I helped Katherine find a house to buy in Mount Eden, and Michael’s firm did all the legal work for her on that and the settlement without charge. If there was any heavy lifting to be done with furniture she’d give me a call, and I visited her in hospital when baby Alice was born, and in the months afterwards I’d sometimes take them for a drive in the weekend. Katherine said she felt stir crazy from being inside too much.
I don’t see much of them now. Katherine married when the little girl was two. A geographer from the university whom she met at the gym. A lucky man. He seems a nice enough guy, but I don’t call round. It could be awkward: some male friend of the child’s father hanging about in an undisclosed capacity. They have a baby boy of their own now. I get a Christmas card, and I’ve been twice to dinner parties. The geographer asked me for share market advice. Little Alice looks just like her mother, and she’s fortunate in that. I tell myself the best of Michael is bound to be there too.
Maybe I’ll go to Tauranga one day and see Michael’s plaque in the crematorium, maybe see if Mrs Chute is still in the same house, and ask her why she’s not interested in his daughter. No, I’ll never do it. So much about people is difficult to understand. There were a swag of possible outcomes to the friendship Michael and I had, but this is the way it turned out, and nothing can be done about it now.
SOJOURN IN ARLES
Sometimes these things begin in casual ways that give no indication of the final significance. David wouldn’t have been at the party in Monaco but for an Italian rail strike that prevented him travelling on. He stayed an extra day in Nice with the Ramages, who were close friends of a close friend of his at home. The Ramages had expected their hospitality to be at an end on the Monday, and so had accepted the party invitation. ‘Don’t worry about me a bit,’ said David. ‘I’m quite happy to stay here. It’s kind enough of you to put up with me for an extra night. I could go to a hotel, or a B and B.’ The Ramages hadn’t been captivated by David, but they were polite people and dutiful hosts. They rang their Monaco acquaintances and were assured that an extra guest would be okay.
David didn’t speak French, but most of the party goers were ex-pats, or possessed several languages. Monaco is that sort of society. He didn’t get introduced to the hosts, as the Ramages were distracted at the rather splendid tiled entrance by an assortment of potted plants. Helen Ramage was a potted plant enthusiast capable of distinguishing fourteen varieties of fern. Cóte d’Azur parties are different from Kiwi parties in several ways, one being that those attending don’t expect to know everybody. David had canapés with two South African men on a yachting voyage to Crete, goats’ cheese and filo with a local couple who marketed antique curios, and spilled a little vin rouge on the dress of a tanned, elderly woman before he could find out much more concerning her. In retreat from that débâcle he skirted the pool and found a stone bench behind tubbed cypress trees from which the Grimaldi castle was visible against the darkened skyline. How warm the air was, how pleasant the fragrances.
It was there, as he was finishing his Beaujolais, that he was joined by a man whose insignificant body seemed just the necessary bearer of a large and pleasant face. ‘Attlee Kellor,’ the man said.
‘David Wilson.’
‘Do you mind?’ Attlee said, and he sat down beside David. Even seated the height difference was apparent, although David wasn’t quite six foot. ‘My hearing’s not so good now in a crowd, especially for French, or German, and I get tired because of needing to concentrate. I take a little time out every now and then. I’m not disturbing you?’
They told each other what they did, and how they came to be there, which is what you do at such gatherings. Attlee said he was a futures broker and financial adviser: the host was his client. David explained his local government work as an events manager, and his decision after his wife’s death to have an overseas trip. ‘I don’t know the hosts at all,’ he said. ‘I’m an acquaintance of a friend.’
They got on well, perhaps partly because they had no shared past and no likely future … The very randomness of their meeting encouraged them to openness and surmise. Attlee discussed the impact of the spread of the Euro currency, his prostate concerns, and his philosophy in giving financial advice. ‘My clients are successful people,’ he said, ‘so I ask them what course they think is best, and then encourage them to take it.’ David talked about the balance of delegation and supervision in team leadership, the use of most of his savings for medical expenses before the death of his wife, the nature of living alone.
