Chinatown

My heart is trembling. My hands are almost shaking as I type this.

Sitting in a small cyber café in London’s Soho, surrounded by freaky Chinese people. I must get a grip on myself, or I won’t be able to do this. This is the third rewrite so far. The first two were incredibly difficult. I know this is going to be drivel. I’ve been immersed in Pessoa and didn’t realise.

Innocence? I lost mine, in the heat of that moment that shattered my teenage life. I refer to the death of my parents, of course. No, I’ve never tried to recapture it, that simply isn’t possible for me. Maybe for others, but not Sandrine.

To search for the arriere pays, is not seeking innocence in my life. No, I’m searching for something else, something that doesn’t belong to anyone else. Not for me the best sellers, the hit records, the sell out concerts.

This might sound crazy – a recurring theme in my posts, I guess. Sometimes, I think it might be possible to return to a state of innocence, a childlike state. Occultists believe that there are supreme moments in one’s life when perhaps a fragment of memory or emotion can cause the soul to recall the shadow of a previous incarnation. Since the soul returns to a time that is closer to the origin of things, it feels like a child again.

In my case, I often have flashbacks to the accident – and curiously they trigger fragments from a previous life. Not mine, but that of my mother, Sandrine. It’s like I’ve got some of her memories. I’ve tried to explain this to Gerhard, but of course he’s so rational. He doesn’t believe in the supernatural.

The strangeness of my life can only really be explained in terms of my mother’s death and her soul somehow joining with mine. It feels scary but also quite exhilarating at times.

I guess you think I’m completely insane – I don’t blame you. But consider this. I can recall events in Paris during the sixties and seventies with amazing clarity. My physical self was born in 1980, but my soul seems to have existed before that time. Unreal, isn’t it.


Written down like that, it doe sound crazy. Yeah. Maybe Gerhard was right, and I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

I’m in London on business for Etienne Wines – with a bit of pleasure thrown in. One of my contacts is Alistair, a wine merchant who also deals in Art. He has promised me his daughter, which is nice of him, in exchange for an extra marital one-night stand. This girl, Miranda, is luscious and delectable,

It was Etienne who introduced me to the occult many years ago. He’s quite a fascinating figure. A svengali-like figure, in fact. But you’ve probably already guessed that Etienne Wines is merely a convenient cover, for a more clandestine operation. The merchandise we’re dealing in is worth an awful lot more than a few cases of fine wines, believe me. It’s a convenient front, shall we say.

So what am I doing here in Chinatown, so close to Yuletide? I don’t know, maybe it’s comforting being amongst unbelievers. This Yiddish girl has had enough of the christmas consumerist god for one year. I intend to hole up here in Soho until the dust has settled.

Lolita

By my early teens I’d already inherited Sandrine’s curves. I used to drive all the old men crazy in our street. I’d wear short skirts with no underwear, and t-shirts stretched tight across my nipples. I was a regular Lolita in those days. Even Krantz noticed it, and scolded me for being too provocative.

The other thing I did at that time was to hang around the house when Sandrine was out, and try on her old clothes - fashion gear from the seventies, when she modelled for all the top brands. Chanel, Dior, St Laurent. I’d spend hours in front of her mirror, playing with her make up and posing in her silk underwear.

One time I was modelling this bright scarlet dress, hemline way above the knee. I’d sprayed myself with perfume and applied some heavy lipstick and dark eyes. Then I was startled by a voice from close behind me.
It’s uncanny, you look more like her every day.
It was only Krantz. He’d crept up on me and was stood behind, watching our reflection in the mirror.
You made me jump, I said.
I don’t think Sandrine would approve. You’d better take the dress off now, before she gets back.
I frowned. She knows about it. She’s cool with it, papa.
I said take it off, he snapped, you look like a cheap whore.

Slowly I unzipped the dress and dropped it onto the bed. Underneath it I was wearing black silk underwear.
You want me to take this off too? I giggled.
Krantz wasn’t laughing.
Stop the teasing god damn it. You’re making me hard.
I turned to face him, starting to unhook my bra. Then I put my arms round his neck, allowing the bra to fall.
Admit it, you want me. You want to screw your own daughter.
He slapped me hard across the face, threw me onto the bed.
You little tart, I ought to teach you a lesson.
Why not. I’ve got a lot to learn, I said, goading him.
Krantz pulled my hair back, making me gasp for breath.
You're not too old for a good spanking, he said.
Then he pulled the silk knickers down, exposing my derriere. I felt a sharp pain as his hand struck my naked flesh. I cried out, but he continued, another ten times, as I screamed.

Now put the clothes back where you found them and lets forget this happened, he said.
Tears were running down my face, but I felt strangely excited. And aroused. Krantz was glaring at me, but I didn’t feel scared. I had power over men, I realised. Nothing could stop me now.

London calling

We meet as arranged at the Café Nero on Brompton Street, directly opposite Harrods. Alistair seems on edge – I’m not sure why - technically this is just a business meeting. He looks hurried, slightly disheveled.
You make me feel inadequate, he says, always so immaculate.
You should see me in the mornings, I tease.
He chokes on his latte. I’d love to Cherie, he says, but business first.
Of course, where are we going?
Across the road first, he says.I want to show you something.

Harrods is also choked, with Christmas shoppers. Alistair grabs a Christmas pudding – he promised Caroline – and chuckles when the assistant asks if he has an account.
I mean, do I look loaded, he asks me.
Well, aren’t you? I say.
I don’t feel it, he says. This bloody crunch credit or whatever they call it.
Suddenly no-one’s interested.
We climb the ornate stairs and I follow him into the fashion section. Two adorable long legged blondes smile at us.
D’you need any help, one asks.
Alistair politely refuses. I drool mentally.

He shows me a necklace and asks me to read the price tag.
It’s £25,000, I gasp.
I know. For my wife.
Caroline has expensive tastes.
Cherie, I have something in mind for you also.
He shows me this chiffon dress, silver and shiny.
It’s nice, I say, glancing at the label. Less than £400. Not bad for a night’s work.
Try it on, he suggests, but I’m frowning. I shake my head.
You can’t buy me, I say.
He shrugs. Okay, but you’ll have dinner tonight?
Sure, I smile, why not.
The blonde is hanging around nearby. We leave without troubling her further.

In the world outside, it’s raining. We duck into Knightsbridge underground and catch the tube to Covent Garden. Then we walk down Drury Lane towards the river. The ice rink is open so we decide to spend an hour there, the rain having by now stopped. I nearly fall once but Alistair is there to catch me. After about half an hour my legs are tiring, so we give it a rest. But it’s nice watching all the jolly faces in the crowd.

Alistair has booked a table at a restaurant near the Opera House. It’s a crazy place, with tables hanging from the sides of the walls like Theatre booths, and opera singers regaling us while we eat. The food isn’t up to much, but the atmosphere is raucous and truly a unique experience. The strangest thing is the toilets, which are daubed with erotic paintings of genitalia and indecent acts. We drink two bottles of red wine and some liqueurs courtesy of the host, a Turkish gent. I’m feeling quite emotional.

