– Tiens tiens, Sophie! Haven’t you done well.
Chantale had spent her last pay on a bottle of champagne and a new hairdo – a bright red permanent wave. She skipped through the apartment, waving her arms,
– I’m free! I’m free!
– What are you going to do for money? I said, pouring the champagne into coffee bowls.
– Don’t know, don’t care. Something will turn up.
We drank the champagne sitting on the floor. Chantale couldn’t believe my luck and wanted to know why the apartment had been empty for so long before me.
– French are too tenacious, I said.
Chantale made a face at me.
– Look who’s talking.
– I mean, that’s what they said, Chantale. They were worried a French person would insist on a long lease as their right, or might report them for renting illegally. That’s why they preferred a foreigner.
Chantale seemed a little put out. She lit a cigarette. The cigarettes were a new acquisition, too.
– That’s not fair.
– Like you renting me your room, Chantale.
– That’s different, she said, and fixed me with an icy stare.
I saw before me the tricky terrain of Parisians and apartment hunting. I saw I no longer had to negotiate it, and felt a weight lift. I chinked my bowl against hers.
– Did you bring my letters?
There was one from Matthew, one from my father, and one from Paul. Matthew’s was a big loose scrawl on the back of some flyers advertising a performance.
I might be making puppets for this play thing that’s happening and I’ve got an idea for a big scrap-metal sculpture. I’m sort of sharing a studio with this guy I met who’s from Melbourne, so that gives me the space I’ll need. London is cold (obviously) but I mean the English are such snobs in general. (Not all of them. I go to this pub where there are some good cockney types.) So I mainly hang out with the Aussies, mate …
The letter went on like this for a couple more pages, then, at the end, I read:
You still walk in and out of my dreams, Siobhan. I’m having quite a nice time with an actress called Polly and I know you and me weren’t working out but I miss you anyway. I might go back to Sydney in a few months or I might even come to Paris! I think I would like it better second time around. Could I sleep in your bath? Ha ha …
– I can get you a mirror for your bathroom, said Chantale. Bruno’s moving and wants to get rid of some things. It’ll have to be next week, though.
– But I’m going to the Alps, I said, putting Matthew’s letter back in its envelope.
He had painted the envelope. A wash of ochre and red was the desert, a blue rim the sky. In fine black ink, the letters like kindling, my name and address were scratched into the bottom left-hand corner. In the same black ink, Matthew had scattered the desert with little Aboriginal motifs. Mimi figures capered politely above the horizon. They looked as though they didn’t like it there.
– Leave me a key and I’ll drop it off, said Chantale. She lay full length on the parquet.
– Putain, I’m so tired! The less I work, the more tired I become.
– I’m the opposite. I can’t remember the last time I got a good night’s sleep.
I opened Dad’s letter. It was typewritten on hospital stationery.
Christmas greetings to you from Australia. I hope you are enjoying Paris, and that your abode is adequately heated.
My present to you this year is a proposition of sorts. If you can show me at the end of January that you have saved an amount between three and five hundred dollars, I will double it for you.
– Oof! Chantale groaned. We’ll have to find you a rug.
– What for? I like parquet floors.
– Too cold, too hard.
– Of course it’s hard. It’s a floor.
All is well here, except Fat Cat got a tick and was unconscious for two days. Your mother is working too hard – some sort of recital with her drama group. It all seems quite unnecessary to me, but she will insist on exhausting herself.
Keep well, Dad
Chantale picked up the letters as I discarded them. My eyes flew across the pages, anticipating what was written, anticipating the worst, and getting it. Chantale frowned, her mouth forming each word. Paul’s letter was on onion skin paper, folded twice. The creases were deep and I had to put things on all four corners to keep it open. It was disconcerting to see handwriting so similar to my own. Restrained, agitated, it crossed the page like lines of barbed wire.
Imagine my horror when I saw Dad bent over in pain. You would think, him being a doctor, an injury like a broken arm would be nothing. But it is his left arm, he is getting older, and the break is near the elbow.
– You need music here, Sophie.
I was disappointed to hear about those phone calls to Mum and Dad. You have been unfair in your demands, and ungenerous towards Dad. Kill me for it, but I must tell you this – someone has to. However oppressive you may think our upbringing was (and I know only too well, being the eldest boy, bear in mind it was me and Caroline that broke the barriers), it is no use railing against it. Try and be more positive. It is easy, when you are away, to imagine that things are a lot worse than they really are. It’s not that bad, it’s not as if he’s a child molester or a drunk or a philanderer. He just has high standards. That’s a quality, when it comes down to it …
– And a television, or at least a radio. You have to know what’s going on in the world, Sophie.
– Here’s the latest news, I said, waving Paul’s letter.
I tossed it aside. Like a dying bird it closed in on itself mid-flight and seesawed to the floor. There were photos in the envelope as well, but I didn’t want to see them. I lay on my back and looked up at the ceiling. Cracks ran in all directions, there were stains up there that looked as old as the building itself.
Chantale poked me in the ribs.
– So how’s your family?
– Boring as ever.
I closed my eyes. I could feel the heat of tears behind my eyelids. It seemed ridiculous, I forced the tears back inside my head.
– Haven’t you got anything more interesting to ask me?
– Come on, Sophie, you’re coming out. Let’s go for a walk.
– I think I’m drunk, Chantale.
I sat on the floor feeling foolish while Chantale rinsed the bowls and put on her coat. She threw my coat over me, and my gloves into my lap. She wrapped her scarf around me and pulled.
– Come on!