‘I’ve always wanted to see Italy,’ David said. ‘Tomorrow the trains are supposed to be on again, and I’m heading for Venice.’
‘Ah, Venice.’
‘Then Rome. A couple of weeks in all, and then I might come back and go on to Spain for a bit if the money holds.’
‘I have to go to America quite soon. The south, Florida, on business, and then back to London where I spend most of my time.’ People stood on the patio only metres away, strung lights showed glimpses of coloured dresses between the slender cypresses, and voices carried. The stone of the seat was still warm to sit on. ‘I have a place in Arles,’ said Attlee. ‘It’s where I’m staying at present. Why don’t you spend some time there when you come back to France? Days, a few weeks: I feel better having someone in my places when I’m away.’
‘A house sitter?’ said David.
‘I suppose so, yes.’ Attlee took a few steps out to be in better light, fossicked in his wallet, and then came back to the seat. ‘Here’s my card. Email me, or ring, if you want to stay, and I’ll tell you how to get the key.’
That was the sort of place it was, the sort of party it was. Where people of substance and judgement were accustomed to making decisions quickly and with confidence. Where no big fuss was made of such an offer. Attlee said he meant it. ‘You’d like Arles,’ he said. ‘It’s a good hub, a historic place and not too big,’ then he went on to talk about other things. They parted when the hostess rang a bell, and everyone went in to eat: fifty or sixty people standing about the tables, drifting through the rooms, eating their main meal at almost eleven o’clock at night. David heard Attlee talking to others in French, and didn’t see him again.
‘Attlee Kellor?’ said Paul Ramage the next morning, when David had already packed. ‘Attlee Kellor is a very rich man. Travels the world and has places in New York and London.’
‘And Arles,’ said David.
‘I believe so. He’s a high flyer is Kellor. Someone told me that he was born Hungarian and changed his name for business purposes. Interesting guy.’
‘I thought so,’ said David, but he didn’t mention anything about the invitation to stay in the place in Arles. He didn’t want the Ramages to think he was the sort who bludged his way around Europe, and he didn’t expect to take up the offer anyway. The disparity between his situation and Attlee Kellor’s was too great to make acceptance easy, or risk rebuff if he made contact.
In the end he did take the risk however. He came back from Italy with many memories and very little money. He didn’t feel he could impose on the Ramages again and they hadn’t pressed him to return. If he had to pay accommodation, he couldn’t stay much longer before flying home, and he doubted if he’d ever be back. Time in Arles could be the special cap to his travels. David took the train to Marseilles, and stayed in a backpackers’ hostel close to the station. He felt like a grandfather there, solemn among the quick movement and flirtatious laughter, although he too was in good humour most of the time. Not all the backpackers were travelling in couples, or groups, but their youthful sociability made him doubly aware of being alone. He found an internet café and sent a message to Attlee asking if the offer to stay in Arles still held. He signed himself David from the Monaco party. ‘Absolutely,’ said the brief reply and gave him a name and address, wished him well.
The railway station at Arles was surprisingly small, and few people got off there, even though the tourist season was barely over. There see
med to be no bus service, and David took a taxi to rue Molière and the workplace of Madame Desmarais. He expected to meet a lawyer, or an estate agent, but Madame Desmarais was a florist, and busy behind sprays and bouquets wrapped in coloured cellophane, or pale gauze. Her English was surprisingly grammatical, but spoken with a strong accent that baffled David at first. Yes, she knew about him, yes, M Kellor had said he was to be allowed the key. Madame Desmarais must have been in her sixties, but her slender figure, pampered skin and arched cosmetic eyebrows allowed her to retain a certain feminine glamour once sexual radiance was gone. She took David’s arm and manoeuvred him to a chair at the side of the counter. Soon she would herself take him to the house she said. When she finished with the one customer remaining.