Alistair senses his chance. In the privacy of our booth his fingers slide between my thighs. He looks me straight in the eye, and I don’t flinch.
It has to be tonight, Cherie. Maybe only tonight, but it just feels right. Don’t you see.
He’s right, there is something magical about it. But I’m not about to yield that easily.
Maybe, I say, but there’s a price to pay. No clothes, no diamonds.
Name it, he says.
I want her, I say, I want Miranda. You have to promise me.
Alistair slurps from his wine glass.
Let’s go, he says, I think they want us to leave.
The place is almost empty. Even the waiters are waiting to go home. We walk in silence towards his hotel in Holborn.
This is a one off, he says. Caroline must never know.
I’m not going to tell her, I say. Unless you forget your promise.
Alistair is oblivious to this last comment. His only thought is the imminent ecstasy that will soon envelop him.

The following morning. we take a stroll across to Trafalgar, then down Whitehall to Westminster Bridge. We part on the platform of the tube, Alistair in a hurry to get home to his neglected wife. He kisses me fondly.
My flat is deserted. Who do I call? Maya? Helene? No, in the end I'm on the line to ET.
Never has his voice sounded so good. Suddenly I don't know what to do next.

The Goddess

Krantz was most at home behind the wheel of an automobile – so maybe it’s fitting that he died that way? His most cherished possession was the goddess – his 1970 Citroen DS.

Krantz especially liked long road trips where he could get into that mode – become one with the machine – a quasi-mystical experience. I recall childhood summer holidays in which he’d drive the three of us from our home on the outskirts of Paris – to the Atlantic coast near Bordeaux or south to the Mediterranean. The goddess was a very comfortable as a passenger too.

The Citroen DS – mythologised by Roland Barthes in his essay The New Citroen – had become a style icon by the time Krantz acquired his vehicle in the early 70’s. By the mid seventies Citroen had decided to stop making the DS, and they became collector’s items. But Krantz would never have parted with his.

Of course, his love affair with wheels began with Krantz driving Esther from New York to California in the summer of love – like Kerouac he traveled in search of the American dream – but became disillusioned.

At the end - the goddess became his nemesis - just a mangled mess of metal, and Krantz finally met the death that had been lying in wait all along. I often think about the fatal crash, and whether it was inevitable.

As for me, I couldn’t care less about cars. I don’t own a vehicle, though I have a driver’s licence. I recently hired a car to go house hunting, and it was ok, but nothing would make me buy one. Maybe the memories are too painful.

So there you have it. Krantz and the goddess. No wonder he wrote a book about it. But that’s another story.

Prague Springs - Paris Falls

I’m sitting with Gerhard now, recalling my last dream for him – as much as I can. He’s getting me to wake him the moment my dream has ended, so it’s fresh in my mind. My dreams have always been quite vivid – nightmarish at times.

Sometimes I get the feeling Gerhard isn’t paying too much attention to what I’m saying. He’s watching me, but is he listening? I can guess what he’s thinking, actually.

When he looks at me, it reminds him of my mother, Sandrine, whom he met in Paris all those years ago, when they were both young. His mind is harking back to a smoky jazz club in Monmartre, where he first set sight on that same haunting face – the pale skin, dark hair, delicate features.

It’s one year in the early Seventies. Gerhard has only been in Paris for a few weeks, staying with friends. Before that he was in Berlin for a few years, having left his home country during the Prague Spring. At that time Czechs were allowed to travel abroad for the first time in many years. Gerhard was among those who took that opportunity. He was not to return for another twenty years.

Jazz was Gerhard’s scene. In Prague he’d often frequented the legendary Reduta club. He loved the cool vibe that the beats and their followers had cultivated. At this moment, though, he liked the look of one particular female he’d spotted. He liked the way she tossed her mane of black unkempt hair, the way she held her cigarette, the way her lips pouted. She was dressed like many other girls of that period - striped shirt stretched tight across her bosom, dark stockings, black leather mini skirt and boots.

Gerhard, it must be said, was shy with people he didn’t know, particularly girls. Far too shy to approach anyone as unapproachable as the girl he’d just noticed. He needed to know more about her, so he did what he always did in these situations. He chatted to the bartender.

The bartender was called Louis. He knew Sandrine well, he said, she was a regular, usually every weekend. She was a model, possibly for Dior, he couldn’t remember exactly. She lived somewhere on the Left Bank he believed. St Germain de Pres. She used to live with her boyfriend, an American photographer, but he was on assignment in Vietnam. Maybe he won’t come back, said Louis. Let’s hope not, thought Gerhard. He finished his drink and left early.

The following week he returned to the club, but she wasn’t there at first. He stood at the bar chatting to Louis. It was one of those nights when something was about to happen. He could feel it. Tonight he could make anything happen, like a sorcerer. Right here in Montmartre.

He’s spotted his quarry from a hundred yards off. She’s dressed provocatively, quite deliberately so. A tight fitting black and gold dress stretched across her delicate frame. A hint of cleavage, hemline inches above the knee. Dark stockings, high heels. Blood red lipstick, dark eye shadow. Dressed to kill.

As their paths merge, he glances in her direction. She meets his stare with a shy smile. He returns with his own, bolder smile. He waits, as she walks towards him, the seconds seeming like hours, his heart pounding. And then, he speaks, from behind her.
Excuse me, mademoiselle.
She turns, pretending to be startled.
The young man is holding a glass, an empty one, the same one he has just drained so carefully as she approached.
I don’t suppose……he hesitates. She has turned away.
Yes?
Well, I’d love to buy you a drink. If you have time, that is.
She glances at her watch,
Why not. Since you’re so bold.
She isn’t smiling, but her eyes are dancing.
Gerhard tries very hard not to stare at her cleavage, to keep his eyes fixed on her lips.

That’s how it started. Quite innocuous you might think. But naturally, the evening progresses from the café, to an inevitable conclusion at her flat, in a trendy boulevard near St Germain. She pours out some wine, puts on a record, maybe Astrud Gilberto. They dance cheek to cheek, embracing awkwardly at first. He kisses her neck, ruffles her lustrous hair, inhales her scent. His hands hold her waist, play with the zip on her dress. She almost wants him now, despite herself. Maybe it’s too late to stop what she started.

In the darkness she places a finger on his lips. Slowly, Sandrine teases him inside her mouth, moving above him, an expert arousal. Gerhard feels her skin soft as silk, her taste exciting, exotic. Almost perfect in it’s own way. But there’s no penetration, she can’t give herself to him. Not right away, it doesn’t feel right.

The next morning, Sandrine sits alone, watching the dawn, smoking a gauloise.
Shall we meet again, he asks, hopefully.
She laughs, a little girl laugh. Shrugs.
Never say never.
She picks up his wallet from the table, takes out a hundred franc note. She tells him that technically this makes her a whore, which makes her feel better. She hasn’t betrayed Krantz, not completely.
Gerhard takes one last longing look at her beauty, zips himself up.
They don’t kiss goodbye.

And now? Over thirty years have passed. The person that was Sandrine died too young. All that is left are his memories, and the daughter she left behind. The spitting image of Sandrine. She’s thirty years his junior, and she’s Gerhard’s patient. But maybe he’s falling in love all over again.

Psycho Analyst

Dr Gerhard is an impressive man. I’m not just saying that. He treated my mother Sandrine before me. She had great faith in him, and that’s good enough for me.

I’d never visited his residence before, so it’s quite an honour. He’s become quite a recluse, since the death of his second wife, living alone up in the mountains near Lugano. It must seem quite detached from the bustle of Vienna, where he practised for many years.

I'm greeted with a warm hug, kissed on both cheeks.
You look more like her every day, he says. More beautiful each time.
He means Sandrine, of course.

