The Favorite Game

My grandmother, Jeanne, descendant of another, more famous girl of that name, lived with her family on the Atlantic coast west of Bordeaux.

Jeanne was ten years old when the war came to her village. When the soldiers rounded up all the Jews, including their parents, Jeanne and her sister had escaped by hiding in the secret tunnels beneath their house. Later they would hide in the cellar of an abandoned house in the winter town. During that harsh winter of 40/41, they almost starved, but survived by stealing from wherever, catching fish from the lagoon early in the mornings.

When spring came, they were eventually discovered. A young German, barely eighteen, on patrol in that area, stumbled across their hiding place whilst chasing a stray cat. Naturally, Jeanne was scared that they would be held captive, maybe even tortured. Her sister Isabelle, five years older, had other ideas. She teased and flirted with Franz, the young soldier from Bavaria, until he decided that the two sisters would be his secret. He brought them food, shared cigarettes with Isabelle, and declared himself a free man.

Jeanne watched from the shadows as Franz kissed her sister, drew her closer, holding her tight, pulling her skirt up. She listened to the sounds of their bodies from the next room where her sister screamed as she reached orgasm.

Often they played their favorite game – the soldier and the whore. Franz was a soldier on leave from the front, Isabelle his Jewish whore. That was fine, as long as Franz played along. Until the day he turned his attention to the now twelve year old Jeanne.

London, 70 years later. The tall German Felix looks quite the part in his father’s Nazi uniform. Ella, in a bright red dress, dark stockings, and heavy make up, is a convincing whore. The favorite game hasn’t changed, just the players.

Felix has Ella in a vice like grip, one arm encircling her waist whilst he slowly peels away her garments - revealing the flesh of her bosom, her navel, the softness of her thighs, the curly hairs over her moist vagina. Now he enters, fiercely driving his monstrous shaft between her legs, Ella screaming as he does so. Felix slaps her across the face, shouting – bitch, lesbian, whore, filthy Jew scum.

Ella tries to think of something, but the only face that comes to mind is that of young Jeanne.

Irish eyes

London dark and eerie. Urge to leave this strange land. But where for out there romeo?

Have a message here on my blog from poliphilus. Long time since we last met in cyber world. Laziness, yes, I empathise with that. And the wish to communicate also strong. This blog is my preferred method nowadays. LT too full of stalking horses.

So here I am. Poesie du midi. Where did he get the idea I was having a good time in London? I feel like an outsider in this alien landscape full of miserable people in a city of darkness .

I met Mr Grey fox on the train to Waterloo. It turns out he’s my brief. Life is full of coincidences, surely you knew that. As for the photo, its Sandrine ok? But which one, I leave you to guess. The prize for getting it right is another blog entry.

I get another message, from Helene. She ran into Felix at the Berlinale, and says he’s on his way to London. No doubt expecting something from Ella, in return for the flat. But Helene has invited me to join her in Italy, for the fashion show. The same hotel on Lake Como, she says. It’s tempting, but not until I’ve paid my dues to the kraut. [But then I think, hang on, his immediate ancestor invaded my country and tried to exterminate us Jews. Maybe I don’t owe him at all. ]

Monday I’m back on the rush hour train, another appointment with Mr Grey fox. This item I’m early, and hang around in reception until he shows. He has a female with him, a redhead whom he introduces as Miss Kelly. He mutters some vagueness about her command of French, and leaves us alone.

The female is pretty, in her twenties I’d guess, pale, slim and businesslike in her black shirt and jacket. She doesn’t smile, just offers her hand.
Dana Kelly, she says, I’ll be taking your case.
I detect the merest hint of an Irish lilt there.
Why, is all I can muster. I mean why isn’t Mr fox?
He’s too busy right now. And I’m bilingual, which he isn't.
I wonder what she tastes like, I’m thinking.
Okay, shall we get down to business, she asks.
I nod, and follow her along a corridor into another office.
She puts on a pair of specs and I suddenly feel hot. I feel the urge to strip naked and kiss her. But instead I listen to her soft Irish accent, the words floating over me. I watch her lips moving but don't hear the sound.

Let's assume you're innocent, she's saying.
It's a bit complicated, I tell her, due to my psychiatric problems.
She asks me to elaborate.
I tell her that my shrink, Gerhard, diagnosed my condition as schizophrenia.
Split personality?
Exactly. So, one the one hand, there's sweet Ella, childlike, naive, Ella. But then there's also Sandrine.
Who is Sandrine?
My late mother. She kind of haunts me. And sometimes takes over. She's jealous, manipulative, and kind of mad.
How does this affect your case?
Well, the thing is, although Ella absolutely didn't kill Francine, its always possible that Sandrine got jealous and.....
Dana raises an eyebrow. Then her mobile interrupts the conversation. She glances at her watch.
Then she terminates our meeting.

I wonder if she even believed any of it.

L'homme du train

Are you sitting comfortably? Well I am. I’m sitting on the 8:22 to Waterloo in fact, opposite a grey-haired guy in a grey suit who seems intent on his newspaper despite the occasional sly glance at my [lets face it] shapely legs. Today those legs are encased in dark stockings, the kind that hook into suspender belt and feed male erotic fantasies. I’m only guessing but I reckon the grey man is having an erotic fantasy about me between Clapham and Waterloo.

I’m checking my watch and the time is 835 as we reach our destination. Should be enough time for me to plough through the throng of morning commuters and cross the bridge for my 9am appointment. I’m due to meet Samuel Fox, partner in the law firm of Matheson fox - don’t bother looking him up because that’s not his real name. See I changed the names to protect the innocent, apart from my name of course. Fox has been recommended by my dear friend sir Alistair and soon I shall be at the door of his offices in Lincoln’s Inn.

The gent opposite is now torn between perusing his copy of the Times and the cleavage of the young French woman whose knees are almost touching his. The frog [for it is I, who else] stretches her legs and accidentally touches the grey mans knee. He recoils and mutters a taut sorry before retreating behind his paper once more. I yawn and stretch my arms wide heaving my bosom quite nicely I thought. Then the train finishes and were out and I’m marching briskly onto the platform . I’m in no hurry though – so what if I’m late I’m sure Fox will still see me even if he’s busy .

in fact when I arrive its 915 so fashionably late in my book. The stiff upper lip woman on reception repeats my name into the phone twice then I’m ushered into the inner sanctum of Matheson Fox, a rather posh high-ceilinged affair with plush sofas, and brings me a coffee while I’m waiting for the man. I flick absently through an old copy of Time out and check my mobile messages. Then a tall man in a grey suit breezes into the room hand outstretched. I recognise him instantly of course - the guy from the train. He smiles
Samuel fox and you must be ms krantz. Hhave we met before?
Not exactly I say we were on the same train this morning
He chuckles and strokes his chin thoughtfully. Small world eh. He checks his watch.
I can let you have five minutes he says, then I’m off to court busy schedule today but imp sure we can squeeze you in .
He lounges on the sofa and crosses his legs.
So what is it you do for a living ms krantz - apart from teasing men on trains that is
I work for my cousin I say he has a vineyard in the luberon. Dyou know the village of menerbes by any chance?
He nods of course the peter mayle book how wonderful so what brings you to England business or pleasure
well our business is import export but that’s not why I’m here
Yes I gather you’ve had some trouble with your police in France.
I stare at him for a moment. They think I killed my cousin in law etienne’s wife Good lord says the grey fox. Well you don’t look like a murderess I must say on the other hand
No I didn’t kill her nut I did give her the ammunition
ah and what might that have been
A quantity of dope mister fox
right well I trust they didn’t catch you red handed
There’s no actual evidence I say but I was the last person to see her alive and I did supply the drugs
So its not totally clear-cut – and you’re a friend of Alistair’s . Tell me how did you two meet?
I stare at him wondering how indiscreet I should be. I used to be his mistress, I say.
Mr grey fox chuckles once more. Well, well, naughty old Alistair.
He checks his watch again. Look I’m going to be late . it was nice meeting you ms krantz.
He stands up and I follow. We shake hands once more.
Its Ella I say as in Fitzgerald.
Charming he says id be delighted to take your case of course, as a favour to an old friend. Alistair and I were at Oxford you know
That’s nice. I’m guessing he means the university.
Look which hotel are you staying at miss - Ella.
Actually I’m staying at a friends apartment in Battersea. Falcon wharf
That sounds expensive.
Oh he’s not charging me.
Sounds like a very good friend. Look ill need to go through some details with you. How about a spot of lunch later – on the firm of course.
How could I refuse.

