by Alba Arikha
Before he walked away, Aziz slipped me his card. “Call me Az, and see you tomorrow,” he said. “Please come.”
His opening was so crowded that I couldn’t find him. I had barely slept the night before, my mind filled with images of our meeting. Would this lead to anything? I wondered. I could hardly believe it would.
I walked around and focused on his photographs, which were mounted in enormous frames. Blurred faces behind windows, babies under water, superimposed tree trunks, a miniature chrysalis set against a black cloud. His work was stunning. I was able to forget about the heat, the noise, the people pushing me, the bright lights. And suddenly there was Az. His face broke into a smile when he saw me. “Thank you for coming,” he said, holding my hand. “It’s a bit crazy in here.”
“The show is beautiful,” I said.
“Yes it is, Az,” a woman interjected. She looked Asian. She was very pretty and wore a sparkly white dress. Her perfume was too strong. “Hi Mona,” said Az, greeting her warmly. He knew her well. How well? I wondered. He introduced us, “Mona, Hannah,” then was interrupted again, by a man who must have been his dealer, as he was waving at him frantically with a sheet of paper in his hand and mouthing something incomprehensible.
“So how do you know Az?” Mona asked, as if she cared.
“I don’t,” I answered. “I only met him last night.”
I wanted to go home. I felt out of place and underdressed. Everyone around me was dressed up. Why wasn’t I? I had worn a simple pair of trousers and a white cardigan for the occasion. As if I had already decided that I wouldn’t attend the dinner. I couldn’t face him in a crowd. If I were to get to know him better, it had to be alone. Not at a formal dinner. Anyway, he had clearly forgotten he had invited me. Otherwise he would have said something, wouldn’t he? Something like “See you at the dinner?” Yes, of course he would have.
So I left without saying goodbye and with my heart beating quickly, and got on the Tube and wondered, for perhaps a split second, if I wasn’t doing something foolish, then decided that I wasn’t. He would have said something about the dinner if he really expected me there. It was probably one of those seated events with many bigwigs and artists and socialites – after all, I cooked for those sorts of people, I should know. And I also knew that I hardly counted as one of them. Yes, he looked happy to see me, but he looked equally happy to see Mona – whoever she was. This was obviously a very busy night for him: he had other more important things on his mind than the dark-haired woman with the stained apron he had only met the previous evening.
I sat down in a near-empty Tube carriage. A man was slouched in the seat opposite. He looked drunk and was mumbling to himself. I got off at Manor House and walked hurriedly home. I felt uncomfortable, as if I had done something wrong. Should I have stayed at the gallery? Had I misinterpreted Az? Why was I going home exactly?
As soon as I walked through the front door, the phone rang. It was Ben. “I’ve met this woman, Melody. She’s gorgeous. A pop star, really talented. Just wanted to tell you about it,” he said as my mobile began to ring. A number I didn’t recognize appeared on the screen. “Hold on,” I said to Ben.
I picked up the call: “Hannah, hi, it’s Az. Took a while to find your number…”
“Oh, Az—”
“Listen,” he said, speaking quickly, “we’ll be sitting down for dinner shortly. A woman I met last night is supposed to be seated on my right and she’s not here.”
I was so shocked that for a very short while I said nothing. He had seated me next to him? I was a fool. A downright, idiotic fool. He would never forgive me or want to see me again. That much was clear. Unless I went back there immediately.
“I’m so sorry, Az, something came up,” I said, feeling my cheeks burn. “I should have told you. But the place was so crowded that I couldn’t find you to tell you.”
That was a lie. I had seen him, but he was surrounded by people, and I hadn’t dared barge in again when we had said hello only a few minutes before.
“Is this your way of saying that you’re not coming? I need to know.”
His tone was hurried, snappy. I pressed the phone against my ear. I had to think quickly. Rationally. If I didn’t go, I might never see him again. And I had to see him again. Hoxton was a long way. But it didn’t matter. I could take a cab. “I just got home,” I said. “I could jump into a cab and be there in thirty minutes.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” he said, sounding relieved. “Looking forward to seeing you,” He hung up quickly.