My first day is relaxing, a gentle introduction. Gerhard shows me my room, we take a walk to the cable car and marvel at the breathtaking view. Its only about 30 kilometres from Lago di Como, where I stayed with Helene last year.

Something about the mountain air induces calm. Later that day I have my first session with Gerhard. I bring him up to date on my emotional life. I tell him about my trip to England, to see Alistair and Celia – and their delicious daughter Miranda. Then about New York, and the appearance of Alison; my discoveries about Krantz; my relationship with Saul, and the eventual seduction; the time I spent in Avignon with Nadja and Khaled;

Gerhard listens to all this impassively, without interruption.
And the English artist – does he still keep in touch?
David? Oh yes, he even reads my blog. He seems genuinely interested in me.
And you still haven’t met him.
No, I’m afraid to. I know it sounds crazy, but it would spoil our friendship.
You may be right there.
There’s something else I want to tell you, Gerhard. It’s about Sandrine. You’re going to think this is crazy.
I hesitated, seeing the look on his face. He laughed.
Some of my patients are crazy, believe it or not.
I didn’t laugh.
I mean, you know how I feel like she’s always with me. Kind of looking over me.
That’s quite natural with the loss of a parent.
But this is different. It’s hard to explain. Some of my recent dreams have been quite scary.
In what way.
Doctor, I’m remembering things that happened years before I was born. Paris in the 70’s. Sandrine and Krantz together. It’s like I’ve got some of her memories. And then there’s Saul.
What about him, specifically.
I haven’t given myself to a man since Etienne. Until Saul. I mean, I prefer women, as you know.
I’ve told you why that is. It’s connected to your mother, again.
So why do I get these feelings for Saul, of all people. Is it because he reminds me of Krantz?
I doubt it.
The worst thing of all happened in New York. I had a total amnesia for about four hours. Woke up and found myself in bed with Saul. I don’t remember a thing about it.
Gerhard sat stroking his chin. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
I think that’s enough for today, he said. We’ll return to this tomorrow.

I hadn’t yet told him about the dream he featured in. But I was sure he would find out, one way or another. Gerhard has a knack of doing that.
He can be quite intimidating, if you don’t know him.

Therapy

The Englishman’s name is David. He’s been very patient with me.

David has described his feelings for me as an intellectual crush. You could call it cyber love, I suppose. We’ve never met, you see, yet we’ve become friends online, initially through a mutual interest in literature. In a way it’s a kind of experiment - is it possible for two brains to fall in love, without any physical attraction?

David is an artist, and he’s obviously been well educated, at Eton and Oxford University. He’s lived in America, Italy, and now France. His wife is French, like me, and I believe she’s much younger than him. He’s lived a very interesting life, meeting some famous people – Dali, Calvino, Duchamp. Rykwert. Through his online memoirs I’m getting to know his life story.

I don’t intend to meet David in the flesh, not even once, although I know he’d love to. Call me paranoid, but I think he ‘d be disappointed. His perfect illusion of me would be shattered – I can be quite horrible in person, believe it or not. Maybe it’s better this way?

What I do know is that David has become part of my therapy.

Poetry is my therapy. This blog, I guess, is part of my therapy. Anything that allows me to free my head, to express myself.

My shrink is called Gerhard. He has a small office on Engels Platz in Vienna, and also a clinic in la Suisse. The clinic is where I spent some time last summer, getting my head back together.

I think Gerhard understands me. Other people think they know what’s best for me. Like Helen, or ET. Especially ET. The one person who could help me died fifteen years ago. Sometimes I can still feel her presence, but it’s fading now. Tears are never far away when I think of Sandrine. Wonder what she’d make of her little girl now?

Gerhard said I had many problems. Paranoia, fantasia, fear, anxiety, introversion, panic. Apparently my psychosis was caused by various things, not least my parents tragic death in an auto accident when I was thirteen, an event I witnessed first hand. Then there were other factors:

An actual occult episode involving satanic ritual
Alcohol and drug abuse whilst at university
Rootlessness, drifting from place to place
Complete absence of morality
Rejection by the only person I physically loved, my friend Helene
Inability to form close relationships with men
Fantasising, inventing worlds and events
Terrifying Visions caused by hallucinogenic drugs
The controlling influence of my guardian, the Svengali like ET

Gerhard is extremely clever. Probably more so than ET even. He gives the impression of knowing everything about you. Psychoanalysis is his profession, and he is completely dedicated. My case interests him, I can tell. It’s a challenge, to resurrect a burned out soul.

I guess that's why he's invited me to spend a week with him at his private residence, in the hills above Lugano. Maybe, or is it that he finds me attractive? But Gerhard is old enough to be my father,

I like La Suisse. It's very placid, like Gerhard himself. Time to unburden myself, once more.

In which the American dream becomes a nightmare

Everyone here seems worried. Dow Jones is on the slide and it’s all going horribly wrong on Wall Street. The yellow cab driver, haunted look, unshaven, edgy, very Travis Bickle, talks about it. The news vendor hollers: Wall Street crash read all about it. Even the impenetrable uber-cool wise guy known as the Stalker looks worried. Why do I find this hilarious? – it’s only money, after all. Saul is only bothered because he’s just moved house, shifted his base across the river from Manhattan to Brooklyn Heights. Downsizing is his name for it.

Sunday, we take the car out of town. Saul drives all the way out along Atlantic Avenue, across to Long Island, where he has this old abandoned beach house. It’s where he and Alison spent that long infested summer of 07, getting wasted in the heat. I stand on the veranda,recalling her photos of that time. I imagine them clinking glasses together, then making passionate love on the bare boards. His mouth full of her salty hair, her long thighs clamped around his waist. I feel nothing – not envy, not jealousy, no regrets.

You don’t mind coming here d’you says Saul. It’s just great to get away from civilization.
Which seems to be ending, I suggest.
I stare at my reflection in the hall mirror. Maybe later it’ll be my turn to be seduced here. I wouldn’t mind, it’s nicer than the city. And kind of romantic. Saul seems changed, more subdued.
No regrets, I guess, I say.
He’s alone on the balcony, listening to waves crashing out on the beach. For a moment she crept back in his memory. So close yet so far out of reach.

We’re in the kitchen, Saul is handing me a cold beer from the fridge. He slumps onto the sofa and spreads his arms wide.It’s kind of cold at night here, so we get closer.
Tell me about her, about Alison, I say.
He plays with a strand of my hair, sighs.
It's a long story, he says. Maybe some other time?
Okay, another story.
Well, there is the one about Fitzgerald.
You mean Scott Fitzgerald?
F Scott. Used to be one of the neighbours.
This, as it turns out, was also a long story.

Avignon

The tall dark haired waitress with the slim waist sways between the tables, pad in hand, pencil ready. Her smile is warm and friendly, and seems almost genuine. I order an aperitif and flick through my magazines.

I’m in the centre of Avignon, in a café on the Place d’Horloge, a stone’s throw from the famous Palais des Papes. On my left is the imposing 19th century theatre, in front of me the Banque de France. The noonday sun is beating down remorselessly on the square, but I’m completely in the shade. It really is hot enough to fry an egg on the pavement.

On the table to my right are a bunch of Americans who insist in ordering everything entirely in English. Fortunately for them the waitress is used to such morons. Ahead of me are a young couple with suitcases – a fair haired girl in a yellow blouse, and a dark haired guy in a red che guevara t shirt. They’re laughing and joking, but I don’t understand what they’re saying. It might be Russian, I don’t know.

