs, my convictions and my desires. All expect one: that I wanted her.
‘”So, what is your book about?” she asked, looking into my eyes with intrigue and an interest I had never known before. It was as if she was more interested in me than I was about her – which couldn’t be possible. “It’s about a young man – a heartbreaker – who runs off to Paris –“ “To get his heart broken,” she finished. “Poetic justice,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. Her voice sounded honey-like, and I felt an array of emotions wash over me. The bruises all over my face ceased to pain me, and all I could feel was unabashed joy; ecstasy.
‘”So, what do you want to do with yourself?” she probed, and I almost blurted out “be with you,” but ended up affirming that I wanted to write successful books for a living, and to travel the world. We discussed everything: whether there was a God, what our ethical codes were, what our favourite drink was (we both like whiskey). I finally remembered that I hadn’t asked her name, and when she said her name for the first time, I knew I would never forget it. “Where are you from?” I asked, intrigued. “I was born in London but brought up in Paris.” It was perfect. She was exactly what I needed: she had all the English blood in her that run through me, and made me eventually repulsive to the French women, whilst simultaneously having the passion, delicacy and culture of a Parisian woman.
‘She was utterly perfect, Alex.’
*
‘I don’t know how long we conversed for: hours, I think. It was dusk by the time we left. Of course, we were completely inseparable from that moment on. I don’t know how, but somehow – and this is the best thing that ever happened to me – she seemed to be as taken with me as I was with her. We went straight from the café to my hotel room… and we were together from then on. I finished my book in a couple of weeks, spending all of my time with her, writing at night, whilst she slept. I would glance over from my desk, exhausted, take one look at her asleep, and instantly feel rejuvenated. I wrote so voluminously, so thoroughly, so passionately. It was all down to her. And the book was a success – it had her all over it. She was in each passage, in every character, in every line of dialogue. I was completely in love with life, and in love with her. And it’s been that way ever since. Ten years later, we were married. And then we travelled the world. We went to every major city in the world, off the money I earned from the books she inspired and I wrote. In every city she dazzled people with her beauty, and each night she would dazzle me with her conversation and intelligence.
‘I couldn’t have wished for anything more in life.’
Whilst he had spoken these things, he had seemingly been getting younger with each breath. By the time he reached this point he was speaking with such vigour it was as if he thirty years old again, on the night before his wedding. He hadn’t paused for a moment, as he reached the climax of his story. His past -- his memories -- were his fantasy.
‘And then she passed away.’ He was ripped from fantasy back into reality – from the passion and action of hotel rooms, of bars and clubs and all-night conversations; of kisses and palpitations, back into the silent, darkened, motionless room he had been living in for the past ten years. Seated in the armchair he always sat in – the throne of immobility -- staring at the clock which didn’t move and the picture of his finest hour covered with dusk. The time was still indeterminate and the light-levels still confusing. It was either day or night, either one day or the next. He still wasn’t sure what colour the wallpaper was: yellow or brown.
‘Now I remember,’ he said with a sigh, sinking back into his chair, his age and his body. ‘She died of cancer ten years ago. I remember I stood over her in the hospital bed as she clasped my hands. She said to me, “Do you remember when we first met? I loved you from the moment I saw you, in that jazz club. I knew you’d find me.”
‘I kissed her on the forehead, tears rolling down both of my cheeks onto her skin,’ – a single tear rolling down slowly across his wrinkled face as it did each time he came to this part of the story, the tear coming to rest softly on his slightly parted lips before falling into the empty teacup and saucer which had been on his lap the entire time – ‘and I told her, “How could I forget? That was the moment I came to life. I love you.” And I promised her that I would always remember. Because memories are all we have.’
His voice trailing off into a whisper, he repeated: ‘We’ll always remember, won’t we, Alex?’ And, just like he did yesterday and would do tomorrow, the German Shepard finally replied, barking quietly as if to agree that they would, indeed, remember. Alex approached his master, curled up next to his feet, and they both fell softly asleep.
A Short Story,
Published 12 April 2012
Published 12 April 2012