‘A gypsy,’ she told David with a touch of disdain. They watched him leave the premises: a stocky man in an expensive suit with bold stripes, and gold on his fingers. David found the gypsy’s obvious pleasure in the flowers he bore appealing, but said nothing. Madame Desmarais hung a small sign at the door, locked the shop and set off briskly. ‘Rue de la Monnaie,’ she said. It was more of a walk than David expected, and he was thankful that his case had wheels, which clattered over the concrete and cobbles, but people were used to that.
Rue de la Monnaie was in the old town, not far from the river, and David’s guide stopped before a high wooden door in an even higher stone wall. Within was a small courtyard, the cobbles humped in places because of the roots of a large, dark-leafed tree in the centre. Beneath the tree was a small fountain with water flowing from the throat of a bronze bird. The three villas that formed the other sides of the courtyard had elaborate carvings on the lintel stones of their main doors. That’s how it used to be hundreds of years ago — beauty and privilege hidden behind high, blank walls.
Attlee Kellor’s home faced the gate, and Madame Desmarais took David into every room on both floors, advancing into each one with a sweeping gaze as if taking inventory. The kitchen was modern, and all else wonderfully preserved, with shrouds suspended above the beds, unusually high, patterned ceilings, and relief picture wallpaper of fêtes, market days and wars, all in grey on white. David ran his hand lightly over it. ‘So old, so old,’ said Madame Desmarais, ‘but I must return to my flowers.’
They stood for moment on the steps. ‘The Benoits are on your left, and Madame Lefevre on your right, but she’s in Paris at this time of year,’ she said. ‘Do you want someone to come and cook and clean?’
‘No, but thank you,’ said David.
She gave him the large key for the gate and one barely less large for the door. ‘I come to collect the mail each day,’ she said. ‘Leave a note there, or come to my shop if you need to ask me anything. There is an electricity switch beneath the kitchen bench.’ She seemed to have no curiosity concerning the length of his stay, and went away without looking back. David made himself coffee and stood at a window of one of the smaller upstairs bedrooms. Despite having been empty, the house was warm and surprising sweet-smelling — something of wood and fabrics and flowers. The climate accounted for the warmth: David supposed Madame Desmarais responsible for the freshness. From the window he could glimpse the narrow rue de la Monnaie beyond the wall and the curved orange tiles of lower houses. He would sleep in that small bedroom, he decided, and not Attlee’s room, which had silver-backed brushes and silver-rimmed photographs on the inlaid and gold-scrolled dressing table. He had difficulty in recognising his absent host in any of the photographs. The men in them were young, with the sheen and shimmer of young men so that they seemed to fret slightly within the frame, and anyway David had spent time with Attlee only during that one evening of the party, and already his appearance had dimmed. David remembered that he was short, that his face was lined and his longish hair was grey: just a generic description of an older man. And yet there was David standing in his house at Arles, touching his brushes, looking at photographs that must have chronicled some part of his life.
At dusk, David went cautiously into the old town and had a light meal at the first restaurant he came to, because he didn’t want to get lost in the dark. The meal wasn’t a good one and the wine was a poor rosé sold to tourists, but he didn’t mind, for on other days he could find better places. He went back to the house, taking pleasure in using the two keys, and went to bed early. He was tired, but he lay for a while on the hard, clean bed, with the shutters still open, and looked at the wonderful figured wallpaper that had plentiful small signs of long wear, but none of abuse. How much better than the backpackers’ in Marseilles he thought, or the shabby cell of the Rome hotel. Many generations of affluent and civilised people must have lived in the house, minor family oligarchies waxing and waning. How his wife would have loved it, and thinking of her he fell asleep.
Before noon the next day, David crossed the small courtyard and knocked on the door of the Benoits. M Benoit seemed taken aback slightly by the neighbourly visit of introduction. A tall, shy man who was polite, but showed no curiosity about David. Perhaps his diffidence arose from his limited English, though David felt he considered the visit slightly transgressed custom. He met M Benoit and his wife only occasionally afterwards, passing in the courtyard, and they would smile and give soft greetings in their own language. After lunch he found a bunch of dried lavender on his step, and thought Madame Desmarais must have collected the mail. Most mail days afterwards there were flowers of some sort left for him, although he saw her only on his occasional visits to the shop in rue Molière.
