Goodbye, Paris

by Anstey Harris

  I have to stop him. “What?”

  “That’s what it says. He was married before he met Ms. Martin.”

  I have my hands over my mouth. It is such a secret. I feel a little sick. “What else does it say? How old was he when he got married?” I am frantically doing mental arithmetic, trying to work out how old David might have been when he got married the first time, how long he might have been married for.

  “It doesn’t say any more, just that. Perhaps it’s not even true?”

  I shake my head. “Why would she lie? She has no reason to lie and, anyway, people would know if she did. Her children would know.”

  Mr. Williams grips my forearm in a supportive gesture. “I was playing devil’s advocate, dear. I’m sorry. I didn’t think for a moment that she’d lie.”

  David is fifty-two. His oldest child is sixteen. His eldest child that I know of. If I assume that David, the David I thought I knew so well, met Dominique-Marie a couple of years before they had their first baby, even then he would have already been thirty-four. Even if they met when he was thirty, he had years to be married before that.

  I am speechless. In all our plans, in all our talking, it never occurred to me that I might become David’s third wife. I had allowed him one error, one leap of faith that had landed badly. I was to have been the answer, the Right One.

  “She doesn’t mention that again. ‘Martin was blinded to any lessons she might have learned from her husband’s past and it didn’t even begin to resonate when she realized he was having an affair. Martin was working hard and struggling with her second pregnancy when she first became aware that her husband’s indiscretions might be a little more . . .’ ah, what’s the word? I had this last night. This is what old age does to you, Grace. ‘A little more consequential than she had first thought. With a disregard for cliché, Hewitt had a long-term arrangement with his PA and more than one casual liaison at business conferences and on trips abroad.’ ”

  Mr. Williams puts the magazine down. “Are you sure you want me to go on?”

  I nod. I am still struggling to find my words.

  “ ‘“What I hope to achieve here,” says Dominique-Marie at her beautiful home in Strasbourg, “is an understanding among women.” Martin explains that her husband was a damaged child; a man whose background is a litany of sadness—none of which he is responsible for. Martin totally accepts the psychology behind her husband’s need to “collect” women. “What I find so awful”—explains Martin—“is that women are prepared to settle for this second-best, to be part—literally—of a harem. We have undergone a global struggle to liberate ourselves, to become equal to men in the workplace and at home. We have not done this without solidarity.”

  “ ‘Now Dominique-Marie Martin wants to start a campaign where women defend women. “If we cannot trust our men to stay close to home and hold their families at their heart, we must bond together and support our sisters,” she says.’ ”

  “Oh, dear God.” I have to interrupt him. “Now I’m guilty of crimes against my gender as well as against all that is good and holy.” I have my head in my hands and my heart in my throat. “Couldn’t I have had an affair with someone whose wife wishes me and all the other hookers some sort of life-threatening illness? I don’t want her sympathy.”

  “I’m afraid you have it, dear. It’s awful, isn’t it?”

  “It’s awful because she has such a point.”

  We are both silent.

  “The rest?” Mr. Williams asks.

  “Précis.”

  He can’t resist. “I thought you didn’t speak much French.”

  I roll my eyes at him, but I’m very grateful for the levity. Even hearing my relationship with another woman’s husband pulled apart for a magazine article is preferable to what I should really be thinking about, is kinder to me than the devastation and the upset in my shop.

  “So, blah, blah, statistics. This and that and then . . . Are you sure?”

  I nod.

  “ ‘The situation in Martin’s home was only going to escalate. I ask Dominique-Marie how she managed to continue with her marriage, knowing that her husband had numerous partners both here and abroad. “My husband and I had entered into an arrangement—nothing unusual—we would stay together for the children, but our sexual affairs, for the last five years, have been our own business,” she tells me. Martin and Hewitt decided on a policy of honesty on which they could build a friendship. Martin believed this would protect her children from the trauma of divorce and that both parties could continue relationships outside of the home.’ This is making me uncomfortable too, Grace, don’t worry,” says Mr. Williams.

