E
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K
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W
E owned a duplex flat over by the Giza
pyramids. The huge roof terrace overlooked the Sphinx and two of the
pyramids and most of the windows in the flat also shared that view.
We sat once, just before his disappearance, watching the light show
beam coloured rays onto the historic structures.
He was troubled by the view; saying it
made him feel claustrophobic and he felt that the presence of these
ancient emblems were possibly a curse that he could never escape.
Before we had first kissed, in an
elevator purposefully stuck between floors, I was attracted only to
his mind and found his physical being completely out of my radar.
However the kiss had to happen – he willed it and I felt it
necessary – in order to see if an alchemy of attraction could
occur. It did.
He had told me in our beginning
acquaintance about 6 months earlier that he was still legally married
but that his wife had left him 14months before and lived in Syria
with their small child. New to the Arab system of relationships I
applied a Western paradigm which led me to think that enough time had
passed to safely say she would not return and that he was therefore a
single man.
We began an affair. Rather a
passionate one. Of mind and body, also hopes. He resembled a Mafia
type – large, middle aged, chauvinistic, wearing suits most of the
time and driving a car whilst holding his cigarette out of the
window. He liked cakes and coffee and would take me around the city
to many of the Belle Epoch cafes, his Gemini self always conversing
and interested in ideas. He suggested I take the flat, whilst he
would live elsewhere – the system of 'reputation' needing to be
upheld it being Egypt and us being unmarried. I moved my one
suitcase into the 5 bedroom apartment and spent my days reading or
dreaming on the roof and my nights a mix of carnal visits and then
sleeping alone. E gave me use of his gofer who was instructed to get
me anything I needed and a cleaning maid. He was specific that I
should not go out myself unless with him or on a cleared through him
visit somewhere.
Then on Valentine's Day, amidst the red
satin sheets and candlelight, he told me that the two families of his
and his wife's had met and that it had been agreed that his wife
should come back. Which she had. He said he would see me the next
day and we could talk. I left Cairo after one week of his
disappearance – knowing full well what it all meant and did not
speak, see or receive a message from him again for over one year.
By the time we did communicate again I
had had other lovers and stories and the pain and confusion I had
felt about the non-end-end had diminished. I told him I was coming
back to Cairo to set up an arts residency and was looking for
suitable venues; he suggested I took the duplex, for free, and that
he would be a silent partner – funding the start up and only
drawing an element of profit if and when it was made. I felt so
pleased that he and I were managing to salvage something worthwhile
out of our relationship and genuinely happy that he was ensconced
with his wife and child.
Two days after my return he picked me
up from a friend's to take me over to the flat. After driving for
about twenty minutes he announced that he and his wife were now
divorced and that she had returned again to Syria and he asked to
marry me. I was more than surprised. I had seen our relationship
now as nothing more than a business partnership and a revived
friendship and more to the point I had no feelings for him anymore
and certainly no physical attraction. Nevertheless on hearing the
proposal I felt I should give it some thought, so I asked for two
weeks to answer – and stipulated that in that two weeks I wanted us
to be only friends and not speak of the proposal again in that time.
E could not let the situation rest. He
kept looking and asking for proof of my affection or any sign of hope
that my answer would be favourable. I made the mistake of holding
his hand one day, a gesture that I sincerely felt to do but had
naively downplayed its signal. After two weeks I gave him my answer
– No. From that point on over the next few weeks he became
increasingly angry to the point of bullying me and also trying to
corral me into the flat. He also presented me with a contract he had
cooked up, which gave him more rights in the business partnership,
and demanded I signed it. I saw that I had to leave and to leave
quietly, and so one late morning, whilst the gofer was on an errand
and the cleaning lady wasn't yet there, a friend came to pick me up
and we exited with my bags and drove to the oasis sanctuary of
Fayoum.
E sent me many nasty messages and I
blocked him from every aspect of my life. The trip to Fayoum began a
whole new tale.. one that I shall tell another time..
K
I went into Justine
bar, on rue Oberkampf, as a homage to the Marquis de Sade's book of
the same name. The night was already seductive, for how can Paris
not be, even the grey street was sparkling in the light rain.
K was sat at the bar
drinking a beer, I ordered a margarita, he smiled. We talked a
little, drank some more, then moved to the dance floor and totally
grooved to some great tunes. At some point within the dancing and
laughing he kissed me and it was sublime – like one of those
storybook moments where everything stops.
It was only then that I
actually truly looked at him – and I liked his verve.
I left him, the bar,
the night and went back to my hotel – but I also left my phone
number – and he called next day whilst I was at Versailles. I was
overwhelmed by the narrative of decadence and changing fortunes, by a
nation and its collective anger and it was not lost on me that K
being a 2nd generation Algerian had faced the country's
will in his own near ancestry and even though he was a Parisian with
a camel hair coat and designer clothes the French never let him feel
included in their circle of love.
