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.

The English Rose

Tamara – never Tammy, she hates the shortened version – is Gil's wife. I’d spoken to her briefly on the phone to arrange our meeting. She told me she’d sacked the immobilier, whom she said was incompetent. She's English, but her French is pretty good, now she’s lived over here for a number of years.

When we meet that evening at their house, it feels strange - I'm wearing her dress, for a start. But she’s very gracious and charming. Taller than I’d imagined, with a mane of glossy golden hair, deep brown eyes, and a slender physique. She speaks in the polished tones of a newsreader, and her voice makes me tingle. [The photo is taken from her web page]

Gil has already given me a tour of the house, but Tamara insists on showing me her pride and joy, the garden. As we walk I learn something of her life here. She's lived in the Midi for many years, and worked her way up from the bottom in the catering trade. When she met Gil, he already ran a successful business [selling cars]. Then she became pregnant with Sebastian, and they married and bought the little restaurant she now runs on the banks of the Sorgue.

I ask why they’re selling the house, and she looks sad for the first time.
Business is not so good, she says, maybe we need somewhere smaller?
It’s almost dark now, we’re sitting in the garden but its still quite warm.
How about you Sandrine, she asks. I don’t know anything about you, are you married, what do you do for a living?
Some other time, I say. I'd better get back. Etienne will wonder where I am.
That’s your husband?
No, he's my cousin. It's a long story.
She stands and pulls me up by both hands.
It’s been so nice meeting you, she says. We must have dinner, at my place.
I smile. That would be nice, I say.
She kisses me on both cheeks.
Keep the dress she says, it looks better on you anyway.
As I get in the car my heart is pounding. Tamara has made a deep impression on me. As she waves goodbye I feel excited at the thought of seeing her again. Maybe this is the start of a beautiful friendship?

House Hunting

It’s been a long day house hunting. I’m late for my final appointment, a detached maison in the Pays Sorgues. When I arrive there’s no sign of life. No response to my knock on the heavy oak front door. Nobody in the garden when I walk round the side of the property.

At the bottom of the garden, past the olive trees and the beautiful piscine, is a small cottage. It looks uninhabited, but when I try the door, to my surprise it opens. Inside, there are two main rooms. One is a kitchen dinner, the other a small bedroom, with an en suite bathroom. It’s all been beautifully decorated.

I’m standing before the large patio doors, looking out onto the veranda, when I’m startled by a voice, close to me, from behind.
Hands up. Don’t turn round, you’re under arrest, it threatens. A young voice, a boy’s voice, I reckon.
I turn round anyway, hands raised. I’m confronted by a menacing dwarf in combat fatigues, armed with a gun. The gun is loaded with water, and its owner is a boy of about 11 or 12.
I told you not turn round, he barks. You’re not supposed to be here.
He comes closer, affecting a snarl.
I’ve only come to look round your house, I tell him. Are your parents home?
I’m going to get my dad, he shouts.
Then the little beast fires a volley of water at me. From such close range, he could hardly miss. So I’m standing there, in this gite, my dress is saturated, and this man walks in. He’s very tall, tanned, balding, wearing shorts and sandals. He looks faintly amused by the situation, whereas I am not.
I’m sorry, he says, but Sebastian, my son, is trained to protect his property. He thought you were an intruder.
He’s very well trained, I say.
I didn’t know you were coming, mademoiselle….
Krantz. Sandrine Krantz. I arranged the appointment with your wife. I’m a little late though.
He nods.
I see, well, she’s at the restaurant right now.
He’s standing too close for my liking, staring at me.
You ought to get out of those wet clothes, he says.
It’s okay, I say, I don’t live far. It doesn’t matter.
Don’t be silly, I’m sure Tamara would love to meet you.
I hesitate for a moment. It would only take a flicker of weakness, and I sense he’s interested in me. His eyes are boring into mine, and his hands rest on his hips.
I’m sure my wife wouldn’t mind you borrowing one of her dresses? She’s about the same size. I imagine.
He’s looking me up and down. I feel uncomfortable.
You know I could have you arrested, he laughs. He leans forward, placing his hand on the wall above my shoulder. I can smell his breath. Faint traces of alcohol, and cigarettes.
I’m shivering now, it’s cool and my dress is sticking to my body. I try to stay calm, but he’s making me nervous.
I’m still waiting, he hisses, for you to take that dress off.
I look over his shoulder, to where a small figure stands still armed with his gun.
Papa, he shouts, are you going to torture her?
He looks angry, and his erection subsides quickly. Now it’s my turn to smile.
The man turns round laughing. It’s okay, son, he says, it’s just a misunderstanding. This lady is here to view our house.
He throws me a look.
You can use the shower, and there are some clothes in the wardrobe. Help yourself. Come up to the house when you’re ready.
Merci, I manage to stutter.