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.
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