“Hello?” I heard Ben shout in the landline receiver. Are you there?”
“Sorry Ben,” I said, breathlessly, “but I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever, always a pleasure,” he grumbled.
I changed into a black skirt and matching velvet blouse, slipped on a pair of high- heeled shoes. I added some make-up, a few dabs of perfume, clasped an amethyst necklace shut and decided that the time had come for me to pay more attention to my appearance.
I arrived just as the guests were sitting down. When Az saw me, he smiled in appreciation and beckoned me to my seat. There were speeches – “Aziz Lascar, master of the forgotten daguerreotype, you have enchanted us once again” etc. – many toasts and an attempt at conversation with the man on my left, a friend of Az’s from Paris who spoke incomprehensible English, kept getting up to smoke cigarettes on the adjacent balcony and made movies everyone seemed to know about but me. “My impression is that when you’re a chef you barely have time for anything else,” said the American woman seated opposite me, who was called Strawberry. “I have a friend, and she works so hard that her children, who like never see her, thought she was the nanny.” Strawberry’s platinum hair was pulled back in a bun, and there was a diamond stud in her nose. Everyone laughed, but I didn’t. I wasn’t sure how to interpret her comment. Was this her way of empathizing with me or a covert way of criticizing the fact that I didn’t know who the French director was? She fancied him, I could tell. Strawberry should have been the one seated next to him, not me.
“I don’t have children, so I wouldn’t know,” I said instead.
“That’s cool. I don’t have children either,” she retorted.
I could have said more. That I read books. I was educated. I was seated next to the guest of honour. I did more than just chop vegetables. I had time now. More than I used to. Still, there was no doubt that I had some catching up to do; but I didn’t need Strawberry to tell me.
Az and I tried to talk to each other, but were constantly interrupted. “Let’s go out for a drink afterwards,” he leant over to tell me. “As soon as this is over.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I whispered. “Aren’t they expecting you to stay until the end?
“I’ve done my bit,” he said, smiling at me. “I think I could be forgiven for leaving when I choose to.”
We slipped out right after pudding, and before he was about to be hounded again. We jumped into a cab and ended up at a pub in Shoreditch. We ordered a bottle of wine and began to talk. We couldn’t stop. The more we spoke, the more attracted to him I became. We exchanged our views on life, on art, on the world. We discussed my childhood, Lucie’s drowning, my work, my father. There was no doubt that Az was someone my father would have loved. “I meant to tell you that I met this man,” I could imagine him saying. “I think you’d like each other.”
Now this man was here, sitting in front of me, with his chiselled face and gravelly voice, telling me about his childhood, his ex-partner – who sounded awful – and their daughter. He saw Stéphanie every other weekend, he said, and on Wednesdays, when he picked her up at school. He missed her, wished he saw her more. But her mother was stubborn and difficult, and he didn’t want to rock the boat. She worked in fashion. A tough woman. “Fashion is not my sort of world,” he added.
B
ut am I your sort of world? I wondered, as the wine went to my head.
I couldn’t remember when I had last met someone like him. He seemed to know exactly what he wanted. Most of the men I had met or been with were prone to existential crises and bouts of insecurity. I could tell that Az was the polar opposite. If anything, his confidence might have been interpreted as smugness. Except that it wasn’t. It was anything but.
The pub manager told us they were closing. Az offered to drop me off at home. “I probably should get some sleep anyway; it’s been a very long day – and night,” he added, smiling.
“Of course,” I said. “I’m amazed you’re still standing…”
I didn’t want the conversation to end. I wanted it to continue. I wanted him to touch me. To kiss me. But I made a rule never to kiss on a first date. Kissing could lead to more and I wasn’t ready for more. I liked to take things slowly. But I didn’t go on many dates these days. So perhaps it was time to rethink my rules.
Az got out of the cab, asked the driver to wait for him and walked me to my front door. “We have a whole life to catch up on,” he whispered, as he kissed me on the cheek.