Dead or Alive

Books about death – my life is full of them. why is that? I don’t know. Maybe it has to do with my parents death. Or maybe I'm just morbidly fascinated by it. Especially since the death of Francine, my beautiful friend, and wife of my cousin.

I feel like the character Alvy singer in the woody Allen film, who resents his new girlfriend, Annie hall, with two books about death as a gift soon after their meeting.

So here are some books about death – death of a salesman Arthur miller; death in the afternoon Hemingway; the death of andre breton; the Tibetan book of the dead ; the i ching; death and the penguin andrei kurkov; melancholy death of oyster boy tim burton; dante's inferno; death in venice thomas mann; chronicle of a death foretold marquez; many others including my own poetry volume the death of french poetry [great title or what?]

So to The death of Francine. The local police seem to think I was responsible. They're almost right, but its one thing to provide the ammunition, quite another to pull the trigger. So, yes, I feel responsible, I gave her the means to perform the act. But no, I didn’t make her take those pills.

The case against the mysterious K is as follows.

Francine was the wife of the accused’s cousin Etienne.
Francine and Etienne were happily married until K came to live with them.
Etienne threw Francine out when he discovered she was unable to conceive a child.
Francine went to live alone in a flat in marseille.
Etienne asked K to marry him. the only snag was that he was still married to francine.
K therefore obviously murdered francine to get half share of Etienne's substantial capital assets.
K after an initial interview with the marseille police then escaped from France to Istanbul.
The whereabouts of K are presently unknown to the police.

In the old days there’d have been a reward for my arrest. Dead or alive.

Sometimes I wonder if my friend Beth will turn me in. but I doubt it. Unless they torture her maybe. The cops are like that, especially in marseille. Fucking scum, almost as bad as the criminals they hunt down.

My life is strange but eventful. My death will probably be a damp squid. [joke]

Something that disturbs me even more is the way people abandon all hope when the chips are down. So called friends drift away from you. so I decided to shut down my page on LT – due to lack of interest. That is sad.

So its come to this. Me and Beth against the world. Fuck the rest of you. unless you want repent your ways. In which case grovel by paying respect to this blog. Or crawl back under your stone for ever.

Dead or alive.

Missing

I had to do it. Go underground. Incognito.

The flics are searching for me. They want to frame me for a crime I didn’t commit. That’s how the marseille police operate.

They don’t know im here. Neither does anyone else. Except the person who harbors me. And she doesn’t know who I really am.

Cute huh?

I could tell you her name, but then I’d have to kill her. Let’s call her beth. First thing that came into my head.

Beth is young and pretty and innocent, like I used to be a few years ago. She has dark brown hair, a slim waist, round hips, a nice smile. She makes me feel good. She doesn’t realise yet that I want to take her to bed.

How long can I remain here. Well, until the dust settles, which might be a long time.

My friends are worried about me, I guess. Some of them deserted me, but a few have kept the faith. I will send them messages of gratitude. The rest can go to hell.

Tomorrow is a new dawn, as always.

What’s my name? That would be telling.

Dream Girl

Listen. Ecoutez moi. I tell you of my dreams.

I’m at this party, somewhere in the Luberon. It’s a house party, thrown by one of Etienne’s neighbours, up the road in Menerbes. I’m feeling kind of dizzy, the effect of the noise of the music, the conversation, the wine. One of the guests, this English lady, good friend of Etienne’s, takes my arm. She looks out of it, red faced, voice slurring.
Do me a favour, cherie, she says, trying to keep her voice down. Take Garland home. I’m too pissed myself.
I stare at her for a moment, not comprehending her babbling. Then is notice the girl traipsing in her wake.
Ive had too many myself to drive, I say.
You’re fine, she says. Its not far, handing me a bunch of keys. It’s on your way.
Who says I’m leaving anyway?
I stare at the girl, who looks bored and nonchalant. Maybe id be doing her a favour, rather than her mother.
Garland’ll show you the way. Wont you darling.
She pushes the girl forward. She has bright red hair, pink lipstick. She’s wearing a too-short white dress. Pretty in an understated kind of way.
I take the keys and sling my bag over my shoulder.
You win, I say, lead the way.
I follow the girl across the gravel drive in the moonlight, until we come to a yellow convertible. Wow I say you never said mummy had one of these. Nice toy.
The girl, Garland, just smiles, doesn’t speak, gets in beside me. Her legs stretched out next to mine, pale and skinny. As we pull out of the drive, the wind brushes her hair across her face. I put my foot down and squeal across the tarmac.
So, I say, where’s home.
She doesn’t speak.
Garland, where d’you live.
I don’t want to go home, she says, folding her arms across her boobs. She has a slim figure, with small bust and a tiny waist. A red-haired waif. Can’t we just drive for a bit first.
Fine by me, I say, beginning to enjoy the power beneath the bonnet.
I shift up the gears, the engine snarling as we climb the hill towards Roussillon, then race across the plain towards the main road. At the crossroads I take a left and veer in the direction of Cavaillon, feeling the wind rush through my hair. Garland is silent beside me, but I can tell she’s enjoying it. When we reach ? I head towards the Sorgue and the little town where I met Tamara, what seems like many moons ago.
I turn the car round and head back towards Menerbes, along the back roads.
You’re a crazy driver she says, as we hurtle towards the oncoming traffic.
Like you care, I say.
She shrugs. I ain’t complaining, its fun.
Finally she points out the way to her parents house, on the back road between Menerbes and Etienne's place. Only a few minutes away, quite literally.
The house is big and deserted, dark and eerie. The girl makes no attempt to leave the car.
Would you mind coming in with me, she says, it feels kinda spooky.
Of course, I say.
We both get out the car and enter the house, flicking the lights on in the main lounge.
Garland slumps into one of the big sofas. She looks at me with large dark eyes, heavily made up.
Thanks for the drive, she says. You’re quite cool.
Really, that’s nice to know.
Could you stay with me, until mummy gets home. It gets a bit lonely round here at night.
I guess so. Maybe ill sober up enough to drive home.
Where d’you live.
My cousin’s place, it’s a bit isolated, on the road to Bonnieux.
She nods.
I know where you mean. Lots of vines.
She flicks on the TV.
You wanna watch some TV with me?
That would be cool, I say.
She kicks off her shoes.
Make y’self at home, she says.
I think about myself at this age. The girl must be sixteen, roughly. Probably still a virgin. Living abroad among strangers. It can’t be easy.
You’ve got really nice hair, I say.
Thanks, she says, twirling it round her fingers. Mummy wants me to cut it, but I refused.
I had long hair once, I say, when I was a teenager. Then I cut it off. Maybe I shouldn’t have.
You have nice hair, she says. It’s cool. Kind of suits you.
She stretches out a hand and strokes my head.
Sandrine, how old are you.
Oh I’m quite old. Nearly thirty.
Garland laughs. Her teeth are white and straight, her lips pouty. She has nice dimples on her cheeks. Her eyes are like saucers, dark and hollow.
That’s not old. Mummy is forty, like your friend Etienne.
I smile at this.
I have the strangest feeling were going to become friends, I say.
Now that would be really cool, she says. She leans her head on my shoulder and her arm round my waist. The odd thing is , I don’t feel uncomfortable with this.
I stroke her mane of red hair and kiss her on the top of her head.
She makes a sighing noise.

