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.