Then he stepped back and waved at me. “To be continued,” he said, before disappearing.
I closed the door behind me half-wishing he’d come back. To be continued. I was already half in love with him. I listened to the sound of his steps, the revving of the taxi engine. But I couldn’t hear anything other than a few voices on the street. Was something wrong? Then there were footsteps outside again and a knock on my front door. I opened it and there he was: “I’m sorry, and this may not be the correct protocol, but I can’t go home. I can’t leave you,” he said, his French accent sounding stronger than it had before.
“I don’t usually follow protocol,” I said, smiling.
“I’m very pleased to hear it.”
He followed me inside and closed the door behind me. He gently leant me against the door frame and kissed me. I could feel his tongue inside my mouth, searching for me. I would have kissed him all night.
Then he stepped back and looked at me. He brushed a strand of hair away from my face and curled it behind my ear. He placed the cool palm of his hand on my collarbone. He slowly unbuttoned my shirt, unclasped my necklace. I tried to avoid his gaze, but couldn’t. There was something about him which defeated me entirely.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
He removed my shirt and threw it on a chair. He unzipped my skirt and let it fall to the floor. He ran his finger up my bare leg, until he reached the inside of my thigh. But then he stopped. He stepped back and looked at me, standing in my white-lace lingerie. “You take my breath away,” he whispered. “You did as soon as I saw you in Valerie’s house.”
He removed my bra and underwear. I started to tremble. From head to toe. It had never happened to me before. It was a shiver of longing, of impending love as well as gratitude that he had chosen me. That the man who lived in shadows had chosen me. That we seemed to understand each other even though we barely knew each other. That even though things were moving fast, there was a slowness within the fastness as he drew me closer towards him. He took in the smell of my skin, my hair. He caressed my erect nipples and placed his lips against mine again. Tentative, then urgent. His fingers settled between my legs as my breathing became heavier. His lips slid down towards my neck, my breasts, my thighs, between my legs. I yielded to him in a way I hadn’t yielded to anyone in a long time.
We lay down together on the carpet. He murmured my name, I whispered his. My legs opened beneath him, and I brought him towards me, inside me, sinking, floating.
We made love until dawn and then fell asleep. When we awoke, it was late morning. I got out of bed and opened my shutters.
Outside the sun hung high, like a gold medallion.
Flora
15th February 2005
It happened before yesterday. I was unconscious for twenty-four hours. Carlo is the one who found me. We were due to have tea, but I didn’t answer the doorbell. After a few failed attempts to reach me on the house phone – which he could hear ringing as he tried my number from behind the closed door – he knew something was wrong. We see each other every Sunday for tea, a ritual we both look forward to which often stretches on into the evening. “This was very unlike you,” Carlo said.
He called the police, who broke through the front door and found me lying in the kitchen with a broken teapot at my side and tea all over the floor. They think I must have slipped while I was preparing it. I landed on my head, I am told. A bad landing. I fell on my head. Cracked it like the broken teapot on my kitchen floor. It’s a miracle I’m still alive. A real miracle, says Carlo.
I do not remember any of it – the tea, the fall, the blood, the doctor, Carlo, the ambulance and paramedics who came to rescue me. All I do know is that I woke up in a room at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. My arm was attached to a drip. There was a smell of antiseptic in the air. A man was speaking to a nurse, who was taking notes. “Yes, Dr Svelic,” she said.
Dr Svelic was very tall. So tall that his head nearly reached the ceiling. Or perhaps it was me who felt small. I wanted to ask him where he came from. The Balkans? Czechoslovakia? Henry knew a Czech flautist with the same name. Perhaps it was his brother. Or his cousin. Or neither. Henry. I suddenly missed Henry. I wanted him by my side. I felt tears welling in my eyes. But now was not the moment. Later. I would cry later, if at all. I could feel the motions inside, which was unusual. I seldom cry. I don’t like my face getting wet. I only cried in front of Henry once, and that was a mistake. He had caught me in the act, crying about Maurice. I had blamed it on something else, of course. Then he had hugged me. I could feel him now, hugging me. Except that he wasn’t there. I was alone in a strange room. My head hurt. The doctor smiled at me. There was a gap between his two front teeth. “Hello there,” he said pleasantly. “How are you feeling?” He then proceeded to sit down and ask me questions, as if I were a child. “What’s your name? What is the date today? Hold up two fingers for me please.”