During the first week or so David developed a routine of exploring Arles in the mornings, eating out as inexpensively as possible, and then returning to the house to read, or record his experiences. He had begun his journal as a way of capturing material for his emails and letters to his daughter, Anna, but increasingly it became his way of working through his life — youth, career, marriage, ambitions, and the death that put all of them in question. Attlee had a small study on the first floor, looking out to the courtyard. The desk was heavy with computer, printer and related equipment, there were framed pen and ink drawings of Provence on the walls, but very few books on the shelves. It was for Attlee only an occasional home, of course, and there would be more evidence of his character in London and New York.
David visited the Roman amphitheatre and baths, the old bridge, he strolled the walkways alongside the Rhône and through the park on the Boulevard des Lices. He saw the gargoyles on the Musée Réattu and found cheap restaurants in the back streets close to quai de la Roquette. He became accustomed to the supine, begging dogs with the card beside them — pour vivre merci. In her fragrant shop, Madame Desmarais gave him directions to the Vincent van Gogh display, and said that during the mad artist’s stay the citizens of Arles had taken up a petition to throw him out of town. A nice irony that now the association is trumpeted in tourist publicity. And in the afternoons David would relax in the lovely old home behind the high wall, and make his notes, reflect, and enjoy whatever flowers Madame had left on her last visit to collect Attlee Kellor’s mail. And he would try not to be sad.
Towards the end of the first week, he had the first telephone conversation with the woman in Barcelona. He had had the occasional call from people who spoke no English and so disconnected in confusion, or people who rang off just as quickly when told Attlee Kellor wasn’t there. The woman from Barcelona was the only one who hung on determinedly. ‘But you’re an associate of Mr Kellor’s, right?’ she said, when David explained he was a guest in the house at Arles. David told her he had a cellphone number and an email address for Mr Kellor that he could give her. ‘I’d be very obliged for your advice as an associate,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to bother him if it’s not necessary. It’s just straightforward advice I’m hoping for.’
It would have been an embarrassment for David to explain his relationship to Attlee, the charitable reality of his presence in Arles. He allowed the Barcelona woman, Mrs Collingwood, to think he was a business associate by not denying it. What she wanted
was advice concerning investment in a Russian energy company. She was a lawyer specialising in contracts and had been offered the opportunity by a Spanish colleague. Her husband used to do a good deal of business with Attlee. ‘Mr Kellor gave me advice once before,’ she said.
From the study window David could see the shadow cast on the courtyard cobbles by the central tree, and the juggling glint on the water jet from the bronze bird. He remembered from the party in Monaco, Attlee’s dictum concerning financial advice — find the client’s opinion, and then support it. What harm could he do by following that? And the woman’s voice was pleasant, and yes, he wished to prolong the conversation just that once. So he encouraged her to talk of the company, the offer, the confidence she had in her Spanish friend, and then said he thought she should invest, as long as the amount wasn’t essential to her livelihood. ‘I much appreciate your views,’ she said, ‘Thank you.’
That was the end of it, he thought. He continued his quiet exploration of Arles, and took those excursions he could afford: to St Rémy, for example, and the walled town of Aigues-Mortes.
Increasingly he spent time writing of his life, and that became more a private letter to his dead wife than to Anna, though he continued to tell his daughter of his experiences. He sat in the wonderful house in rue de la Monnaie and wrote about his ordinary life in New Zealand, the happiness as well as the subsequent grief and despair. He found himself closer to his wife, better able to express the love and loss, when he was on the other side of the world. It was gradual release to write freely about their marriage, in which affection and loyalty had been strong, but more tacit than he would have liked, looking back. He wrote at length, haphazardly, about incidents and times especially warm in recollection. Their restoration of the home in Hataitai, the camping holiday in the Maniototo when Anna was twelve, the trip to Sydney when he was promoted to events manager at the council. Now that his wife was dead, their life together seemed caught in tableaux of poignant chiaroscuro.
Living As a Moon Page 18