On the table to my left another young couple are engaged in a more animated discussion [ok argument]. The guy is wearing wrap around shades, a mottled headscarf, a vest, and
shorts that remind me of nadal, the tennis player. He looks just like a pirate.
The girl with him is dark skinned, with grey hair tied back behind her head. From their accent and the way they look I’m guessing they’re both beurs. The girl doesn’t smile, she looks sulky. She has a curvy figure, accentuated by her tight jeans and the shirt stretched across her bosom. Below it her navel is exposed. Occasionally she catches me glancing at her, and I turn my attention to the Americans.

On the table in front of me sits a stack of brochures from various immobiliers. I’m flicking through these slowly, marking with a pen any of interesting properties. House hunting is difficult enough, but in this climate it’s even more demanding.

The conversation to my left is becoming more animated. Eventually the guy with the headscarf gets to his feet, shrugs, and walks off down the alley opposite. The girl rests her elbows on the table, finds a packet of cigarettes. She asks if I can light one for her and I hand her my lighter. She inhales and blows the smoke out.

Men, she says, sometimes they’re just not worth it, huh?
I nod in agreement. They don’t understand us, I say.
You can say that again, she laughs derisively. She gestures toward the empty seat. Take Khaled. Good looking guy, but such a baby. And so possessive.
You sound fed up, I venture.
It’s not just him. They’re all the same. Especially the beurs.
Are you from Avignon, I ask.
She shakes her head. Originally Marseille.
I went out with a guy from Marseille, I say. A beur. He practically raped me on the first date.
They can be a bit rough, she agrees. They’re very dominant. The woman is definitely second best.
Personally, I prefer women, I say.
She looks at me carefully, blows out some more smoke.
That’s ………interesting, she says. You don’t look the type.
I laugh. She stubs out her cigarette on the pavement.
Are you looking for a flat in Avignon?
Yes, but it’s not easy. Quite expensive.
These immobiliers are only in it for their cut. Why not let me give you a personal tour?
I don’t know. I look at my watch.
Listen, you can come over to our place. Khaled has some very good dope we could try.
Come on, she says, I won’t take no for an answer.

The girl’s name is Nadja. She works as a belly dancer in some exotic club in the city. I’m guessing that’s not the only kind of dancing that goes on. Her belly is indeed nice, I tell her. Her hair is fabulous, her face is not beautiful but beguiling. She’s really quite charming. But she still doesn’t smile.

Her flat is an oasis of calm. The rooms are full of some of the most crazy weird junk I ever saw. She collects strange things, she tells me, mainly from second hand shops and junk stores. Khaled hates it, but he lets her get her way, in exchange for sex on demand.

Nadja leads me to an open courtyard in the back of the flat. It’s beautiful, with flowers all around and a small fountain bubbling away in the centre. She lays down a rug on the grass and we sit together. She hands me a reefer and I take a drag slowly. It’s strong shit. Moroccan dope, she tells me. Khaled knows a guy in Marseille who supplies him. It’s probably ripped off, but so what?

Nadja says she’s curious. She’s never done it with another girl. Never even thought about it. What’s it like?
It depends on the girl, I say. When I said I prefer women, it means I’m bisexual. I’m not gay.
She nods, takes another drag.
D’you find me attractive, she says.
Sure, I say. You’ve got a great body, and you look different.
She smiles. I get the feeling you’ve been around.
I’ve lived a strange life, I guess. Been on my own since I was thirteen. Lived in a commune in Paris. I’ve dabbled in all sorts of things – group sex, hard drugs, the occult.
No way, she snorted. Fantastic.
Khaled stands on the edge of the garden staring at us. He’s wearing a pair of boxer shorts, and looks moody. Nadja flashes him a glance.
Ever screwed a brother and sister at the same time, she says.
I stare at both of them.
There’s always a first time, I say.

Krantz lost novel

They say we all have a book inside us. Of course I was already aware that Krantz had written some poetry, had even recited it in public. But it was still a surprise to hear about his lost novel.
You remember I told you about my last meeting with Krantz, in Paris, Esther says. Well, I didn’t tell you everything. I forgot to mention the manuscript.
What manuscript?I ask her.
Krantz had been writing a novel, which he’d tried unsuccessfully to get published in France. He wanted me to try on his behalf in America.
So what happened – did it ever get published?
No, says Esther. I gave it a friend in the trade, but nobody seemed that interested.
I guess that’s that then.
Well, not quite. You see, I kept a copy of the manuscript for myself. I guess you’d better have it now.
She hands me an envelope. You know what, she says, you could try again, go for the sympathy vote - mention the Confederacy of Dunces.
I suppose you’ve read this, I say, opening the envelope. In bold black capital letters on faded white paper was typed the title The Stranger and the Goddess.
She nods. A strange title, I thought.
What’s it about, I ask.
It’s about an Englishman named Patrick Russell, she says, and a classic Citroen DS.
I smiled – Krantz was very fond of his DS.
Is it any good though, honestly?
She shrugs. I enjoyed it, but you should make your own mind up.
I start turning the pages. It’s so kind of you to give me this. I give Esther a big hug.
I know he’d have wanted you to have it, she says.

So I start reading my father’s novel, written over twenty years ago. It feels strange, knowing that he’d kept it secret at the time. The plot is rather unstructured, it leaps about a lot, and the parallel stories don’t quite interlock properly, but you know what? I think he had definite potential as a novelist.

Ladies also prefer blondes

Lying on my bed now,thinking about a girl I met in Brooklyn. Very pretty blonde, slim legs, boyish figure. She's playing with a milk shake, her lips pink and slightly apart. I'm sitting on the bench across from her in this deserted diner. It's three am and we're still awake in the city that never sleeps.

I take off my shoes and start stroking her legs with my bare feet. Alison, that's her name, just smiles and sips her drink slowly.The place is sure deserted, only a fat bar tender watching the sport channel. Alison puts a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.I can't tell you what a sublime moment this is. Very slowly she removes her panties and kicks them across the linoleum floor towards me. Her large blue eyes are gazing at me, a wicked smirk on her lips. The guy at the bar is coming over, he looks annoyed. He glances down at my cleavage and leans toward me. Quietly he asks if either of us would like a little action, out the back.We both giggle, then Alison picks up her bag and we start to leave.Never did finish that milk shake.

Alison lives only three blocks from the diner, so I crash out at her place. Her apartment is small and, like its owner, beautiful but also a little unkempt. It reminds me of the period I spent in the Paris commune.

I tell Alison it's now too late to sleep, and suggest we might as well watch the dawn rising over the city. Early morning is my favourite time. Alison makes some strong coffee and we wait. The talk, naturally, comes round to the stalker – with whom we are both acquainted.

It turns out Saul had a thing for Alison last summer, and they hung out together at this abandoned beach house. For a while it was fine, but she says he got a little weird. Intense, was her word for him. She was over him now though, and dating again, though nothing serious. I tell her she's the most beautiful girl I've seen in New York, and she smiles.
That’s what he said as well, but then, he says that to every girl he meets. I’ll bet he even said it to you.
Something like that, yeah.
Just be careful, is all I’ll say.
I can look after myself, I tell her.

What I don't tell Alison is that right at that moment, in the early morning light, I feel like making love to her slowly in the unmade bed behind us. But it would probably spoil the moment. Instead, I smile at her, and she smiles back, and we high five as dawn opens a new day in Brooklyn.