“I might have fallen on my head, but I haven’t lost my mind, you know,” I retorted.
“Of course not, Mrs Dobbs,” he smiled. “But this is standard procedure after any sort of head injury.”
The nurse who was with him began to check my pulse, then adjusted the drip on the IV bag. Dr Svelic scribbled something down. There were strands of grey in his black hair. His eyebrows were thick, like wool. I felt tired. I wanted to go back to sleep. Then I heard a voice outside, and there was Carlo. He introduced himself to the doctor as he was leaving. Carlo grabbed a chair and came to sit next to me. He held my hand and told me that he had spent most of the night in the room with me, and was so relieved that I had regained consciousness. He tightened his grip and told me that he had been very worried – and that, once I was discharged, which hopefully should be in a few days, I was to come and live with him. He had an extra room, a lovely one facing Onslow Gardens. “It is not an option. I will not let you return to that flat,” he said, sounding stern. “I owe it to Henry to look after you. And I owe it to myself as well,” he added, smiling at me.
I smiled feebly back. I was glad and reassured to see him. I was alive, and he was here to look after me.
I asked him whether he knew for sure that I would be discharged in a few days. He hesitated. No, he didn’t know for sure, but it seemed obvious to him. “I’ll speak to the doctor, find out what’s happening and let you know.”
Carlo stood up and brushed some invisible dust off his elegant coat. “I’m going home now, but I’ll be back this afternoon. Is there anything you’d like me to bring you from your flat?”
Yes, there was. My nightdress, some clothes, a toothbrush and perfume. “The Shalimar bottle in my bathroom,” I told him. “And there’s a notebook too, in the third drawer of my desk. Please put it in a bag for me and bring it as soon a
s you can.”
“I will,” Carlo said, kissing my hand.
I didn’t need to tell Carlo that the notebook was confidential. I knew that I could trust him implicitly.
Later, Dr Svelic returned and explained that my fall was serious, and that it was important I stay in hospital for a few days. He drew my skull on a piece of paper, using strange words like “pterion” and “axons”, and mentioned something about burst arteries. “We may have to operate,” he said.
I told him I’d rather die than have him operate on my skull. I didn’t mention the ECT I went through years ago. No one knows. And no one shall ever go near my head again.
Dr Svelic said he’d be back that evening. “We will discuss it then,” he said. “No we won’t,” I replied, and he said nothing. He didn’t come back. Or did he? I cannot remember. Suddenly I was impossibly tired. I couldn’t open my eyes. I could hear Carlo’s voice in the room, or perhaps I was imagining it. I wanted to speak to him, to say thank you for being so caring, but I couldn’t. I felt very weak. I heard another voice, which sounded like Henry’s. Then I fell asleep.
I woke up in the middle of the night in great pain. My skull felt as if someone had hammered it open. Had they operated on me without telling me? No, no, of course they hadn’t. I called for a nurse, who came in promptly and injected me with some morphine. It took an excruciatingly long time to kick in. And I was aware that my mind was becoming jumbled. I couldn’t remember where I was. Everything was spinning. I gripped the bars on either side of my bed to slow myself down. I called out Carlo’s name, but he wasn’t there. I may have called out other names too. Someone came in and gave me a pill to swallow. I fell asleep, and this morning it was all gone – the pain as well as the spinning. A miracle. I sat upright in bed feeling strong. I saw that Carlo had brought my notebook, a pen, the Shalimar bottle.
I asked for a nurse and said I wanted to take a shower. I was told someone would be in shortly. I also asked for some breakfast. I was hungry. I telephoned Carlo, and he seemed very surprised to hear me sound so alert. “You’re like a new woman!” he exclaimed. “So strong! I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
