A shot fired in the air. Our coworkers fled in all directions running up & down the bank of the Seine. It’s funny watching people’s stony indifference disappear when their lives are at stake.
Eddie & I walled in behind a tower of crates. Our only escape route would have been the freezing Seine or the sudden appearance of a golden staircase to the clouds. We ducked down behind crates.
– What have you gotten me into? I asked Eddie eager to assign blame.
Eddie ran forward & untied the ropes mooring us to the bank & pushed with his foot & ran back & joined me behind the crates. The boat slowly drifting.
We listened to the footsteps as they came closer to the boat & we listened to the footsteps as they jumped onto the boat now gliding down the Seine.
– Come out of there, a gruff voice said.
Maybe he’s not talking to us I thought optimistically & was annoyed at Eddie’s automatic compliance. He stood his hands high in the air like he’s done this before.
– You too, the voice said to someone, hopefully not me. Come on, I can see your shadow.
I looked across at my shadow & realized it’s only the head that gives you away. Otherwise crouched down you could be any old sack of potatoes.
I stood hands in air but felt too clichéd so turned palms inward.
Our would-be assailant had a beard that reminded me of an Alaskan husky & was generations past me & it filled me with outrage. I’d always expected to be done in by a young punk- wild & misguided & angry at the world.
He pointed the gun at me. Then he looked up at my hand & tilted his head slightly.
– Journey, he said. I had forgotten I was still holding the book.
– Céline, I said back in a whisper.
– I love that book.
– I’m only halfway through.
– Have you got to the point where-
– Hey, kill me, but don’t tell me the end!
He lowered his gun & said You won’t understand it unless you take it as a whole. It doesn’t work episodically. Who else do you like?
– The Russians.
– Well yeah, the Russians. What about the Americans?
– Hemingway’s OK.
– I like his short stories. Not his novels. You like Henry James?
– Not much. I love his brother though.
– William James! He’s a genius!
– Absolutely.
He put down his gun & said Shit let’s get this boat back.
Eddie & the Alaskan & I started up the boat & drove it back to the riverbank. Saved by a book!
– What’s all this about? I asked him.
– We’re competitors. My boss wants your boss to pack up shop.
– Well, shit, that doesn’t mean you have to go around shooting does it?
– Yeah, it does.
That figures. Most people are killed by their jobs slowly over decades & I had to land one that’s likely to do me in within the week.
Life with Baby
MAJOR problems at home. Astrid sleeps insatiably- her fatigue indefatigable & maybe because of this she treats poor baby as if he’s someone else’s dentures. Her love for me has gone all flabby too. I’m an irritant to her now. Sometimes I find baby on floor, sometimes behind couch, once I came home & he was in the empty bath his head resting on drain.
Other times she takes up her maternal role & lets the baby suck on her nipples her face a big blank. I ask if it hurts & she shakes her head & says Don’t you notice anything, you idiot?
There’s no understanding her.
Just five minutes ago she was on the couch her knees bunched up under her arms. I merely cleared my throat & she let out a scream. What if all relationships are like this behind closed doors?
– It was the only thing I hadn’t done she said. I thought this baby would change something inside me.
– It is a big change.
– I meant deep inside.
– I think you’ve changed.
– I mean right deep down at the bottom of the core of me.
I don’t know what she means. She’s mad. I’m gobsmacked when I think about HER secret minions. What dissent going on in that woman! Total fucking pandemonium! I think she’s suicidal- intestinal wall to intestinal wall crammed tight with treacherous extremists clamoring for the end.
I pick up the baby & comfort him.
I don’t know what to do.
I say to Astrid I’ve heard about this. Postpartum depression.
She laughs loudly at the idea tho it isn’t
An Extraordinary Day!
As usual went out & dragged anxieties along the boulevards until found a café to sit when anxieties wanted coffee & a cigarette. Paris all around me. A drunk pissing like he was nothing but a bladder in a hat, his ribbon of urine snaking its way through cobblestones. Two policemen paced the boulevard because to march would give off wrong impression.
Walked to the Seine & sat down beside it.
On bench next to me a woman had her legs stretched out catching a rare dose of sun. Nice legs- long & sinewy. She was looking at me while I was looking at her legs. I did a combination shrug & smile & before my brain recognized her, my mouth did.
– Caroline! I cried.
– Marty!
We leapt up at the same time & gazed at each other with deep surprise and joy.
– I went to find you! I shouted.
– Dad died!
– I know! I saw his grave!
– It was awful!
– Everyone I love is dead too!
– I know!
– Everyone! Mum! Dad! Terry! Harry!
– I heard! I rang home when Dad died and my uncle in Sydney told me the news!
– It was awful!
– I’m married! It’s terrible!
– No!
– Yes!
– Well, I’m a father!
– No!
– That’s what I said!
– Marty, let’s run away together!
– I can’t!
– Yes you can!
– I have to fulfill my parental duty!
– Well, I can’t leave my husband either!
– Why not?!
– I still love him!
– So we’re stuck!
– Hopelessly stuck!
– You look good!
– You look beautiful!
We both took a breather & laughed. I had never been so excited. She cupped my face in her hands & kissed me all over.
– What are you going to do? I asked.
– Let’s rent a hotel room & make love.
– Are you sure?
– I’m sorry I ran out on you.
– You were in love with my brother.
– I was young.
– And beautiful.
– Let’s get that room.
A small hotel above a restaurant, we made love all afternoon. I won’t go into specifics except to say I didn’t disgrace myself at all- duration was respectable & thunderstorm raged outside as we left the curtains open & I knew that this would hang hazy in our minds as a half-remembered dream & we would step back afterwards into our lives & when I thought this my heart painfully contracted there in the dark.
– So you’re the father of a French child, she said.
Strangely that thought had never occurred to me before & while I love the French & theoretically am indifferent to my own country, one’s roots hold a strange grip. Suddenly unpleasant my son wouldn’t be Australian. There’s no better country in the world to run away from. Fleeing from France is fine when German tanks are rolling in but in peacetime why would you bother?
We held each other giddily she was thin & so smooth I could’ve skipped her across a lake & she squeezed me in spasms & I kept kissing her as a way to stop her looking at the time as day turned to night. I couldn’t waste this opportunity & I couldn’t bear to hate myself again so I said that I didn’t position myself deliberately in the path of love but it happened and to that end I would leave Astrid and the child so we could be together. She lapsed into a long silence her face barely visible in the dark. Then she spoke softly You cannot leave your son and mother of your child I couldn’t handle the guilt besides I love my husband (a Russian named Ivan of all things). These people were insurmountable obstacles she said then added I love you too, but more as an afterthought hers was an I love you couched in conditions. It was not unconditional love. There were clauses and loopholes. Her love was not binding. I smiled, as if my mouth were compelled by tradition to do so.