I might be falling for this girl, and it gives me a knot in the stomach. Still, I kept her underwear, and I’m wearing it right now. So I did get inside her pants, after all.

Material Girl

Last week Etienne took me to see a friend of his named Thierry. This Thierry is an accountant in Marseille, and he gave me some advice on selling my flat in Bordeaux and looking for another place here in the Midi.

After talking to Thierry I suddenly realise that I'm loaded. I mean I knew I was comfortably off but this is just ridiculous - I'm actually embarrassed at how loaded I am. Most of the money arose on account of being orphaned and then grand orphaned within two years in my teens. I inherited my parents flat in Paris and a mas in Aquitaine belonging to grandmother. These properties were held in trust until I became legally old enough to own them. By that time they'd already accumulated in value due to the housing boom in the nineties.

The flat in Bordeaux originally belonged to Etienne who was my legal guardian but he rather generously allowed me to live there rent free whilst under his watchful eye. Since then the situation has altered somewhat. After some dubious accounting the flat was transferred into my name at below market value - I think this was a tax dodge to avoid a capital gain or something? So now I stand to make even more money whenIi sell.

The flat in Paris is small but the rental income is astounding - higher even than London. The agent is charging tenants about 2,500 euros per month yet you can't swing a cat in there. Apparently location is everything., and the arrondissement is now trendy. The old house in Aquitaine is gorgeous but sadly in need of repair, althoughprobably still worth about a half million euros.

Naturally this has all come as rather a shock to me - I had no idea I was worth that much. Basically I'm filthy stinking rich and I don't know what to do with it all. Whatever happens I'm keeping my job with Etienne's wine firm - its not like I need to work but it keeps me occupied and I like the people. I mean vignerons are all snobs but they're cultured and entertaining ones.

Etienne is seriously worried about me becoming independent but I've promised not to move too far away.I haven't decided on precise location yet but it's likely to be within the area between Avignon Arles and Aix. Can you tell how excited I am?

Promise to blog some photos when I've relocated to my new chez nous.

The Dreamers

Its 3am here, but as the song goes, this city never sleeps. I’m watching the cars on the Brooklyn Bridge, headlights glinting like stars, their occupants heading who knows where – maybe over into Brooklyn Heights, along Atlantic Avenue into Queens, or perhaps further still, onto Long Island itself.

In the apartment all is quiet, save for the poignant sax of Roland Kirk on the stereo. Saul is telling me about his parents’ beach house on Long Island. Apparently each summer his family holds a reunion there, and he’d be delighted if I’d accompany him. Naturally I’m flattered, but politely decline, citing the very plausible excuse that it clashes with Bastille Day. He protests that I’m only half-French, but my mind is made up.

What I don’t tell him is that NYC is already beginning to needle me. I’m thinking like the taxi driver in Scorcese’s famous film - someday a real rain will come and wipe all the scum off the streets – it hasn’t happened yet.

The truth is that I’m not half-French. I was born and raised in a Parisian banlieue and educated at Bordeaux. My father was American, but apart from the language thing that’s as far as it goes. So I make my excuses and promise him some other time. He looks disappointed so I give him a hug. As Bogart once said, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

It feels like we're drifting into an incestuous relationship. rather like the young things in Bertolucci's movie The Dreamers. We spend days just talking - about art, literature, politics, but mainly about films. Saul obviously has the mind of an obsessive - but I'm willing to bet he isn't as good on European cinema.

Maybe if he comes to Paris we'll put it to the test?

The first time I saw The Dreamers I was dumbfounded. The film features the debut of Eva Green, looking uncannily like the young Sandrine, as she would have been in soixante huit. I began to think Bernardo was playing with my head, or the skunk was, one of the two. But actually the film is disappointing in some ways, with a vapid ending and no real structure. For me, it didn’t capture the spirit of ’68 – not the way my parents related it to me anyhow.

I guess the beach house can wait until the fall, when I'll return to NYC, in the company of la belle Helene. That promises to be an interesting menage a trois.

Native New Yorker

So I get to meet the former Esther Kellerman. She won’t want me to reveal her identity, but she’s been in many films over the last thirty years. Now in her fifties, her looks belie her years – though how much of this is cosmetic, I wouldn’t like to guess. Her mind is still sharp as a razor, and thankfully, her memory is excellent. She can recall events forty, fifty years ago with great clarity. She’s been married twice but is currently single, and enjoying a rest from filming. The scripts keep coming but she’s more selective these days, she says. Definitely no more nudity.

So you’re Krantz’s girl she says, absolutely charming. I didn’t know, it was a surprise when Saul told me.
It’s strange, I say, but if things had turned out differently, you might have been my mother.
She starts to laugh, Krantz might never have left America. Maybe we’d have been married? But its no good crying over how things might have been. Oh, I’m sorry, I mean about your parents.
I shrug. It’s okay, I’m getting over it. This is part of my therapy.
Anything I can do to help, I will. Krantz meant a lot to me. He was my first love, you know, the first boy I kissed. The first one I dated. He was really something.
Yeah, I know. He was something else.
Where do I start?
How about the beginning. That’s always a good place.

I’ll let her do the talking:

I was born in 1950, the youngest of the four Kellerman children. We lived in an apartment in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, which in those days was quite a mix of cultures. The Krantz family were our neighbours on the same block, and my brother Daniel, two years my senior, was your father’s best friend. They were pretty much inseparable as kids – neither had a natural brother, so they became like brothers. It took the war in Vietnam to split them up, but that came later.

It’s hard now to imagine now how exciting it was growing up in America in the Sixties. It was a time of change, a time when it was great to be young. In my mid teens I started dating the boy who became your father. He was a very charismatic fellow, intelligent and strong-minded.

One thing I'll never forget is the Open Poetry nights at Les Deux Megots, the coffee house on East 7th Street. The truly serious poets suffered from monotone deliveries and spewed nonsense endlessly. Krantz, on the other hand, was the one guy you could rely on to come up with something inspiring, uplifting, and different. He had a knack, a gift. The tragedy is that his poetry never found it into print.

In the June of 1967, the summer of love, Krantz decided that he wanted to drive out west and see the revolution at first hand. But when we got there he became disillusioned, and didn’t share in my enthusiasm for the hippy way of life. You have to understand that New York was his world, and he felt uncomfortable outside. How ironic that within a year he had left America for good. I didn’t see him again for twenty years.

Meanwhile Danny had been drafted into the army, and posted to Vietnam. It was an experience that left him traumatised, from which he has never fully recovered. Today he’s in a psychiatric unit in LA, where I keep an eye on him. Towards the end of the war he did meet Krantz again, in Saigon, but by then he was so far gone, it didn’t register.

I used to get news of Krantz from my mother, during our numerous long distance phone calls. I heard that he’d returned to France after Nam, gotten married to a local girl, and was living just outside Paris. About this time I’d also married for the first time, but it didn’t last. My second husband rescued me from oblivion, became my manager, and engineered my successful years in Hollywood. But these things never last in movie land, and he eventually traded me in for a younger model. So it goes.

I did get to meet Krantz one more time though. I happened to find myself on location in Paris, shooting a movie for Godard, of all people. Through press contacts I managed to locate Krantz, who was working as a freelance photographer. He was happy to meet me and catch up on what had happened to us both. I saw his photos of Sandrine, she was really pretty, much like you.