I know what you're going to say.
It's wrong.
She's just a girl.
You should be ashamed.
That kind of thing.
You're right, of course you are.
I shouldn't' have.
But she kissed me. Out of the blue, she kissed me.

Garland. It's such an unusual, and beautiful name.
An unusual, beautiful girl.
And it was only a dream, wasn't it?
At least, I thought so.
Now I'm not so sure.

Felix

Of course, you guessed correctly. The story continues at Falcon Wharf. Another time, another place. Something to believe in, perhaps.

Falcon Wharf, anyway. An exclusive riverside development of luxury apartments with stunning views across the Thames. Prices start at £800 per week for a 2 bedroom duplex. I start to wonder how Felix can afford it. I mean, he tells me he’s director of an art gallery in Berlin, but this is serious money. And there’s his art collection – it must be worth a lot. Thousands at least.

Naturally, we start talking about art. I tell Felix about Etienne and my life as the artists muse, model and sometime lover. He seems very interested in all this, which I find unusual. We talk about the exhibits at the Tate, and other recent shows like the Van Doesberg and Anish Kapoor.

We’re talking about the film History of Nothing by Paolozzi, and I tell Felix about my friend David, an English artist, who has actually met Paolozzi, amongst others. He’s not familiar with David’s work, but I guess maybe he isn’t into erotica. I also tell him how saddened I feel now that David seems to have less time for our friendship. He seems sympathetic, but maybe he also senses an opportunity?

The apartment is very tastefully furnished, ultra modern, uber chic.
I can tell you’re a man of taste, I tell him.
He smiles.
I just tend to like beautiful things, he says – paintings, sculpture, furniture, and of course women. He looks me straight in the eye.
What about your wife, I ask. Is she beautiful?
He looks away for a moment.
We’re no longer together, I’m afraid. And you, I don’t sink you are married?
Not yet, I say, but I could be. Maybe next year sometime, who knows.
I see. You have a boyfriend at home.
I nod.
A pity, I was razzer hoppink ve could spent time togezzer.
I don’t see why not.
Good, now lets eat.

During the meal Felix starts to tell me about his business, back in Berlin. A small gallery, dedicated to modern artists, he says.
I wonder how he manages to afford the flat. Except I must have said it out loud.
Ziss, he says, spreading his arms wide. He laughs. He taps his nose. Nazi gold, he says.
I nearly choke on my steak. But he’s not laughing now.
No, really, he says. In ze vore, my fazzer’s unit looted many places. After ze vore, much later, zay sold ze pieces slowly, not to arouse suspicion.
I don’t know what to say, so I don't say anything.
You're going to tell me its immoral, or something, aren't you. he looks amused.
Its none of my business, I say. But preferable to murdering Jews, I guess.
That’s true, but you could look more disgusted.
I'm just not very moral either, I guess

Later, after the meal, and two bottles of Chianti, we’re looking at the view from across the Thames at dusk. Felix is sitting in a chair whilst I drag on a cigarette, leaning against the balcony.
I sink it might be time to talk bissness , he suggests.
I finish the fag, toss it into the river over my shoulder.
I guess so, I mean, that’s why im here.
He smiles.
And I sought it voss my jovial company, he laughs.
Well, maybe that also, I concede.
Its nice to mix bissness with a liddle pleasure, don’t you sink?
Why not, I say.
He gets up from the chair, and holds the door open for me. We sit on one of the two large white sofas.
So, vot have you got to offer me sandrine, he says, leaning back on the sofa, his bulky frame almost taking up the whole of the furniture. Apart from ze obvious, he adds, chuckling to himself.
As much as you want, basically, I say. Maybe at first we should start with small amounts – I mean until you can trust me. You see, I'd need payment up front, in cash.
He strokes his stubble thoughtfully. I see, zat vont be a problem. Ant I do truss you. off course.
Do you haff any off ze…..vine….. wizz you?
Of course.
I open my bag and produce a miniature bottle, and hand it to Felix. He carefully unscrews the lid and extracts some with his index finger, and places it on his tongue.
Perhaps we should try some, you ant I? He suggests. Right now.
I don’t normally do that.....but ok.
He takes a note from his wallet and places it on the table in front of us. He takes some of the powder and hands the rest to me. We both inhale at the same time.
I tell him I read somewhere that most of the banknotes in London are contaminated with coke. He laughs. A wicked laugh.
Lets talk money, sandrine. how much are you vonting for ziss vine.
Per case, about a grand.
He nods.its good stuff, I can tell. Vare did you get it?
That would be telling.
Come now, don’t be shy.
I sigh. Mainly from the beurs in Marseille, or Avignon. I happen to have some connections down there.
Incredible, I'd never have believed it. A girl like you. How come you get mixed up in ziss?
I shrug.
It was by accident I guess. But its easy money.
You could end up in jail, if you get caught.
I never carry enough on me for that.
He places a hand on my thigh, strokes my knee gently.
Its time we got to know each other a liddle better, don’t you sink.
I stare at him.
That would be extra, Felix.
He raises an eyebrow.
So you charge for ze pleasure as well as the buissness? I see.How much extra?
I leave that up to you, I say. let's call it a tip.
He laughs loudly.
You really are a wicked woman, Sandrine.
As his left hand moves, slowly, between my legs, pushing my skirt higher, I can feel my temperature rising suddenly. The drugs are beginning to take hold, and I've lost all sense of time and place. Felix pulls me on top of him, and plunges deep inside me.

The Uncertainty of the Poet

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.

L'Etranger

Tracking shot: Grey stone walls, the interior of the cottage. A solid pine door, opening into a large room with a bare wooden floor. In the centre Lola is squatting, legs beneath her, on the square Breton bed, bedclothes flung back. She is wearing a plain white cotton man’s shirt, with black lingerie underneath. Her blonde hair is tied in a ponytail behind her.

Close up: Her fingers begin to play with the top button on the shirt, very slowly unfastening the garment. The black lace of her bra now comes into view, cleavage peeping over the top, pale white complexion. The luscious purple lips parting to reveal clear white teeth. The navel now gyrating as she sways from side to side to the music she can hear in the background. Something jazzy and cool. Maybe Miles, he isn't sure. Its like a dream now, as Lola removes the white shirt and pouts at the camera. She’s trying not to laugh but there is a sensuality about her, yet something innocent also. Now she turns her back to the camera and looks over her shoulder, breathing heavily.

Close up: She unhooks the catch and lets the black lace bra fall onto the bed. Now her smile is cheeky, as she turns round, arms folded across her chest, keeping her charms covered. Eventually she stretches her arms in a big yawn, and the camera is allowed to feast on her ample bosom. Now she is playing to the lens, and very slowly, so slowly that time seems to stop, she rolls the stockings down her legs.

Goddard can hardly breathe now, as she faces him unashamedly naked, blowing kisses at him, laughing as she pulls the bedclothes over her. He stops the film abruptly, wipes his brow. She is sitting in the bed, arms behind her head, face straight.

