Leaving Madeleine - part 22
My eyes opened at 7:00 AM the next morning. I dialed the front desk and requested a late checkout. A woman asked me to hold. I heard her typing as I waited. She spoke again and told me I could checkout at 1:00 PM. I hung up the phone and checked on Brigitte. She was sleeping guiltlessly. I closed my eyes and promptly returned to the land of dreams. At ten o'clock I woke again and this time felt awake. I hopped out of bed and drew the curtains to let sunlight flood the room. Brigitte stirred and opened her eyes. She asked me what time it was. I told her.
"Put some clothes on," she chided me.
"I'm going to shower first," I responded.
She slinked out of bed and joined me at the entrance to the balcony. She was most beautiful to me like this. No makeup, no inhibition. Her skin taught around her chest and buttocks and a manicured line of pubic hair between her legs. But something nagged at me from the night before. Knowledge. Gained knowledge and lack of knowledge. The thoughts danced around my mind and began to excavate. We didn't know each other of course, not completely. Our time together was still too short. We needed more. But I knew as it became longer, we would sacrifice some of the magic. If we're to last I thought, we will have to replace the magic with something higher. Or rather something higher will arrive all on its own. Something truer. Magic is an illusion. But it is pleasant being a part of the act. At least until you learn the trick. Brigitte and I had to let our past disappear, to let it be swallowed by time. We could revise history in our favor if we needed to, and new discoveries could justify our reinterpretations. But a little piece had crept in, and while it visited it drew a map to itself so we could find it. But instead of pushing me, the knowledge drew me closer. Let the imperfections expose themselves now. If these are the worst of them, we are on our way to happiness. Brigitte took my hand. My thoughts scurried away like startled cockroaches. We stayed there looking at the sky and the sun reflecting imperfectly in the water, rippling in the nearly imperceptible waves and washing ashore. I kissed Brigitte's neck and turned to make my way to the bathroom.
"Shower?" she asked.
"Piss," I answered.
"Me as well. Then shower together?"
I nodded.
We lathered each other and kissed but didn't make love. We dressed in the clothes we wore in Eze, each leaving off our underwear, stuffing it in the shopping bags with the clothes we bought the day before. We ordered eggs Benedict and orange juice and coffee and ate it all on the balcony. We checked out at noon and left to catch the train. Once aboard, we planned our day. There wasnt much time, but the inevitability didn't seem to be on Brigitte's mind.
The rest of the day we behaved like tourists. Renoir? Check. Matisse chapel in Vence? Check. But we were completely engrossed. Brigitte's knowledge and appreciation was infectious. Our conversations were long and drawn out. The birth of Fauvism, its origin as an insult. Cézanne. The connection between Matisse and Hemingway by way of Gertrude Stein. Is the greater truth in the expression of the colors you see or the colors that are there? Plato. Aristotle. And on and on. Madeleine would indulge such conversation, but more often they'd stay on the periphery. With her, I was the teacher. Brigitte and I were students and professors at the same time. We were explorers, hungry and thirsty and versed. We complimented each other, challenged each other. It was new life.
By the time we got back to Nice, there was still some sunshine in the sky. At the flat, we changed into our bathing suits quickly and hurried to the beach. We swam awhile and then dried in the sun. Brigitte abandoned the idea of sunbathing nude. We sat on our mats and ate fruit and drank wine. We decided to leave the lavender fields for a future trip. There wasn't really time and we couldn't change our tickets anyway.
At night we went to the market and ate mussels and pasta for dinner. We walked around the city after and explored, eventually stumbling into a jazz bar. Brigitte drank more wine, I graduated to whiskey. On stage was a decent pianist and an excellent chanteuse. We stayed there until the last set and wandered through the streets back to Cimiez and up to the apartment. I was tired and so was she. We had to get up early, so we only held each other. Brigitte fell asleep. It wouldn't come for me. I lied awake staring at the ceiling, thinking about the merits of Paris and comparing them to what Hong Kong might offer. I drifted eventually and dreamt of friends I hadn't seen for a number of years.
Brigitte was up first. She woke me with her hand. She climbed on top of me and worked until we were both satisfied. I had to pull her off so I didn't go inside her. We showered together, packed our bags, and left for the station. The train ride was uneventful. We were still tired so we slept most of the trip.
Suddenly, we were back in Paris. I was trying to slow the minutes, but they didn't cooperate, they turned into hours without my consent. I went with Brigitte to her apartment. Her aunt had returned. Introductions were made and I launched a charm offensive. It was easy enough as her aunt was completely welcoming. She fed me lemon grass beef and rice. She was the older sister of Brigitte's mother. The common genes were apparent, but age seemed to be conspiring to hide the likeness. Brigitte sneaked inappropriate gropes whenever her aunt was not looking. I was positive she noticed once or twice. My impression was in danger, but I couldn't get angry. I had forgiven Brigitte everything the first day I met her.
I left two hours later than I should have. Brigitte's aunt was already in bed. Even so, it was hard to go. I held Brigitte long outside her door. The steps protested as I made my way down. The journey to the metro was a blur. I found my way on instinct alone. Nobody mattered anymore. They could've died the very next day and I wouldn't have cared. The city didn't matter. It was iron and stone. The art mattered, but it would stay with me wherever I chose to go. I had forgotten Madeleine. I didn't remember her smell or the softness of her skin. I couldn't recall the sound of her voice or her name.