That was the last time we ever met. I cried when I heard about the accident, it was so sad. I’m really glad to have met his daughter, to know that there is something of him still alive in the world. I want us to keep in touch, to become friends, united in our memory of Krantz.

The Labyrinth

New York, an inexhaustible city
A labyrinth of endless possibilities
No matter which way he turned
Or how well he came to know
Various neighbourhoods and streets
It always left him feeling lost

Lost, not only in the physical sense
But also lost within himself
Wandering aimlessly, all places equal
It longer mattered where or who he was
Sometimes he felt that he was nowhere
But he had no intention of leaving

In the past he’d been more ambitious
Even published several volumes of poetry
But quite abruptly that had changed
A part of him had died
And he didn’t want it coming back to haunt him
It was then that he took the name of his father

Now he was no longer that person
The person that could write poems
Although he continued to exist
He no longer existed for anyone but himself
He no longer wished to be dead
But he didn’t care to be alive either
He was in a limbo of his own creation

It had been more than ten years now
He didn’t think about it much anymore
Recently he’d removed the photos
Of his mother from the lounge
Once in a while he’d suddenly feel
What it felt like to hold her
But it was not really remembering

Stalker

The Stalker’s name is Saul. As you might guess from his name, Saul is of the Jewish faith. He actually calls himself the Stalker, and is quite open about his habit of chasing young women. The walls of his apartment are adorned with tastefully erotic black and white photos of his conquests.

Saul lives alone in a loft apartment on the East Side of Manhattan, with panoramic views of the East River. He’s fairly typical of the young upwardly mobile class that have moved into the area in the last twenty years, completely changing the demographic, and in the process bringing hip and trendy cafes and bars into existence.

Besides the fact that he is a Jew from the Lower East Side, there are other similarities with my father. Like Krantz, Saul is a photographer, only in his case he has diversified into cinematography. He is often on location elsewhere, but New York is his spiritual home.

We’re here ostensibly because he invited me to come, to get a feel for the area my father grew up in. He explains that a lot of it has changed since the Sixties. Some of the old haunts like Les Deux Megots, the famous coffee house where the poets congregated, have now disappeared. Saul likes the fact that he and Krantz have so much in common. He suggests that women often fall for men who remind them of their fathers. I tell him that there is nobody who is anything like Krantz – he was unique.

I have to hand it him though, Saul does have good taste. His loft is immaculate, testimony to the fact of his avant-garde credentials. As we listen to cool jazz wafting across the room, sipping a cold glass of champagne, I can tell this man is a serious serial seducer. And he makes it clear that I’m his latest adventure, a real challenge, as he puts it. I didn’t come here to be an object of desire, but so what. Helen had already warned me about his arrogance, his conceit, and I can live with it.

I ask if he managed to find out anything about the Krantz family. He shrugs his shoulders. Ruth, the eldest sister, got married and left New York many years ago. Rachel, on the other hand, also seems to have disappeared, although there is no record of her marriage. Both grandparents died in their eighties. That’s disappointing, I say. He strokes his chin.
There is one consolation, he says, you remember the Kellermans’ daughter, the one that went to LA?
You mean Esther, I say.
Sure, he says, well she stayed out west, changed her name, made a living in hollywood.
You managed to find her?
I’m in the business, he shrugs, I’ve got contacts. It wasn’t that hard.
So where is she now?
On her way to New York. She’s quite excited about meeting you. I guess she was rather fond of your old man.
I ponder this for a moment. If things had turned out differently, maybe she’d have been my mother, and I’d have been American, not French.
Now that would’ve been a shame, he says.

The next morning, we go for a walk in the neighbourhood. He takes me to Katz’s Deli, which is the oldest deli in NYC. It’s also, he says, the place where they filmed that scene from the movie When Harry Met Sally. He asks if I ever fake it, with a guy. It depends, I tell him, on the guy. He tells me I’m the most beautiful French Jewish girl he’s ever met. How many have you met, I say. Well, admittedly only the one, he says, but that’s irrelevant. He can be quite charming, this man, sometimes.

The sky is quite grey and I tell Saul it reminds me of that glorious film Manhattan, Woody Allen’s monochrome paean to the Big Apple. Saul nods in agreement, he loves Allen’s films of that period, Annie Hall, Hannah and her sisters – great Jewish NYC films. He asks if I’d meet him in Paris, in the spring, a return visit. Like a school trip, I giggle, a student exchange. He doesn’t like me laughing at him, I can tell. Paris, I tell him, is a city full of colour, as epitomised in the film Amelie.

It’s also the city of romance, he says. We’re sparring, but it’s fun. He enjoys the chase, I enjoy flirting. Saul is interested in the result, whereas I just like the game.

We're talking about movies again. Saul is obsessed, but then it's his way of life.
You know where we are right now? he asks.
I yawned. We're stretched out on his sofa, draped across each other. It feels comfortable.
Tell me, I say.
We're in the zone. The place where your most cherished desire will come true.
I stare at him. That's very profound, I say. It's a quote, right?
From the movie, Stalker, the zone.By Tarkovsky?
I'm nodding. Didn't he make Solaris too?
Very impressive. We'll make a film buff of you yet.
Maybe I could be the French Connection?
If it involves French kissing, then definitely yes.

Saul will definitely be looking to add my photo to his gallery, I can tell.

The Mysterious ET

First of all, I don’t have any family. If you’ve been keeping up, you already know that. Instead, I have ET. They’re his initials – and sometimes he does feel alien.

After the accident, I had to live with my grandmother [Sandrine’s maman]. But within a year she had died - possibly from the strain of coping with a rebellious teenager. So, enter ET, my distant, but nearest relative. Apart from some Americans, but they don’t have anything to do with me.

At the funeral – a sky full of thunder; crazy cold weather; everyone in black – except for the girl in the white dress. I’m introduced to a charming young man – immediately in awe – he’s so accomplished, as an artist, as an intellectual presence. Then there are his handsome good looks. And something dangerous and otherworldly about him. Entranced, by a man ten years my elder. Yet he seems totally disinterested in me, a pubescent teenager.

My education is entrusted to ET. His knowledge is amazing. A door has opened into another world, one I never knew existed. Under his tutelage I make rapid progress. I learn about painting and sculpture, architecture, fiction, cinema, theatre, and above all poetry – I discover Eliot, Blake, Keats, Dante, Goethe. Suddenly I find my inner voice. Soon I am attending university at Montaigne, in Bordeaux, sharing a flat with Helene, a fellow lit student.

ET is a struggling artist. But now I become his inspiration, the muse that sets free his creativity. He paints me obsessively, over and over, often in the nude. Naturally we become lovers – to the disapproval of Helene. It’s the start of our downfall, she warns. I soon discover the dark side of life – alcohol; drugs; group sex; even the occult. I should be scared, but ET has a hold over me. I drop out of college, never finish the course.

In one day it all changes. ET exhibits a painting – of me – in Bordeaux, sells it for a large sum. Suddenly he is legitimised, decides to return home – to the south – to set up a studio. Helene’s counsel prevails, to stay with her. Anyway, I am now in love with Helene. What a crazy life!

The portrait by ET here is of a younger me, during our time as a couple. ET is now back in my life, since last year. He’s offered me a partnership in his wine business, at some stage, once I learn the ropes. Although he's now married to Frankie, I guess he still carries a torch for me. But we’ve both changed somewhat. I don’t like looking back, but neither do I look forward. The accident taught me that, to live for the moment. This day, this life, will never happen again.