What do you reckon, she says
I think, he says, that the camera likes you. But there is a catch
Let me guess, she says. The director wants to sleep with the star
Goddard shrugs as he pulls his shirt over his head.
Don’t they always?


excerpt from the Stranger and the Goddess [@A L Krantz]

No way back

Tony Marx opened his eyes slowly and waited for the room to stop spinning. He allowed himself to focus on the ceiling, adjusting to the darkness around him. After a while his gaze settled on the only source of light in the room, coming from an open window to his right. The girl was leaning out of the window, in her underwear, smoking. He remembered her name. Sandrine.

Sandrine whom he'd made love to last night, as the trains thundered into Kings Cross, the noise drowning her screams. Screams of ecstasy and screams of pain both. Maybe even at the same time. He saw the slash marks on her pale skin now, bright red, where he'd used the belt as an impromptu weapon.

Now she turned towards him, stubbed out her cigarette and tossed it onto the railway line.
This is a no smoking room, he reminded her.
She placed a finger on her lips. Full ripe lips, made to be kissed.
Naughty Sandrine, she said.
Yes, he said, naughty Sandrine.
She climbed onto the bed and spread out next to him, leaning on her elbow, staring into space.

Tony felt great, and he felt terrible. Last night had been possibly the most exciting uninhibited night of sex in his life. But he'd betrayed his wife, something he'd vowed never to do. There was however something about Sandrine that had aroused his desire. He simply hadn't been able to resist her charms.

His mobile phone rang, and he reached across her to answer it.
Darling, he said, a note of surprise in his voice.
Still in London, yes, he said.
When will I be home? later today, I think, he said.
Sandrine pulled back the sheet and started to massage his penis, which stiffened instantly.
Look, I'm a bit busy right now, he said. I'll have to call you later.
Sandrine was licking him now, slowly moving her lips over his erection.
Shit, he said. Love you too, darling. he put the phone down.
You fucking bitch, he said.
Sandrine started giggling.
He slapped her on the arse, quite hard.
She rolled over onto her back. then stood up suddenly.
My train leaves soon, she said. I'll have to go now.
Can I see you again, he said.
Of course, we haven't finished the article yet.
No, I meant, can I see you again.
Screw me, you mean.
If you must put it that way.
Never say never. But what about your wife. I thought you loved her.
I cant explain.

And he couldn't. why? Ever since he'd first met her, he'd become intoxicated, seduced by her glamour, by the air of sensuality that surrounded her. That night, at the Soho party, when they'd been introduced, the air was full of coke and booze. Now she'd become like an illicit drug to him. He was hooked, he realized. Cold turkey would be inadvisable.

How did I get here, he asked himself, watching her get dressed. Almost forty, married, two children, good job, nice house. I don't need this. But I can't do without her.
Now she pulling on her coat, tossing her hair back, staring coolly at him.
Well, it's been fun, she said.
I'll call you soon, he said.
I'm sure you will. Au revoir, Tony.
She disappeared, off into the streets, heading for St Pancras, and the euro star.

Tony swore to himself. He wanted her again, already. Wanted to tear her clothes off and screw her, violently, over and over again. To feel himself inside her, the smell of her all over him. he banged his fist on the table. Shit, he said to himself. She's driving me crazy.

Sandrine, on the other hand, was trotting into St Pancras, her heels clacking on the pavement. She smiled to herself, aware that another man had been ensnared in her game. She felt the eyes of the men on her bare legs as she descended the staircase. Tony had been easy, but he might be useful. Good publicity, and all such contacts were worth having.

How to cheat etc - part 2

Admit it, you’ve been yearning to read part two ever since I ended part one with that dangling carrot. Maybe not, but here’s what happened next.

Sunday morning. A bright London morning, as it happens. Most respectable folk are out exercising their dogs, or playing sport or something. The entity that is Sandrine is however curled up in bed with yesterday’s edition of the Guardian.

I glance at the clock and realise with a sense of panic that Anthony, my journalist friend, will be here to conduct our interview in fifteen minutes. Just enough time to shower and throw last night’s clothes on. I grab a plain white shirt and black skirt from the laundry pile and decide not to bother drying my hair. The doorbell rings.

You look different, he says.
Sorry, I’m a wreck aren’t I. Late night again.
No, you look wonderful, he says.
He’s carrying a laptop and a small bunch or roses. He hands them to me. The roses, not the laptop.
Very romantic, I say.
I make some coffee and we sit on the only piece of furniture, an old sofa. Tony’s eyes seem to flit between my bare legs and the swell of my bosom beneath the clean white shirt.
Just need to check a few facts for my article, he says, you understand.
Of course, I say.
He reads me some of what he’s written so far.

"The bed is the size of a small country, the mattress so wide that we can’t decide which way to lie. The cream walls and canvas curtains add to the sense of cool and calm, a most sensuous experience so far. In the bathroom, creamy marble tiles are soothing to the eye and delightfully cooling to the naked body. We are in room 34, a lovely double deluxe with views over the rooftops of the city, a print of one of Helmut Newton's famous nudes framed over the bed. Sitting in front of an ornately gilded mirror, the object of my desire has only a glass of wine for company as she mimics erotic scenes from Bertoclucci’s The Dreamers.

She calls herself Sandrine, but Ella Krantz is her real name. Her father was an American photographer, who covered the war in Vietnam until the fall of Saigon. Her mother, the real Sandrine, was a French model of the sixties and seventies, a favourite of Balmain and St Laurent. The family lived in an apartment in Paris 17th arrondissement, then moved out to the suburbs. At 13 tragedy struck when she was orphaned in a car crash on the autoroute.
Now she is a sultry seductress, an enchanting, husky femme fatale, long dark hair trailing across her fragile pale skin, concealing the tips of her nipples. She smiles coolly and sips from her glass."

I start to giggle. I don’t remember any of this, I say.
Poetic license, he says, but hopefully the facts are correct.
I stare at Tony.
I don’t know about this. I’m too tired at the moment.
How about dinner tonight? This time it’s on me.
I pretend to hesitate for a moment, but I can feel myself reeling him in.

Naturally I cant decide what to wear, but plump for a pale cream blouse, tight black dress, high heels, plus of course the chanel perfume that Sandrine swore by. We meet at Leicester square, and tony whisks us into a noisy American diner where we sit at the bar and order cocktails whilst waiting for a table. It’s not my kind of place, too raucous and full of Caribbeans. We sit in the window and order the biggest steaks on the menu. Tony orders a bottle of wine and he starts to relax.
It’s a bit different to the other night, I say
I know, he says, but the firm paid for that. I like it here anyway, don’t you. makes me feel young. Glynis and I come here a lot.
I nod. Your wife, I say. She’s really called Glynis.
He laughs. Kind of old fashioned ain’t it?
What’s she like I say.
Glynis? Oh fabulous [he uses that word a lot] she used to be a looker, when we first met. In fact, she dated some hot actors before me.
He mentions some names, but I don’t react.
And d’you still love her?
Course. I mean, who wouldn’t. she’s a fabulous mother, wife, you know.
You ever been unfaithful before?
He looks taken aback.
No, but then, its not every day I meet a girl like you.
You want to make love to me, don’t you.
It had crossed my mind.
I’m leaving for Paris in the morning, so I can’t be late in bed.
I’ll bear that in mind, he says, as the waitress arrives with our order.

Later, much later, we’re in a dark corner of London , a stone’s throw from Kings Cross station. The restaurant was okay, the cocktails and several glasses of wine have kicked in. We’ve walked from the tube station at Russell Square, narrowly avoiding a scuffle involving a taxi driver and some louts. Tony checks us in at a small hotel in Grays Inn Road, and we take the lift to the 2nd floor. I open the window to smoke a cigarette, and check out the view, which is basically the railway line and the backs of some houses on the Kings Cross road. Glamorous it’s not.