  I nod at him to continue.

  “ ‘Hewitt decided to start a new family with one of his lovers. Not, Martin explains, one of his longer relationships but a relatively new dalliance with a very much younger woman. At this point in the interview, Martin comes alive. Her elegant—’ Oh, bugger that, Grace. I’m sure you don’t want to hear some French bloke tattle on about how attractive David’s bloody wife is.”

  I sigh. Deep breaths are keeping my tears at bay; deep breaths and a sudden horror at the cold facts of my life, of my lover. My skin is clammy. My tea has gone cold.

  “She gets animated, about now, in this interview and her point is . . .” He concentrates on the text again. “Her point is ‘that we shouldn’t be raising our daughters to believe that this is all they’re worth. That she—and her husband—would be horrified if this were the kind of relationship their sixteen-year-old daughter decided to enter into.’ Basically, Grace, the rest of it is about how women need to be kinder to one another and how society needs to raise expectations of women, on the whole. Mostly that this is just part of the patriarchal system and its faults, that sort of thing. Enough?”

  “Enough.” It really is enough. I have never felt smaller. “It’s true, though.” I drop my voice to break a confidence. “Even Nadia. The whole situation with Charlie is in the very same circumstances.”

  “I realized that from what you said. Poor girl.” He stands up and pushes his chair neatly under the table. “A tale as old as time, I’m afraid. Maybe this woman is right; maybe we can change it. I think it’s just human nature, though.” His smile is gentle. “And she’ll have a job changing that.”

  I take my cue from Mr. Williams and get up. It is time to leave him and the safety he has woven around me. I will be forever in his debt.

  “What will you do?” he asks me as I head upstairs to pack.

  “I’m going to go home first. Get changed and so on. The shop can wait.”

  “That’s very wise.” Mr. Williams’s approval means a lot to me now. “I’ll run you down to pick up your car. It’s around the corner from the shop, rather than right out the front. You won’t have to go in.”

  I nod my thanks. “Then what? What will you do later?”

  “I shall come back here and enjoy my solitude in a way that only those who live alone and have had houseguests can appreciate.”

  * * *

  Mr. Williams drops me off by my car. It is still David’s car. Its sleek lines, the engine size, the statement the brand makes; it is wholly David’s car.

  When I get into the car my phone charger is in the cigarette lighter socket. I resist the urge to plug it in. There is enough to deal with in the world I can see.

  I avoid looking at the shop front. Mr. Williams has assured me that it’s safe from any further harm. He had the presence of mind to roll down the blinds, front and back, while the police and ambulance were still there. I have to go and sort it out as soon as I have steeled myself, but at least my customers can’t peer through the window and see the debris.

  When he dropped me off, Mr. Williams insisted that he come to the shop with me as soon as I decide to go. I want to see it for the first time by myself, but I have agreed to text him when I get there and when I have had a chance to assess where to start. There is a lot to clear up in every corner of my life.


  My house is calm. It is as I left it before I went to Paris. No one has been in here and nothing has been disturbed. David is evident in the photographs around the room. The choice of sofa was his, the music stand next to my cello was a gift from him last birthday, the oversize spider plant in the giant earthenware pot came back with him from a random trip to a garden center. He is everywhere.

  Upstairs, his clothes are neatly stacked in the drawers. His toothbrush stands in the pot on the bathroom basin. There are two tubes of toothpaste, both half-used, that describe our particular preferences. My teeth are sensitive and I constantly feel they need whitening; David’s are perfect.

  My bed is neatly made. David’s side is a shrine to him. His book is open at the page he was reading. It sits askew on top of a guidebook. The spine of the guidebook faces me; it is northern Italy. It is for Cremona.

