Tell me a story!

"Memories, even your most precious ones, fade surprisingly quickly. But I don’t go along with that. The memories I value most, I don’t ever see them fading." – Kazuo Ishiguro

A man of about seventy was whistling to the moon, one hand tapping a decrepit balustrade, the other combing through wisps of white hair. Fragile notes drifted into the night air, minims and semiquavers blown from thin glass. Fortunately, the night was still and silent. The old man, rocking in his chair, stopped whistling for a moment to unfold the linen blanket sitting on his lap. He squeezed it in his hands and stared at it, as if he were waiting for its soothing odour to trickle out before his eyes. He pressed it to his nose and tapped his bare feet on the ground, letting the sound echo across his porch so that it seemed to come from the front door. That way, if he pressed his eyes shut, he could imagine hearing footsteps leave the house and pad towards him. He would have given anything to hear that sound again. He had left the front door ajar on purpose, hoping a gust of wind would sweep it open to reveal his dear Isabella walking out of it towards him, perhaps with a hot cup of tea: sweet with a generous amount of milk (his favourite). What a shame it was, never to have that perfect cup of tea again, for only Isabella knew how to make it that well. He had tried, a few days ago, to mimic the way he had once seen her make it, searching his memory for how her hands had moved, which teaspoon she had used for the sugar, which sugar for that matter, or was it honey? All he could remember was her silver head reflecting the light as she bobbed up and down, and that tortoise-shell butterfly clip holding her hair in place. He had pressed that clip in his palm as he made the cup of tea, but the result was sour and bitter; the butterfly clip was of no use, it was Isabella’s hands that were the magic ingredient. The old man pulled at his eyebrows and twisted the rough hairs between his thumb and index finger, chastising himself for being such a child. “A cup of buggering tea” he gasped. The frail notes hanging in the air shattered.

Jacque was now sitting in his armchair, one leg crossed over the other, with a Montecristo cigar between his fingertips. His eyes circled around the room, tracing their way across the clutter of unfinished crosswords, soiled pots and pans, and an empty cup of tea on the mantelpiece. A telephone lay dangling upside-down from its chord in the corner, smashed and limp as if searching despairingly for its owner. A memory flashed into his mind, squeezing his skull from all sides so that he had no choice but to let it enter his mind. Isabella had left one morning to travel to her sister’s house. She would only be there for a day, just enough time to greet her sisters’ grandchildren and share some of her copious store of love and affection with them. Jacque had felt jealous, it was ridiculous really, to be jealous of one’s little nephews. After all, he had always received the bulk of Isabella’s love, and of course he always returned her affection, often with gifts of jewellery and once a beautiful brown pearl hair clip. But what he never gave her was children of their own, and it pained him deeply, he had refused adoption and sperm donors, for what reason he never said; he always hid his pride. When he heard no news from Isabella, he was happy, thankful even that she knew not to aggravate him by discussing the matter. In short, he thought nothing of it. That night, when the telephone rang, he grunted and answered it with a spiteful tone, assuming it would be Isabella with some horridly sweet piece of news about the children, only to find out that Isabella had never reached her sister’s house at all. A lorry driver had made a wrong turn, and in turning around he had clipped Isabella’s little Volkswagen hatchback with enough force to send it flying. Too pained to speak, Jacque flung the telephone against the wall, and when it merely clinked against the plaster, he hit it again – and again – until its head was smashed and wires spilled out, there it hung still, upside down and motionless. Jacque felt like that telephone, the world turned upside down with him still in it, and though he was still very much part of the living world, a piece of him had been snatched away and lay underground with his wife, his dear, dear Isabella. The part of him that remained, lifeless though it was, had lit a fire, since the door he had left ajar had welcomed in the cold night air so that the living room was verging on frosty. He bent towards the flames, his torso folding to reveal slumped shoulders, and gently placed the tip of his cigar into the blaze. He held it there for no more than a few seconds before lifting it towards his lips. The cigar felt like sandpaper on his chapped lips as he inhaled, so he licked them, coating them with moisture, before letting the smoke trickle out of his mouth. As he sat there staring into the fire, an ashen cloak of smoke swayed around him, the haze clouding his eyes until the entire room was obscured. The crusted bookshelves disappeared, the round coffee table at his feet was gone, the fire was masked and only its warm glow penetrated the vapour. His surroundings had all but vanished; no trace of his current state to be seen. Only he and the other leather armchair opposite him had clarity, and in the dimples and curves of the leather, he could almost make out the shadow of his wife.