I can sense Tony sneaking up behind me in the dark. His lips caress the flesh on my shoulder, his hands running through my hair. You smell gorgeous, he whispers.
For some reason I get goose pimples. I turn to face him.
It’s not what I expected, I say. The hotel.
So what, he laughs, it’s not like we’re married. You’re just my fucking whore.
If you say so, I smile.
Get undressed , he barks. The party’s about to start.
He’s unreeling the belt from his trousers, unzipping himself, pulling his shirt over his head. I’m watching him, not moving, lying on my back.

He rolls me over roughly and pulls my pants down. He brings the belt down on the exposed flesh, once, twice, three times. I don’t scream, just a squeak. It doesn’t hurt that much. The wine must have anesthetized me.
You French tart, fucking bitch, he shouts. He hits me once again, and my mind wanders back to that time with Krantz, then at Montaigne. And of course, Alistair.
You’ve done this before, he says, haven’t you.
I’m laughing, not crying. He turns me over to face him , pinning me to the bed. I want to tell him that I prefer women, that he doesn’t turn me on. But he seems aroused anyway. I take his erection into my lips and he seems to relax at last. I take him almost to climax then let my tongue slither away.

I’m holding onto the brass rails at the back of the bed as he plunges into me, fiercely, violently, rocking the bed from side to side. The noise outside rises in intensity, as a train crashes across the tracks into Kings Cross. I can feel the energy drain from him, and the semen oozing over me, like lava flow from a dormant volcano, hot and sticky and deadly.

Now he’s kissing me, saying sorry, that he loves me, that he didn’t mean to hurt me. He’ s cradling my left breast in his mouth, sucking, then moving himself inside me again, wanting more. I lean across to the table and pick up the still smoldering cigarette, start smoking.

I feel good, despite it all. As married men go, he wasn’t bad. Maybe not an exercise to be repeated, all the same.
You were fucking sensational, he says, looking up at me, his arm round my waist.
I smile. Now go home to your wife, I say. She’ll be wondering where you’ve been.
I start to pull on my stockings and see the hungry look in his eyes.
Just once more, he pleads.
I sigh.
Ok, but this time, I call the shots.
He lies back, and I notice his erection has faded to nothing. Maybe there’s nothing left to give? I start unbuttoning my shirt and watch as he stiffens, smiling.
Sandrine, he says, I fucking love you.
No, I say, you love your wife. I’m just your fucking whore, remember?
He laughs as I straddle him, lowering myself onto his by now towering column. Another train arrives as we make it once more, obliterating my screams of ecstasy.

Erotic Eva

Sitting on a polished antique table in front of an ornately gilded mirror, with only a glass of wine for company as she recreates erotic photographer Helmut Newton’s iconic 1973 image of British actress Charlotte Rampling.

The actress, 29, shows no inhibitions as she poses naked for the December edition of style bible Tatler, in homage to the classic Seventies portrait

Newton’s 1973 photograph of Rampling for Vogue magazine was taken at the Hotel Nord Pinus II in Arles, not far from my present home in the Luberon.

The original photo was entitled The Sexiest Woman In The World - a title that also seems to suit the current French actress rather well.

Eva Green is her real name. Her father Walter is a Swedish dentist, and her mother is Marlene Jobert, a French actress of the sixties and seventies, a favorite of Godard and Malle. One film of hers I remember well is Le Passager de la Pluie – in which she was raped early on. Marlene is a pied noir, having been born in Algiers and moved to France as a child.

The family lived in an apartment in Paris 17th arrondissement - an area which includes the streets of Batignolles, one of my old haunts.

Eva was born in July 1980, only a few weeks before me, in the same city, Paris. She reminds me so much of the late Sandrine. The same wild beauty, the sensuality, that look. Wow.

I've visited the Hotel Nord Pinus once before, a few years ago. It's a hotel which oozes history - Picasso, Hemingway, Cocteau, all stayed here. It has cool leather armchairs and the massive mirrors, enormous black-and-white photographs of Africa by Peter Beard, and an incredible collection of giant posters advertising the ferias of Spain.A copy of one of Helmut Newton's famous nude portraits of Charlotte Rampling is in suite 10.

So once again, I sit on the enormous bed, staring into one of the massive mirrors, sipping from a glass of cool wine. I'm desperately trying to recreate the pose struck by Charlotte and Eva, but my photographer, Lucien just makes me laugh. Later on he'll make me come, and we'll roll together on the bed, dreaming of the old days of Arles. Van Gogh, Gauguin, Picasso, Fitzgerald, Cocteau, Henry James......

Lucien and Sandrine, from Batignolles, where Eva lived, trying to live up to her beauty. Failing miserably, but enjoying it nonetheless.

Charlotte Forever

Charlotte is of course, Gainsbourg

In a recent interview Charlotte spoke about her late father, who died when she was just eighteen. Apparently his house in Paris, on Rue de Verneuil, has been left untouched since his death, a virtual shrine to the great man.

She was asked whether she intended to live there herself. I couldn’t do that, she said, it’s too heavy emotionally. She also said that it was the only place that she could be alone with her memories of him. A sentiment I’d echo, since I feel the same about my parents’ house.

Later in the interview Charlotte said that it was only since having her own children that she felt able to move on. Now that she’d had half her life without her father, maybe she’d be able to leave that first half behind.

This got me thinking, a lot. First of all, I know where Rue de Verneuil is, on the left bank, not far from Boulevard Saint Germain. In the precise area frequented by Sandrine during the Seventies. It’s hard to believe that they didn’t meet at one of those fashion parties. Serge and Sandrine, that is. Charlotte would have been a small child at that time.

“At the beginning it was like my legs were cut off, and that feeling lasted for a long time. It’s been 18 years and it’s still very difficult”. In my case, 16 years since the fateful accident that ended my life. Or so I thought, at the time. But I did wonder whether perhaps Charlotte was right. Maybe I need a family of my own, to replace the one I lost?

Naturally, I don’t mention any of this to Etienne. He might take it the wrong way, and I’m still not sure about him as a potential father. Instead I stare at the photo of Natacha Ramsay outside the Gainsbourg house. I have to admit that it turns me on, just a little, and I feel guilty about this.

I find the purple diary blog quite sexy, in fact. There is something quite decadent about the photos, something seedy. Especially the ones of Natacha and other women. I start to wonder if she is bisexual. Why does that make me feel this way? I wish I knew. In a way it's like the squalid Kings Cross hotel where I had casual sex with a married man last December. Sordid but exciting. Forbidden.

I look across at Etienne. Of course, it's all his fault. That, and the accident. And reading Ballard's book about sex and car crashes.Etienne also loves decadence. We're the perfect partners for each other, in truth. But as parents? The jury is still out on that one.

How to cheat on your wife [part one]

Friday night.

It's raining and I'm sheltering by the rear entrance of the opera house, smoking a clandestine cigarette before my meeting with Anthony. He's a journalist I've been cultivating in the hope of gaining some publicity for Etienne wines. I'm already late for my rendezvous, but isn't that the lady's prerogative anyway?

I stub out the end of my fag on the pavement and cross the street to the restaurant. Tony is waiting in the bar downstairs, bottle of wine already opened, reading the Telegraph. He looks up as I enter, gets up and takes my coat. A true gentleman.