  Beside the books and David’s beside lamp are innocent clues to him. There are two pens, both black and with the sharp, fine nibs that artists use; there are nail scissors and an empty eyeglass case with a navy-blue cover. His reading glasses must be somewhere else in the house. I know his habits; they will be on the side of the bath.

  This is a trail of crumbs left by a person I thought I knew; there are other Davids in other cities and other countries. I have no idea how many. I am certain, though, that none of the other Davids can have been as real as mine.

  My bath towel hangs on the back of my bedroom door and I take it through to the bathroom. My clothes are fusty and need washing; I drop them in the basket in the corner.

  David’s reading glasses are perched where I knew they would be and I walk past them and step into the shower. There are more reminders of this David, English David, in the shower cubicle. He has shower gel and shampoo. He has body lotion and a separate face wash. These are the traces of a vain man. Before today, I just thought he was thorough and taking care of himself.

  I close my eyes against the stream of water and imagine him next to me. I cannot turn off the way I feel about him; no matter how many facts there are, how many suspicions that may become real, he and I were special. He and I were something different.

  I dress in jeans and a T-shirt. It will be cold in the shop and I pull on an old sweatshirt that won’t matter too much if it gets dirty. The weather is turning and I find socks to keep my feet warm after a summer of sandals and bare feet. I think forward to Christmas. I am always alone at Christmas; David—quite rightly—has to be with his children. I wonder if this year, perhaps, Mr. Williams will join me. I dismiss the idea almost immediately—it takes a special sort of circumstances and a particular kind of person to end up as isolated as me. Mr. Williams is too kind and too generous with himself to ever end up this lonely: he will have invitations to other places.

  In the corner of my sitting room I find myself. I remember what happiness I have had and how fortunate I am to have this world to escape into. I have ignored my old cello for almost a week, and a fine film of dust takes the shine off its shoulders.

  I wonder what would have happened if my cello had been in the shop. If it had been my instrument on the stand in the corner. This cello has been my pride and joy for so long it is part of me. Our communications are never tangled, never misinterpreted. I ask, and it rewards me. It needs so little in return. I have only ever owned two full-size cellos, only ever needed those two. One, my parents bought me, the second—this one—was a gift from David.

  I pull up my chair and test the A string. It is a little out; I relish the feeling in my fingers as I tighten the fine tuner and the buzz between my cello and me begins.

  I know what music is on the stand. I know that I left the “Libertango” open, my pencil marks of things I need to remember decorating the staves. Here an extra-long bow, there a slide to fifth position to keep my fingers from feeling like they’re webbed and will split apart.

  I tighten my bow, curl my chin towards my chest and drag the horsehair hard against the strings. The sound that comes out is loud and gratifying. It is alive with possibilities. It is vibrating with opportunity. In moments I am miles away, years away.

  I don’t know how long I play for but it heals me. I know the cure is temporary and that there is much work to be done, but for now it brings me some peace.

  I lift my fingers and examine the ridges that run through them from where they have pressed so hard on the strings. I have spent years hardening the tips of my fingers, coaxing layer upon layer of skin to protect me. Even a few days away from the strings softens them. The lines are pink in the middle and white along each side of the valley. They are my tattoo, my imprint. I remember how much I love this feeling. Pinprick scabs flake off from my fingerprints as playing, literally, removes the scars of the last few days.

  I have work to do. I have to repair the damage. I have to try to right my life.

  * * *

  I used my cello to find control—to find peace—when I first left college. I would sit, upstairs and alone, and play scales. I played until I knew that there was no margin in the notes I made, not even the slightest variation or error. I played until I knew the scales were faultless, that they would have been good enough for Nikolai.

  The idea crept in, for a while and with the optimism of youth, that I might go back to college if I showed Nikolai how dedicated I had become. I thought that perhaps if I practiced hard enough they might give me another chance. Most people who had stayed on—ones whom Nikolai hadn’t kicked out—had struggled to keep up with me in rehearsals and in seminars. The problem was with my attitude rather than my musicianship.