I was in my apartment without knowledge of how I got here. Brigitte was leaving in four days. I sat on my bed thinking about Asia. Who'd done it? What's there? What would I do? I dialled Brigitte. "I'm home," I told her. She told me she missed me and to come back. I told her I was going see how life would be living in Hong Kong.
"Put some clothes on," she chided me.
"I'm going to shower first," I responded.
She slinked out of bed and joined me at the entrance to the balcony. She was most beautiful to me like this. No makeup, no inhibition. Her skin taught around her chest and buttocks and a manicured line of pubic hair between her legs. But something nagged at me from the night before. Knowledge. Gained knowledge and lack of knowledge. The thoughts danced around my mind and began to excavate. We didn't know each other of course, not completely. Our time together was still too short. We needed more. But I knew as it became longer, we would sacrifice some of the magic. If we're to last I thought, we will have to replace the magic with something higher. Or rather something higher will arrive all on its own. Something truer. Magic is an illusion. But it is pleasant being a part of the act. At least until you learn the trick. Brigitte and I had to let our past disappear, to let it be swallowed by time. We could revise history in our favor if we needed to, and new discoveries could justify our reinterpretations. But a little piece had crept in, and while it visited it drew a map to itself so we could find it. But instead of pushing me, the knowledge drew me closer. Let the imperfections expose themselves now. If these are the worst of them, we are on our way to happiness. Brigitte took my hand. My thoughts scurried away like startled cockroaches. We stayed there looking at the sky and the sun reflecting imperfectly in the water, rippling in the nearly imperceptible waves and washing ashore. I kissed Brigitte's neck and turned to make my way to the bathroom.
"Shower?" she asked.
"Piss," I answered.
"Me as well. Then shower together?"
I nodded.
We lathered each other and kissed but didn't make love. We dressed in the clothes we wore in Eze, each leaving off our underwear, stuffing it in the shopping bags with the clothes we bought the day before. We ordered eggs Benedict and orange juice and coffee and ate it all on the balcony. We checked out at noon and left to catch the train. Once aboard, we planned our day. There wasnt much time, but the inevitability didn't seem to be on Brigitte's mind.
The rest of the day we behaved like tourists. Renoir? Check. Matisse chapel in Vence? Check. But we were completely engrossed. Brigitte's knowledge and appreciation was infectious. Our conversations were long and drawn out. The birth of Fauvism, its origin as an insult. Cézanne. The connection between Matisse and Hemingway by way of Gertrude Stein. Is the greater truth in the expression of the colors you see or the colors that are there? Plato. Aristotle. And on and on. Madeleine would indulge such conversation, but more often they'd stay on the periphery. With her, I was the teacher. Brigitte and I were students and professors at the same time. We were explorers, hungry and thirsty and versed. We complimented each other, challenged each other. It was new life.
By the time we got back to Nice, there was still some sunshine in the sky. At the flat, we changed into our bathing suits quickly and hurried to the beach. We swam awhile and then dried in the sun. Brigitte abandoned the idea of sunbathing nude. We sat on our mats and ate fruit and drank wine. We decided to leave the lavender fields for a future trip. There wasn't really time and we couldn't change our tickets anyway.
At night we went to the market and ate mussels and pasta for dinner. We walked around the city after and explored, eventually stumbling into a jazz bar. Brigitte drank more wine, I graduated to whiskey. On stage was a decent pianist and an excellent chanteuse. We stayed there until the last set and wandered through the streets back to Cimiez and up to the apartment. I was tired and so was she. We had to get up early, so we only held each other. Brigitte fell asleep. It wouldn't come for me. I lied awake staring at the ceiling, thinking about the merits of Paris and comparing them to what Hong Kong might offer. I drifted eventually and dreamt of friends I hadn't seen for a number of years.
Brigitte was up first. She woke me with her hand. She climbed on top of me and worked until we were both satisfied. I had to pull her off so I didn't go inside her. We showered together, packed our bags, and left for the station. The train ride was uneventful. We were still tired so we slept most of the trip.
Suddenly, we were back in Paris. I was trying to slow the minutes, but they didn't cooperate, they turned into hours without my consent. I went with Brigitte to her apartment. Her aunt had returned. Introductions were made and I launched a charm offensive. It was easy enough as her aunt was completely welcoming. She fed me lemon grass beef and rice. She was the older sister of Brigitte's mother. The common genes were apparent, but age seemed to be conspiring to hide the likeness. Brigitte sneaked inappropriate gropes whenever her aunt was not looking. I was positive she noticed once or twice. My impression was in danger, but I couldn't get angry. I had forgiven Brigitte everything the first day I met her.
I left two hours later than I should have. Brigitte's aunt was already in bed. Even so, it was hard to go. I held Brigitte long outside her door. The steps protested as I made my way down. The journey to the metro was a blur. I found my way on instinct alone. Nobody mattered anymore. They could've died the very next day and I wouldn't have cared. The city didn't matter. It was iron and stone. The art mattered, but it would stay with me wherever I chose to go. I had forgotten Madeleine. I didn't remember her smell or the softness of her skin. I couldn't recall the sound of her voice or her name.
I was in my apartment without knowledge of how I got here. Brigitte was leaving in four days. I sat on my bed thinking about Asia. Who'd done it? What's there? What would I do? I dialled Brigitte. "I'm home," I told her. She told me she missed me and to come back. I told her I was going see how life would be living in Hong Kong.
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