Vesper, he says.
I beg your pardon?
Casino Royale. You look just like the girl, Vesper Lynd. Fabulous.
I see where he's coming from. My dress has a plunging neckline just like the one worn by Eva Green.
I sit down opposite tony and he pours me a glass.
Bet you didn't know Eva was also born in Paris, and only a few weeks before me.
Amazing. You could almost be her double.
Here's another fascinating thing. In September I stayed at a hotel just across the water from the Villa in the movie.
Uncanny, he says, smiling.
He's staring at my cleavage, of course.
You are a sumptuous feast for sore eyes, he says. If I weren't happily married....
Does that stop anyone these days?
It should, he says glancing to his left.
The waiter is hovering, so we follow him upstairs to the restaurant.

The menu looks expensive, but Tony isn’t bothered.
Have anything you like , he says, we’re not paying for it.
And I thought you were taking me out to dinner, I chide him.
If I were we wouldn’t be dining here, he replies.
We both order a rib eye steak, on Tony’s recommendation.
He leans back and drains his first glass of wine, grabs the bottle and pours out some more.
What a great job I've got, he says. I get to have dinner with a beautiful girl, and I don’t even have to pay.
I'm sure you say that to all the girls
No really, you do look fabulous Sandrine.
You have a quite a reputation with the ladies.
I lean my chin on my elbow and sip some wine. A nice Chablis, actually. So he knows his wine.
He smiles.
All in the past. Since I met Charlotte things have settled down. Course I still drink like a fish, but that’s all part of the job.

Anthony isn’t that good looking – balding, bespectacled, late thirties – but he makes up for it with wit and intelligence. Like many journalists he has plenty of contacts, but it helps having been educated at Eton and Cambridge.
Opens so many doors, he admits.
He’s a ferocious name dropper too, with stories about the mayor of London, and many MP's including Cameron.
The next PM, he says. Thank god, this country will be run by its natural leaders, the aristocracy.
I'm not so sure
Well, you’re French he says, no offence, but you’re a bolshy lot.
We laugh together at this.
I tell him that I’m half American, and he goes into detail about his time in New York working for one of the literary mags. He knows Brooklyn and Manhattan well, and is knowledgeable on the cultural scene over there. Tony also claims to have dated many attractive women, including the ex girlfriend of a famous English actor.
But not Eva Green, I say.
Sadly not, he smiles, but you’re not a bad double.
Are we going to talk about wine at all, I ask.
Well, I'm no expert, but I can certainly write an article on the merits of the Luberon wines, with special mention of your cousin's vineyards.
He suggests a visit might be necessary to see for himself.
I don’t see why not, I reply.
We drink to the entente cordiale.

After dinner we stand on the steps and tony hails a taxi.
The night is young, he says. How about coming to my club for a drink? This ones on me.
Well, in that case, I accept.
Except its not really a club – more like an illicit underground drinking den that stays open all night. Its in a dimly lit cellar somewhere near Lincoln’s inn.
Tony orders a bottle of champagne and we sit together in a dark corner.
He snakes an arm around my back and squeezes me. I sense that the drink is taking him over. We chat about Etienne’s business and my role as its London agent. At 3am he insists on walking me home and we head for my flat in Trafalgar.
I tell him I’m amazed that he hasn’t made a pass at me all night.
You’re a great girl, he says, but I couldn’t get it up if I tried. Not with all the booze I’ve had tonight. I thought you were a lesbian anyway
Not exclusively, I say.
He puts an arm round my shoulder and points to the square.
Great view isn’t it, he says, if it wasn’t for that Nelson fella we might be overrun by frogs
You’d hate that wouldn’t you.
I stare into his eyes for a long time and kiss him lightly on the lips. He plays with my hair as I lean against him.
Sandrine, Sandrine. you’re a lovely girl, but.....
I know. You’re married.
Just bad timing, I guess. He shrugs
I didn’t want an affair, I tell him. Just tonight.
Our bodies are touching and I feel his erection against my stomach.
Trouble is it wouldn’t end there. Before you know it there’d be more nights. And then.
Maybe some other time, I suggest
I don’t think so. Goodnight Sandrine.
I cant believe he’s walking away and we haven’t made love, hardly kissed. I must be losing my touch.

But the next day he leaves several messages on my phone asking me to contact him before I leave town.
I phone him after the third one.
I just need to check a few things for the article, he says.
I might have room to squeeze you in. what did you have in mind?
Can we chat at your place.
Chat. Yes, of course, two clock’s fine.
He’s hooked, I can tell. I check my hair in the mirror.
Sandrine, you’re a very bad girl. I giggle to myself.

Rue des Dames

Lucien Lacombe, Bistrot des Dames, Rue des Dames, Batignolles, Paris. September 2009.

It was right here, in the Rue des Dames, that I first set eyes on Sandrine Krantz. It was that moment that changed my life.

I had a little studio in the Place Fillion, a house in Montmartre, a beautiful English wife who loved me. Everything was roses.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not blaming Sandrine for any of this. What happens happens. Que sera sera. But if I hadn’t run across her that day in the Rue des Dames, maybe I’d still be happily married.

Instead I live alone, on the second floor of an art deco building in the Rue Truffaut. Maybe I should move away from here, to avoid the memories, like Sandrine did. But whatever I think, this is where I belong.

I remember that when we met, Sandrine was with a girl I knew, a street girl named Anouk. They both lived in the same building on Rue Truffaut. I was struck straight away by her dark good looks, and her ample figure. We got into conversation and I asked if she’d ever done any modeling. She laughed, said her mother had been a fashion model, but she herself had only sat for artists. She insisted that she was a poet, and her mind was going to be her living. From where I was sitting I’d have disagreed though.

I met my wife, Amy, when I was on a photography assignment in London. This was when I worked for a men’s magazine, and she was one of the models. Now I’d seen plenty of naked girls, but she was something else. Natural blonde hair, blue eyes, sweet smile, voluptuous body. The camera loved her, and in time so did I. We dated for a year then got married and came to live in Paris. But I digress.

Sandrine agreed to let me photograph her, if I’d read some of her poetry. She came round to my studio the next day, and I took some black and white photos of her in lace underwear. She looked terrific, very sensual. After that, we became good friends. She was always hanging around the cafes on the Rue des Dames, and we spent time together, chatting about intellectual things – poetry, literature, art. It was a refreshing change from Amy, who despite being a charming girl was not at all cultured. I found myself slowly being captivated by Sandrine.

At this time Batignolles was a hotbed of artists and writers, bohemians and intellectuals. Sandrine soon infiltrated this milieu, became muse to several poets, working her way through their bedrooms. She became the darling of the poetry circle, even had her work published in literary magazines.

Amy, on the other hand, busied herself by becoming a society hostess. She had style and panache, and our home was tastefully decorated. She loved to hold extravagant dinner parties and invite anyone who was anyone. She liked to demonstrate that the English could beat the French at their own game – cooking – and she did so with aplomb.

I remember well the party to which Sandrine was invited, as my guest, during that fateful year, the year of the millennium. If memory serves me correctly there were six people present, including Raoul, a film producer, Emilie a young actress, and Jacques, a journalist. The party went with a swing, and Amy hit it off with Sandrine straight away. She even stayed behind to help clear up, and they continued drinking into the middle of the night, after I’d passed out on the sofa.

After that night Amy and Sandrine became good friends, and Sandrine spent more time round our house than she did in the cafés of Batignolles. I began to resent this, and although it sounds ridiculous, I believe I was jealous of my own wife. But I didn’t discover what was really going on until later.

A week or so later Sandrine posed for another set of photos, this time in the nude, and they were sensational. I tried to persuade her that she should turn professional, but she refused. She didn’t want to follow in her mother’s footsteps she said, she wanted to be known for her art.