  My parents were worried by the amount of time I spent alone, by the repetitive nature of my practicing, by my utter loss of faith in the world. They were right to worry; I had slipped, with enormous ease, into a life of ritual and obsession. I began to genuinely believe that if I only played every scale perfectly, every day, my world would get back in balance.

  Towards the end of that time I had stopped pausing for meals, I was sleeping less and less, but I was definitely nearing perfection.

  The day I cracked it, playing all the scales of western music without pause and without fault, I felt free. I had set myself a Herculean task and had pulled it off; just over five hundred scales without a single mistake.

  I went downstairs to tell my mum that I was feeling better, that she could stop worrying. She was on the phone.

  My mum had twiddled the cord of the phone around her fingers. She was smoking a cigarette with the other hand and the ashtray was balanced precariously on her crossed legs. I could tell by her clucks and sighs and by the way she leant forward into the phone to speak that she was talking to her sister, my auntie Pauline.

  Our stairs had upright banisters all the way down. I could sit on the step, on the swirled brown carpet, and listen to my mum without her seeing me. She was sitting on a dining chair that she had pulled through to the hallway. She clearly meant to be on the phone for a while.

  I was enjoying being liberated from the obsession I’d set myself. I took my time. Instead of rushing my mum off the phone to talk to me, I waited, listening to her one-sided conversation with Pauline.

  “It’s awful, Paul. Terrible to watch. She just gets thinner and thinner, sadder and sadder.”

  I knew she was talking about me, but, to be honest, I had known that before I sat down. My mother and my aunt conversed in terms of their children, as if they had had no background before us, my cousins and me. As if they hadn’t really existed before we came along.

  Pauline had three children, all older than me and far more experienced at getting into trouble; she could talk about them for hours. My mum commented and compared and stuttered for a space to speak. She leant back on her chair, her head against the cool wall, framed against the floral wallpaper in a tableau I still remember.

  “I think there’s probably a boy in this as well,” she said, her voice lowered. “I can’t see that it would be this bad without.”

  A short silence, during which I marv
eled at her perception. I wondered what she would make of Shota; how she would see my Japanese boyfriend, all alone so far from his parents. All alone apart from my friend Catherine.

  “Exactly,” my mum answered Pauline. “She would be wanting to phone her friends or at least get in touch with someone. Instead, just this constant practicing, all day, all night. Poor little thing.”

  My mum listened intently. I knew Pauline would be giving my mother the benefit of her experience.

  “It’s her whole world. I’ve never felt like this about anything. Except about her, of course.”

  It was making me nervous, this strange one-sided conversation. Under my breath I started reciting my scales, my fingers flicking as if there were strings beneath them as I thought through the run of notes. I was imagining my major and minor arpeggios when I caught my mother’s sob.

  “We gave it all up for her. We could have done it like you, had lots of kids and eased the pressure on everyone. But you don’t know that at the time, do you? You don’t know how much that sort of decision will come back and haunt you.” She shifted awkwardly on her chair and wiped her nose with a piece of kitchen roll she took from her pocket.

  “We thought, we believed, that if we just had one child, an only one, we could give her everything. Absolutely everything. But it isn’t enough. I can’t take away her pain. If I’m honest, I don’t really understand her world.”

  I heard the dull clunk of the front door opening and closing at the other end of the corridor. My mum would have to go and make my dad’s tea now he was home.

  “I’ll have to go, Paul,” my mother said into the receiver. “Frank’s home from work.”

  My aunt obviously ignored it. She spoke for some time.

  “But that’s how it was, when we were kids . . .” My mum was animated. “Remember when we got ready to go to school of a morning? First up, best dressed, they used to say. Not enough decent clothes for everyone.” She wiped her nose again.

  “And I wasn’t going to put her through that. If we’d had another child, there’d have been no fancy cello lessons at all—we wouldn’t have had the money. And I just wanted what was best for her. Only her. I don’t know now if that was the right way to do it.”