Krantz - A True Story

As Krantz himself would no doubt tell you - this is a true story.

Krantz was from the Lower East Side of Manhattan. His family are descendants of 19th century Jewish immigrants. His father fought the Japs in World War 2 and survived to tell the tale - he believed that the H bombs were just retribution for their deeds. Krantz wasn’t so sure. He reckoned the civilians in those cities didn’t need to suffer for the sins of their masters.

I guess he was always known just as Krantz. Even Sandrine called him that. Of course I know his first name, but I’m not going to reveal it here. What’s the point?

The Krantz family lived in an old apartment block on the Lower East Side, a real melting pot. There were many other Jewish families, such as the Kellermans, who were neighbours. His mother had warned him that there was something odd about them. Despite this, Krantz became good friends with Daniel, until fate intervened.

Krantz was the youngest in the family, with two elder sisters. They were born in quick succession, in the period just after the war, the boom years. America was prosperous, and everything seemed to be going just fine. The 60’s began with a mood of optimism, with man in space.

When Krantz was fifteen he came home to find his mother sobbing. The president had been assassinated, and things would never be the same. Then the war in the Far East started, and Krantz started to feel politically motivated. The Beatles arrived, and Bob Dylan was in Greenwich Village. As Dylan stated, the times were changing. By now Krantz had taken up the vocation that would be his occupation, that of photography.

At sixteen his feelings for the Kellerman’s daughter, Esther, began to grow stronger. His mother warned him about getting involved, but love, as we all know, is blind. Soon it was the summer of love, and Krantz decided it was time to see America. He and Esther set off in an old Pontiac headed for the West Coast. Esther stayed out there and ended up in Hollywood.

By 1968 the war in Vietnam was going badly, and the military decided they would extend the draft to students. Danny Kellerman was one of those selected. For Krantz this was almost the final straw. He foresaw the end of the American Dream. In April Martin Luther King was assassinated and Krantz decided enough was enough. By the end of the month he had found a job on a ship headed for Europe.

In May he found himself on the streets of Paris. He was in the right place, at the right time. As a freelance, he followed the demos everywhere, and got many of the best shots. Soon his photography was appearing in Time, Le Figaro, and the Herald Tribune.

There was plenty of violence at this time, with police charging the students, and so on. But what Krantz recalled years later were the fervent political discussions in the cafes of St Germain. It was during one of these exchanges that Krantz found himself drawn to a radical female student from the University of Paris. She in turn was fascinated by the American photographer, and they formed a close bond.

The rest, as they say, is history.

I’ve never even been to America, and I don’t feel any close links. Krantz died when I was thirteen, and I’ve never met any of my American relatives. Maybe one day I ought to go to New York and track them down. Through my friend Helene I know a guy who lives in Manhattan, who has extended an invitation. His name in Saul and he works in film production, so he’s often on location elsewhere. But maybe we could do that sometime.

Krantz was an excellent driver. He once drove his beloved Citroen DS from Paris to Athens and back. So don't tell me the accident was his fault. My own theory is that he got too close to an expose of some important people. In all the years since, I’ve felt Sandrine’s presence many times. But Krantz has never contacted me. I wonder why?

Forbidden Fruit

When I arrive at the house it’s Friday afternoon. It’s an old English hunting lodge, established in the 18th century. Fabulous place, as you can imagine. Absolutely reeks of money and class. And it all belongs to Alistair, the art and wine dealer I’d met on my last visit to London.

That visit was the genesis of this weekend. I’d been invited to stay by Alistair – he suggests we can mix business with pleasure. What he didn’t tell me was that it would also involve a family wedding.

Caroline, his wife, is charming, sophisticated and cultured. She’s giving me a guided tour of the house and its grounds. The house has been in the family for over 200 years – the deer in the forest have been protected for a thousand years – some of the paintings in the lounge are worth thousands – so she says. Then she shows me to my room, in the west wing, overlooking the courtyard. It’s gorgeous. I thank her most profusely for her generosity and hospitality – and for once I really mean it.

On Saturday morning I meet their daughter. After breakfast in the dining room – beautifully decorated in classic English style – I’m about to return to my room. As I pass the function room, where the wedding reception is to take place later that day. I can’t but overhear the raucous laughter coming from within - five young women chatting and giggling at something. The laughter immediately subsides and the group disperse, save for one. What are you staring at, she says, hands on hips.

For once I am lost for words, and hesitate before replying.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to..it’s just. You’re very beautiful.
The girl tosses her mane of auburn hair and laughs.
You’re the French lady, arent you? Daddy’s told me all about you. She holds out her hand. I’m Miranda.
I’m still staring. It’s hard not to. I’m looking at one of the most delightful faces I’ve ever seen. The eyes deep and dark like pools of ink. The teeth white and perfect, like her delicate cheekbones. Then there are the lips, full and pink. A slender neck, and the cleavage of her bosom stretching the fabric of her dress. The outlines of her erect nipples, almost piercing the surface. An english rose.

I step forward and we shake hands, then trembling slightly, brush both cheeks.
My name’s Sandrine.
She smiles, still holding my hand, starts to drag me toward her.
Come on, I’ll show you my room. You can help me get ready if you like. For the wedding.
Of course, I reply, why not.

I follow Miranda upstairs, along the gallery, through another corridor, to her room. It’s even more splendid than mine, with a huge four poster bed, views over the terrace and across the front lawn.
Miranda is at her dressing table in front of a large mirror, in her scarlet bridesmaid’s dress. I watch as she carefully brushes the glossy auburn hair.
So, are you having an affair. With daddy, I mean. She giggles again, like she did downstairs.
Of course not, it’s strictly business. I’m trying to sell him wine, on behalf of my company.
Bet he wouldn’t mind though. Shagging you, I mean. You’re a lot younger than mummy. Her voice, whilst very upper class, has just a hint of coarseness.
I’m sure it hasn’t crossed his mind.
She turns to look at me. You’re not married are you?
No, still single.
I wonder why that is, she says, returning to the brushing. I mean, you’re so chic, tres jolie aussi.
D’you think so?
She’s staring at me now, smiling. Well. I’d fancy you. If I was a bloke, I mean. She laughs out loud, and her bosom heaves.
I want to kiss her. I want to roll her panties off and slide my finger into her, make her come. I want to caress her body, lick her all over, thrust my tongue into her mouth. I feel hot and moist.

The thing is, I venture boldly, it’s not your father I fancy. I’m looking her right in the eye, but she doesn’t bat an eyelid.
Wow, she gasps. I mean, that is bloody amazing.
I find you very attractive.
I had sort of guessed that, she says. The way you’ve been looking at me.
You didn’t mind?
She shrugs. I’m pretty laid back. Its not like it hasn’t happened before.
You mean…
Oh no, I didn’t mean that. I meant, other girls have fancied me. It just never developed.
You didn’t want it to.
It didn’t feel right.
I swallow some wine, a lot. What about now?
I don’t know, she says. I mean, I like you, and everything, but it still feels strange.
I take a chance, run a finger through her hair, feel her pulse quicken, a shudder. I’m watching her face in the mirror, keeping my eyes locked on hers. I allow my hand to trace the nape of her neck, the curve of her breast, heading towards her nipple.
You’re so beautiful. I want you, so badly.
Her eyes are closed, as my fingers close around her nipple. I start to kiss her neck and run my other hand through her hair. Her breathing becomes shallow. Shit, she’s saying, oh god.
Then she breaks away suddenly.
Not now, she says, not here. I just can’t. I’m sorry.
It’s okay, Miranda. I need to make some business calls anyway. Perhaps we’ll see each other later.
She shrugs. I wouldn’t be surprised. We’re both here for the weekend.
But the cool English rose now looks very flustered.