Amy called by my studio one day and happened to see some of these photos displayed on the walls. She couldn’t stop staring at them. She’s very beautiful, don’t you think, she said. I agreed. Then she asked me if I’d slept with Sandrine, which I denied. Well, it was true, I hadn’t. If you mess with her, I’ll leave you, she said. I assured her that she need not worry.

One week later I found them in bed together. It was mid-afternoon, and for some reason I’d come home in the middle of the day, I can’t remember why now. The house was silent except for the occasional murmur of pleasure coming from the direction of our bedroom. I peered round the open door and saw them lying spread eagled together on the bed, both naked. Sandrine was lying on her back with Amy’s head between her legs. Amy turned her head and giggled. Darling, she said, what a nice surprise. Come on in, the fun’s just starting.

I glared at her. Suddenly I didn’t know my wife. I stared at her for what seemed like minutes, but probably wasn’t. Then I turned and stormed out of the house, started running back towards Batignolles.

After that Amy and I were never the same again. Although Sandrine left Paris soon after, we never recovered from that episode. Amy now lives in London with our daughter, Charlotte, and I visit them occasionally. We get on okay, but it’s just civil. She opened a successful bistro in Covent Garden and is married to a banker.

I didn't see Sandrine again until earlier this year when she showed up at my flat in Batignolles. God knows how she found me. We fell into each others arms and had a passionate affair that lasted a month or two. But I sensed that she was just passing through again, and so it was. One day she’d left, without a goodbye. I’ve spoken to her since, and she promises to call me up when she’s in town. Maybe we’ll even have sex again. Sandrine is like that, here one minute, gone the next. Nobody can pin her down, I know that now.

In a way I should have met her before Amy, then maybe things would have been different.

Photo of Sandrine by Lucien Lacombe

Mexicans lost in Mexico

I’m in between swims right now. Turning my attention to the doorstop. Mexicans lost in Mexico. Great title, and for once the writing lives up to the hype. The beauty of the prose is outstanding. Who could fail to be turned on by this tale of poets and poetry?

Maria Font is my new heroine. I only discovered her a few weeks ago but I’m developing what you might call an infatuation.

Maria lives with her sister Angelica in an outbuilding of a two-storey house on Calle Colima, in Mexico City, with her brother Jorgita and their parents. Her father is an architect. Angelica is the poet who won the prestigious Laura Damian literary prize at the tender age of only sixteen. Maria is her elder sister. Her poems have appeared in a literary magazine entitled Lee Harvey Oswald, and also in an anthology of Mexican poetry. The house is often full of poets and Maria is a kind of muse to them.

Maria is tall and dark with straight black hair, a straight nose and thin lips. She listens to Billie Holiday and Astrud Gilberto, and paints whilst reading poetry. Maria has slept with several poets – Luscious Skin, Moctezuma Rodriguez, even young Garcia Madero. She is also a friend of a hooker named Lupe.

Why do I feel such empathy? Well, I used to know a girl just like Maria. It was several years ago, when I lived in Batignolles, a district of Paris. I used to be that girl. I was Maria Font, in all but name.

That’s all I know for now. If I find out any more I’ll let you know.

Room with a view

Forster set his Room with a View in Florence. My view is from the balcony of our room here, and possibly more enchanting than EMF. I can see the calm waters of the lake, the mountains in the backdrop, the little towns on the opposite side of the water, the batello as it nears the jetty down below.

It’s early in the morning and I’m dragging on the first cigarette of the day. From below the smells of baking come drifting up from the kitchen as breakfast is prepared. The bells on the village church have just pealed out six thirty. Behind me Tamara lies asleep in our huge king sized bed. It would probably sleep three people, that bed. Her blonde hair spread across the pillow, her face as cool and calm in sleep as it is when awake.

I’m thinking about my nightmare last night. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was enough to make me cry out, and I woke sobbing uncontrollably. I felt Tamara take me in her arms and comfort me, her soft kisses on my hair, her arms enfolding me. I lay with my head on her shoulder for a long time, unable to move. Not wanting to move. Eventually I fell asleep, but when I awake we are separated, and Tamara lies quietly asleep on her back.

I watch her sleeping for a while. I want to kiss her lips, wake her with my tongue, roll it down her soft white bosom and lick her belly. I pull the covers back and carefully slide in next to her, my hands caressing her waist.

She sleeps on. I let my fingertips play on the elastic of her underwear. If only I could slip a finger into her sweet flower. But I daren't.So I came out here onto the balcony.

It’s been idyllic so far, and I feel sad to leave this beautiful place. I remember my stay here that spring, with Helene. Now Tamara has come into my life. Tomorrow we must leave, but Dr Gerhard has invited us to visit him, across the border in Switzerland.

Maybe there, at last, Tamara and I will become closer.

The History of Nothing

I'd never seen this before I visited the Tate last week. It's in the section entitled States of Flux, situated in small darkened room. This short film consists of a series of images created by Paolozzi in the early 60’s, accompanied by an eerie soundtrack. Although the name Eduardo Paolozzi sounds foreign he was actually born in Scotland. I recall reading about Paolozzi in J G Ballard’s marvelous memoir Miracles of Life. Ballard was a friend of his for thirty years, and they both remained at the cutting edge of their fields during that time.

I find the entire States of Flux exhibition fascinating – Duchamp’s Bride Stripped Bare- Robert Frank’s snapshots of America – the Soviet poster collection Red Star Over Russia – Andy Warhol’s cow wallpaper – and the Fluxus display of newspapers.

That night Alistair and I discuss the provocative nature of some of the images we’d seen at the Tate – Paul McCarthy’s lurid films – Ana Mendieta pouring blood over herself – Marlene Dumas’ obsession with the female body – we agree that most of this is gratuitous and no longer shocking. The talk then turns to erotica and I let slip that I’m friendly with an English erotic artist.

Alistair doesn’t seem that surprised, though he hasn’t heard the name of David Russell. But then he isn’t into that kind of art, preferring the abstract expressionists. He is however impressed by my knowledge of art and suggests that I should join his organization, maybe even as partner. Since Alistair is involved in both wine and art it is tempting and I'm flattered by his offer.

I don't think it's a good idea, I say, to mix business with pleasure.
He laughs - Isn't that precisely what we've been doing this past year?
On an ad hoc basis. But I couldn't commit myself any further at this stage.
You really are a work of art, he says, his hand cradling my waist. We roll onto the bed.
You drive me crazy, he hisses in my ear. I can't resist you any longer.
I struggle as he pushes my skirt up, loosening my blouse, his ardour mounting. He kisses my neck, my bosom, my stomach. I feel almost powerless to resist.
My mobile rings, and Alistair curses. I reach out and answer it.
It's Patrick, the guy I met on the train.

Bonjour Sandrine, he says. We met yesterday, on the TGV.
Hi Patrick, I say. I can already see a jealous look on Alistair’s face.
Listen, I don’t have much time. Are you free Saturday afternoon?
Maybe. What did you have in mind?
Would you meet me for lunch at the Opera House. Is that okay?
Alistair looks quite uncomfortable. This is delicious.
Okay, I’ll meet you at say one o clock. Saturday.
I hang up.
Who’s this Patrick, says Alistair.
Just a guy, I say, another business contact.
I thought you and I were having dinner on Saturday night?
It’s not a problem. There are such things as taxis.
Is he in the wine trade?
Not as such, I say. More the publishing business. He might be able to help with my poetry.
How fucking interesting, he says. He actually said fucking. And he never swears usually.
I want to slap his face, right there. Instead I just wipe my mouth and throw my tissue at him.
You don’t own me, Alistair. Nobody owns me, okay?
Really? How about Etienne wines.
I get up and sling my bag over my shoulder.
I’m leaving now.
Go ahead. Just don’t forget our unfinished business.
I want to tip the wine bottle over his head, but think better of it. Instead I turn on my heels and leave.

