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.