In that moment, Jacque was twenty-three again, running along a platform through clouds of cigarette smoke, not even closing his eyes in case he should lose sight of the train for a second, as if by staring at it he could keep it from leaving without him. At last he reached the carriage door, but had only poked his nose through when the doors slammed before his face, the pressure sending a gust of air into his eyes that made him wheel backwards. The gust of wind had made his eyes sore, and the corners of his eyes moistened. Jacque flung his briefcase onto the floor and hurled his knuckles at the carriage door, pressing the button incessantly with a clammy hand, but the train slid into action and soon was out of sight. His eyes moistened for a second time, but this time it was from sheer exhaustion. He had woken up at four that morning, ironed his suit, eaten breakfast, cycled to the station and taken the first train to Paris (which had been delayed). His plan had been to catch the 8:15 from Le Gard Du Nord to London, and since he had missed that one, and the next train was in two hours, he would miss his interview and would not be able to live in London, the city of his dreams. His cheeks flushed and his ears reddened, he had committed to his plan and it was too late to turn back now. He would catch the next train and plead with the law firm, even find a new job if he had to. Jacques turned around and sat on a metal bench on the side of the platform. He checked his watch, it was only just 8:15. “Putain” he blurted, the train had left early. He looked around, aware for the first time that he was making a scene, and noticed the pale, freckled face of a woman staring at him. Embarrassed, Jacques pretended not to have seen her and rested his head on the back of the bench, gently pulling his cap over his eyes.

After a minute or two had passed, enough time, Jacque thought, for the girl to think he had fallen asleep, he took a quick sideways glance towards her. Her eyes were closed now and her lips pressed tightly together. Her hair was long and thick; of an ashy light brown colour, shorter strands at the front curved towards her face, framing her almond eyes and pronounced cheekbones. Her eyelashes were long but curled upwards, and beneath her pale eyelids were the dark, green tinged, eyes he’d seen a few minutes earlier. Colour rose in her soft cheeks and Jacque looked away, worried for a moment that she might be aware of being looked at. Jacque did not consider her beautiful, nor was he in any way aroused by her complexion, but her peacefulness struck him, and he felt a lightness of spirit, foreign to his perpetually anxious state. Thinking of her, he felt a strange emotion, akin to humility, measuring his rugged eyebrows and thick jaw against her delicate appearance, and feeling embarrassed at his sweaty face and dull black hair. Jacque rarely felt inferiority, nor shyness for that matter, he had excelled in school, was also skilled in almost all types of farm work, and was well aware of the chitchat between proud mothers who claimed he had taken interest in their daughters. An announcement rang out from a large speaker above him, he gasped and turned his head in shock, catching sight of the girl giggling silently. The train was delayed and would be half an hour late. “Quel bordel” he muttered, turning to face her. She smiled and nodded her head.

Jacque stared at the train timetable on the board, grunting as the station master wiped off the chalk numbers next to the 10:15 train, replacing it with 10:45. He heard a soft murmur behind him, and feeling suddenly quite flustered, he thought it better to keep staring at the board, but quickly realising he would look like an utter crétin, he swivelled his head towards the train tracks. Having done so, his ears were perfectly parallel to the girl, and he perceived that she was not murmuring but humming. It was an old tune, one he had not heard since his childhood, and listening to it now it stirred his memory, accessing hidden childhood gems long since buried away. One particular memory rose before his inward eye, he was six years old, tugging on his mother’s sleeve and crying “Maman, maman j’ai peur”. His mother was standing beside his bed, and he lay there, terrified of being left alone in the dark, refusing to let her leave. She tucked him in once more and sat by his feet, stroking his hair and singing. Jacque closed his eyes and the music wrapped around him, following the words with his mind.

Ils étaient trois garçons,

Ils étaient trois garçons,

Leur chant, leur chant emplit ma maison,

Leur chant, leur chant emplit ma maison.

Ils étaient si joyeux,

Ils étaient si joyeux,

Que je voulus partir avec eux,

Que je voulus partir avec eux.

Amis, où allez-vous ?

Amis, où allez-vous ?

Je suis si triste et si las de tout,

Je suis si triste et si las de tout.

Ami, viens avec nous,

Ami, viens avec nous,

Tu connaîtras un bonheur plus doux,

Tu connaîtras un bonheur plus doux

Tu connaîtras la paix,

Tu connaîtras la paix,

Bien loin bien loin de ce qui est laid,

Bien loin bien loin de ce qui est laid.

Ils étaient venus trois,

Ils étaient venus trois,

Quatre s'en furent, le cœur plein de joie

Quatre s'en furent, le cœur plein de joie!

Jacque awoke to find the girl tapping on his shoulder, he smiled at her and she smiled back. The train was drawing into the station and Jacque checked his watch. It was only 10:00, the train was early. He got up and walked towards the tracks, but stopped halfway, turning back towards the bench. The girl was picking up a bag beneath her feet, and in a rush of emotion Jacque stooped to help her. Straightening his back his eyes met hers, and they stood a few moments without any words passing between them. Jacque asked what her name was; she replied that it was Isabella, and turning towards the train they walked together, shoulder against shoulder, and entered the carriage.