Dinner with Tamara

So we have dinner, Tamara and I.

Her restaurant is in the main thoroughfare that stretches alongside the River Sorgue. Here there are many restaurants cafes and bars – perhaps too many for them all to succeed? When I arrive it’s early evening and the place is deserted. Tables are laid in anticipation, menus are chalked up, but as yet no customers. I venture into the adjacent building and find Tamara seated at the bar reading the latest Midi Libre.

We sit outside consulting the wine list. I tell her of my experience in the wine trade, and she is quite impressed.
I could do with somebody who knows their wine, she says, suggesting I order the drinks. I choose a bottle of rose from Bandol. I also recommend Etienne’s vineyard, which she has heard of, but not done business with.

Soon the wine has loosened our tongues. She’s giving me a potted history. The story so far.
Like me, Tamara never graduated from university, but dropped out from classics studies to spend time drifting around the Med with her boyfriend. They married at twenty, too early says Tamara, and it soon turned sour.

The husband stayed in England, but Tamara returned to the Midi, looking for a job in catering. It was, she says, the turning point. She discovered she loved cooking, and worked her way up from the bottom.Now she’s in her late thirties, and her second marriage seems to be less than secure. But it’s difficult to leave, she explains, because of Sebastian, her son.

Normally, I’m a bit reticent, with people I’ve just met. Yet for some reason, I’m inclined to be totally honest with her.

I tell her about Sandrine, and Krantz, and what happened to them. How Etienne took over my life, after the accident. About my love affair with Helene. I even tell her about Batignolles – Anouk, Erotic Amy, Lucien, things I’d buried deep. How Gerhard helped me during my mental breakdown, and subsequent recovery.

I even tell her about David, the English painter I met on the internet, a few years back. She seems genuinely interested, and uncannily, she has a page on the same website. I suggest she writes to him.

Tamara covers the bill and we walk across to her car. She leans back in her seat.
I glance at the steering wheel, wondering how far over the limit she is. The needle is hitting speeds of over one hundred along the road towards Apt.
You’re so pretty Sandrine. How come you never married?
Haven’t you guessed yet, I say.
She just sighs. Come on, let’s get you home. Where is it?
Next right, just follow the signs for Menerbes. Keep going past the village and I'll tell you when to stop.
Soon we’re hurtling along the tree lined roads and the wind is playing havoc with my hair.
Tamara glances at me and smiles.
I’m so glad we met, she says.
Tears are streaking my face as the car takes a bend too fast. She laughs.
Whoops, good job there’s no traffic.
For the first time in years, I feel great. I’d be quite happy if it ended right here, right now, on this stretch of road, with the wind in my hair and Tamara next to me.
That night, I dream of Sandrine, and her wonderful smile. I realise, that’s what Tamara’s smile reminds me of. It all comes back to that, in the end. Sandrine.
I wake up and wonder if it was all a dream. A terrible, beautiful dream.

The Brooding Silence

The afternoon sun beats down. The surface of the pool is undisturbed, for the moment. There are two of us on the terrace, myself and Etienne. Etienne et moi.

We’re alone because Francine, Etienne’s wife of almost two years, has moved out to live with her family in Marseille. One argument too many, is how Etienne explained it. He doesn’t seem concerned that she may not return. Not now I’m here to keep him company, at least. His muse is back, and he seems relaxed.

Apart from the background hum of the cicadas, it's eerily quiet here. The silence is almost menacing. I know what Camus meant when he referred to the Luberon as “an enormous block of silence” The mountain seems to be waiting – for what I don’t know. But it sits there like a slumbering giant.

There is also a silence between Etienne and I, tension in the air. We are suddenly uncomfortable with each other. There are looks exchanged that say more than mere words. Behind his sunglasses I feel his eyes boring into me, observing my body as I prepare to dive into the still waters of the piscine. After my swim, I sense his eyes lingering on my wet swimsuit, on the nipples almost piercing the stretched lycra.

Inside the house, we pass each other in the narrow spaces, almost touching. We take meals together, we sit in the lounge together, we are civil. I read magazines whilst Etienne is absorbed in the cycling on TV. He rejoices as a French rider, Voeckler, wins the stage to Perpignan.
You sure he’s French, I ask, with a name like Voeckler?
From Alsace, apparently, Etienne informs me. May I also point out that your name is hardly French, Mademoiselle Krantz, he adds.
I have to admit, he’s got a point.
It’s Jewish, I reply. The Jews are from everywhere, we don’t have a country.
That must be confusing.
Liberating actually, I tell him.

Then I describe to him in vivid detail my dream, from last night.
I’m in a dress shop in Paris, on the Avenue de Liberation, I tell him. I don’t even know if there is such a street.
I wouldn’t know he says, you’re the Parisian.
Anyway, I’m with Sandrine, and she’s modelling clothes, asking for my opinion, the way she used to. She looks wonderful in a short scarlet summer dress.
Somebody is tapping on the window of the shop behind me. I turn round and its you, smiling at me. Did we ever meet, I ask, while mama was alive?
Etienne rubs his stubble. Maybe once. But it wouldn’t have been in Paris. Maybe in Bordeaux, he suggests.
So we leave the shop, and we’re crossing the street, the three of us. Suddenly this car comes hurtling round the corner, heading straight for Sandrine. And as it comes nearer, I glimpse the driver’s face. It’s definitely Krantz.
Etienne shrugs. And then what?
I don’t know. I woke up right there. His face frozen in my mind.
Did you tell Gerhard?
Of course, I send him all my dreams.
What did he think?
He hasn’t replied yet.
It was only last night, Sandrine. I’m sure he’s not seen the message yet.
He reaches out and takes my hand subtly. I withdraw it quickly.

The funny thing is, I’d started to rationalise it in my brain. I was getting over it.
I was thinking about this the other day. What if she hadn’t died?
Well, my life would’ve been completely different. Almost certainly I wouldn’t have gone to Montaigne – which is where I met Helene. I doubt if Etienne would’ve been such a big influence on my life. Probably I’d have gone to University in Paris, like Sandrine. I might now be a safe suburban bourgeois housewife in some dull provincial town.
I might never have met anyone in my subsequent life – and I started thinking, maybe there was a reason for her death. There is a silver lining. Helene alone was almost worth it.

Later that evening, after drinking a bottle of wine from Etienne’s own vineyard, we’re in the tiny kitchen together. He’s staring at me as he finishes his glass. Then he snakes an arm round my wait and pulls me toward him. I try to resist but he’s too strong. He holds me tight, so close I can feel his erection against my stomach. He whispers my secret name, my birth name. He hasn’t called me that for ages.

Don’t worry, he’s saying. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.
I look up at him. I know he means well, but he’s part of the problem.
I need to move on, Etienne, I say. This is part of the past, don’t you see?
He nods. Please, he says, just tonight, for old times?
He strokes my hair, then kisses the nape of my neck. I’m fighting it, but another part of me wants him. Once he has lowered the straps on my dress it’ll be too late, as his tongue rolls down my cleavage. I remember how it used to be, when Etienne and I were lovers, back in Bordeaux. Before Helene came along and made things complicated.

The next morning it’s still quiet. I’m watching the sunrise over the Luberon. It’s the same every day but I don’t get tired of it. Am I tired of Etienne? I’m not sure any more. In the end we'd slept together, but without going all the way. I just lay in his arms for hours, curled up. Now he lies asleep, less powerful, more innocent than I’d seen him for years. His breathing the only sound in the echoing void of the Luberon dawn.