The Artist as a portrait of a young girl

There are two ways of dealing with bad karma. Either you run away, or you can confront it. This is my way of dealing with it.

Maybe I’ve been guilty of putting Sandrine on a pedestal. But I’m not her, I can’t live up to that ideal. She probably had flaws that I never discovered because I was too young.

I’ve always found that mixing with creative people helps me. Maybe I borrow some of their ideas, but tell me who doesn’t? I used to spend a lot of time hanging out with artists, posing for them, that kind of thing.

I met a lot of dubious characters on the way. It’s how I ended up like this, with a cracked personality. That, and the accident.

The thing about Art, with a capital A, is this. Everyone thinks they’re an expert. But really all opinions are subjective. Despite appearances to the contrary, there is no consensus. Plenty of people hated Picasso when he first started out, for instance.

It’s the same with literature. But the problem is, there’s so much out there, you need some way of finding your way through the maze. Which is where the critics come in.

They’re only doing their job, which is actually quite an important one. They act as a filter for people like me who just don’t have the time to read everything. In any case, you get to know which ones to trust, who you can rely on. Personally I’ve always found other writers to be the best guide. So I’ve read Foucault’s study of Roussel; Deleuze on Foucault; Badiou on Deleuze; and so on. You get the picture.

What these books all tell me is that there is always another way of looking at something. What I want to do is put together my own collection of the finest writing I know, as my own guide to literature. It’s going to take some doing, trawling through the archives. It might take some time, I may never finish it. But it may help me establish some kind of perspective.

I’m not going to be prescriptive. Any kind of writing will be considered. Don’t expect a typical list, some of these names may not be familiar to you. I don’t apologise for that. These are my personal choices – yours would be different, no doubt.

La Piscine

This is a must have here in the midi.

In the haute saison it can reach 40 degrees on the patio - and it's about 100 km to the mediterranean coast.

The pool belongs to the gite where I'm staying. During the summer it's let as a holiday rental, but maybe not this year.

The patio is south facing and a total sun trap. There are no neighbours in sight so it's ok to bask in the sun sans maillot (and swim naked too).

Looking forward to the summer when I can get an all over tan.
Must try and find a photo of me by the pool.

Toujours, nous aurons Paris

Of course, Parisians will always tell you
Paris isn’t what it used to be
It's not the same
Not like when they were young
With Sandrine, it was the Sixties
Demos, riots, sit ins, love ins
Hippies, la nouvelle vague
You get the picture

With nana, it was further back
Paris before la guerre
les Deux magots, cafe flore
Sartre and de Beauvoir
Edith Piaf and Aznavour
Then came the occupation
And the whole world changed
Let alone Paris

My own Parisian memories?
A suburban childhood
Glimpsed through train windows
Frenetic arrival at Gare St Lazare
Crowded platforms, sleek new trains
Shopping at Printemps and Prisunic
Lunch in St Germain, and later
Long walks in Les Jardins Luxembourg

Above all, Paris belongs to Sandrine
To the places we used to go
Haute cuisine, haute couture
Mostly I remember small things
Like her lustrous hair
The sweet scent of her perfume
The immaculate cut of her dress
Her unhurried air, her style

The market at Clignancourt
And the things she’d buy me
Sunglasses, a colourful blouse
My first pair of stilettos
Reading Paris Match in the salon
Listening to the gossip
Of the ladies of Paris
Smiling to myself

Picnics in Luxembourg
Ice cream by the Seine
Cakes from the chocolatier
Croissants from la gare
Sandrine’s hand in mine
Never wanting to let go
Just wanting to grow up
And be exactly like her

No, Paris isn’t what it was
It'll never be the same
And now there are others
Making their own memories
They'll grow older
And when they look back
Maybe they too
Will always have Paris?

Photographic Memory

Driving a small car too fast
Through streets I don’t recognise
I seem to know where I’m going
Pedestrians leap out of the way
I ignore traffic lights, zebras, other cars
Park in a quiet side street
Outside a block of flats

I’m upstairs, in a large room
There’s a big tv, double bed
Wardrobes, dressing table, shower cubicle
The view is panoramic
Partly obscured by a block of flats
In darkness I see figures
Watching tv, talking, fixing dinner
Maybe they can see me


I sit by the window
In a white linen dress
Bloodstained and torn
I slip off the dress
Start brushing my hair
Painting my nails, applying make up
I’m wearing black underwear
A tiny thong and a bra

Glancing out of the window
I see a figure, staring
It seems to be looking straight at me
From the end flat, third from the top
Turning my back to the window
I slowly remove the bra
Then I turn out the lights
Slip inside the bed covers

Now I’m knocking on a door
A blonde woman opens it
She reminds me of Helen
We shake hands
She starts showing me the flat
The previous owner has left in a hurry
I glance out of the window
Looking into the flat opposite, my own

I discover a locked door
Ask the woman what’s inside
She says it’s a dark room
The occupant was a photographer
I ask to look inside
She finds the key
Inside are two entire walls
Covered in black and white images

On one wall are photos of a girl
Combing her hair by a window
Dressed in black underwear
Then partially naked
On the other wall, blown up
Are photos of an auto accident
I recognise the photos
And nausea starts to overcome me

bonjour

bonjour.

Welcome to my world.
Its talking in the dark, poems in the dark, many things.

Its author - a mysterious enigmatic creature known only as sandrine

Many people and events have influenced this blog.
Above all its been inspired by an english gentleman - a confidant and friend. Despite our never having met in the flesh.
It was you that encouraged me to become a blogger - or should that be bloggette?
You know who you are.

Its main purpose is to get my poetry online - in lieu of finding a publisher - this is tres difficile!
Also to let off steam, I guess. Let me friends know im still out here.

Maybe not many people will get to read this. Thats okay. I'm not into world domination.
But I'd like to reach out and touch somebody with poetry. Even just one person. Its a start.
Life can be lonely for the tortured artist.

I haven't always been a poetess. It began after the tragic death of my parents. This was in my early teens.
I guess at first it was my way of voicing anger at the world, for depriving me of my family.

You could say im not religious. But then, i've good reason for not believing. Unlike my friend Helene, who comes from a strong catholic background. It didnt stop her sleeping with a married man quite recently. She wont mind me saying this, I know.

The blog is also about the place I live, in the midi. Deep in the arriere pays, lost in provence. No-one will find me here, which suits me fine. The tranquility helps me to work.

My host is the svengali-like figure of E.
He's been many things to me over the years - teacher, guardian, guide, lover, brother etc. He'd probably be horrified to read this. its a risk i have to take, for my own reasons.

To understand where im coming from its necessary to go back to the beginning. For me, it all goes back to the accident - or was it? - that orphaned me.

Last year I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital. This was in la suisse, where they are experts. My shrink's name is Gerhard. he still keeps in touch. I'll never be totally cured of my condition, the trauma was too great. But he suggested that writing would be cathartic.

This blog is part of my solution.