It had started out as a game – airport lounges and railway stations were her usual haunts. These places were easy pickings – bored businessmen killing time, that kind of thing. But now she’d moved on to greater challenges.
It’s an overcast midweek afternoon, and I’m in the Tate Modern. Specifically, the poetry and dream section on level 3. The museum isn’t particularly busy today. I’m gazing admiringly at a painting by De Chirico when a giant meanders into my field of vision. He’s stopped about ten feet to my left. Standing over six feet tall, black leather coat, short close cropped blond hair, left hand in his pocket, right hand stroking the stubble on his chin. He casts a sideways glance at me, looks back at the painting. For a split second our eyes meet. I’m rooted to the spot, as he strides nonchalantly towards me, no doubt taking in the essentials – short beige raincoat belted at the waist, dark stockings, pink scarf, hair tied up in a messy bob, black leather handbag dangling from my left shoulder. I decide to exit and head for level 5. But not before I absent mindedly leave one of my gloves behind. Did I do it on purpose? – I leave that for you to decide.
Level 5 - as expected the giant has indeed followed me. I sense his presence while I ponder the arte povera piece entitled Venus of the Rags. He coughs to attract attention.
Excuse me, he says, but I sink ziss belonks to you?
[Strong trace of a Germanic accent there, methinks]
I swivel to look at him, pretending to be startled.
Oh…yes, thanks…..where d’you find it?
In ze poetry ant dream room. You vare lookink at ze painting – uncertainty of ze poet?
[he means the one by De Chirico]
I nod my head twice. His eyes dart to the Pistoletto and back.
So vot you sink of ziss – Venus of rags?
I pause for reflection. What do I think of it?
It’s crazy, I say, but I like it, don’t you. I prefer this level to downstairs. [I’ve started to babble, as usual]
Then he smiles. My lecks are aching from warking. Its tiring, don’t you sink?
I smile faintly at him, wondering where this is going. Some people enter the room, and he leans closer to whisper.
We shouldn’t talk here. Join me for a coffee?
I hesitate but his steely blue eyes seem to command my assent.
Ok, why not.
So…did you come here by boat from Tate Britain?
We’re in the coffee shop looking out across the Thames. I shake my head slightly and take a sip of coffee.
On the tube from Waterloo, I say. But it’s still a walk.
I take off my scarf and lay it on the table.
Don’t leave zat behind, he jokes.
I try to wriggle out of my coat.
You seem distracted, he says.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.
I unbutton my raincoat and reveal a tight fitting plain back t shirt. He stares at my bosom. [I don’t blame him, it’s my most treasured possession]
It’s a great museum, don’t you sink?
Yes…..so is this your first visit?
No, I haff a flat in London, a place called falcon wharf, not far from here. You know it?
I don’t know the city that well. I live in France.
I sought so. You’re here on holiday?
Business. But I had a spare afternoon so here I am.
I notice his eyes straying to the front of my t-shirt again, then he rubs his chin. A nervous gesture perhaps?
And vot iss your business, mademoiselle?
I guess he’d ask that, so I open my purse and hand him a business card. He stares at it closely and looks up.
Krantz – your name sounds Jewish. [I stare at him – yes, you didn’t wipe us all out you nazi]
My father was a New Yorker. It’s a long story.
How interestink, and you sell vine. Even more interestink.
How about you, I say. Why’re you here chatting to a strange French woman you’ve never met on a dull afternoon?
He laughs. I don’t know. Maybe because I find you attractive. And I don’t sink you drop ze glove by accident.
I smile innocently here.
How d’you know I’m not a serial killer, he says, leaning forward on his elbow.
I don’t – but I’m guessing serial killers don’t stalk women in the Tate modern very often.
I gather up my things and button my mac.
Look I have to go now, or ill be late for my business meeting.
He stands and offers a hand, which I shake.
You didn’t even ask my name, he says. I’m Felix.
Well, thanks for the coffee Felix. It was nice meeting you.
He sighs. So zats it? Just a cup of coffee.
He looks disarmed for once as he towers above me. I pull my scarf tight around my neck.
Were you expecting something more?
I voss hoppink we might see each uzzer again
He looks sad now, like one of those puppies with appealing eyes. I flatten my beret and shrug my shoulders.
I’m very busy right now Felix. But you’ve got my number haven’t you.
He smiles. Off course.
I brush past him and smirk to myself all the way to the exit, feeling his eager gaze on my retreating figure. I’m sure he’s got the biggest hardon in the Tate gallery.
Definitely to be continued, I think.