We met in a bar
somewhere behind the Marais, we drank mojitos, we kissed a lot, we
did this for several nights.
One night we went
walking as Paris slept, treading through those perfect streets as if
on the way to a miracle, enchanted by our very selves. When we
arrived at the Seine it was on fire – we had charged it with our
heat and we delighted in its flames. And by that river we read each
other's body, allowing each and every line to exist. It was a true
ecstasy and he created it with his versed hands upon my refrain and
with our last kiss that night, as I turned to look upon the city's
bejewelled dark mirror, I saw a white minotaur running – glorious,
free and revelling.
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W
I met him at the end of
a crazy night at some club near the sea front of the Cornish town of
Penzance. Believe me, the people in that place know how to party. I
know, I lived there for 12 years.
It was a cold January
night, I had put on my black fake fur and gone up to the bar to say
goodbye to someone, as I turned it was as if I had fallen right into
his aura, the whole room ceased to exist and there was only he and I
locked in each other's gaze. He said, 'Who are you? You're like a
French film star.' I laughed and said 'Who are you?' He told me his
name and I asked where he was from. 'Belgium?' I replied, 'I've
never met any contemporary Belgians before.' He laughed and said the
word 'Contemporary..?' and I laughed too at my own choice of word.
He told me he had to photograph me. I said OK but that I had to be
going and we could set it up another time, he said 'No way! I only
just met you! You can't leave me now.' So, we went out on the
frosted street and headed to an after club party.
The party was insane
but we stayed talking and with every word I felt star struck and he
too, it was as if we were twin souls that until that night had been
thwarted in meeting. I was so overwhelmed that I decided to leave.
He wrote his number on a piece of paper. I left.
The next evening I
looked for his number and couldn't find it, I searched the pockets of
my coat and its inner lining, my purse, even my boots. The number
had gone.
In a small town like
Penzance everyone knows everyone, but Wim wasn't staying in Penzance
– he was staying in the wilds of The Lizard peninsula and noone
knew him in our town. It was as if he didn't exist at all.
For three days I
searched the small alley ways behind where the party had taken place,
looking in the sprouting grasses, under small stones. I had already
searched the rooms in the house that the party had been in. I walked
up and down Market Jew St in the dead of night, wishing with each
breath that the wind would blow that paper towards my hands. But each
night I would return home without fortune.
On the 4th
day I meditated on his whereabouts and decided to send a letter to a
farm on The Lizard that I felt might know of him. I enclosed my
number for them to pass on.
On the 7th
day he called.
We were in a swirl; of
words and feelings; of hopes and desire. He said he needed to see
me, to be with me, and that he wanted to bring his camera so he could
capture me into a monochrome forever. I decided to have a party in
his honour and I called it The Red Party. I invited my closest
friends of which there were many; maybe 20 people; and I put rose
petals upon the floors and filled the party with red wine and
pomegranate vodka cocktails, pink champagne, tequila sunrises, red
grapes and apples, wild red rice and rich tomato and red pepper
sauces, nachos and red skin nuts. I wore my red velvet dress and I
waited for his arrival – alive and on fire. The party was amazing,
like a soft acid trip but the hours went by and he wasn't there, I
felt my heart constricting like a bird in fright, I couldn't hear any
words that were not his nor see anything but the door which each time
it opened did not deliver him. Finally at about 1.30am he arrived
and we were held again in an immovable gaze, so much that the two of
us did not go towards each other for what felt like minutes. Then
suddenly he broke the look by saying my name and he moved towards me
with such intent, taking me into his very being. After this I didn't
move from his side, nor he from mine. We stayed until long after
dawn had broken; dancing with each other; laughing; kissing. We
walked in our resplendent party clothes down to the sea, through the
early morning sub tropical gardens hand in hand. We took our shoes
off at the water and kissed with our feet in the waves. We went back
to my home and stayed together in bed for that day until the next.
But he had to leave.
He need to travel back to Gent and would be there for some months
working on a magazine shoot. He said he couldn't see me the last day
he was in Cornwall for his heart couldn't take the goodbye.
He wrote me letters.
Long, long letters; 4 pages, 8 pages, 10 pages. He sent me music and
parts of poems or narratives. He said he needed to see me. I told
him I would be going to Paris and he begged me to come to Gent after.
I said yes.
The full moon shone
down onto the Parisian streets and told me things I did not want to
hear. It said he was no longer who I thought, it said he had gone.
I told myself that this was my fear. Paris loved me and I loved it
back, fiercely and with excitement. The days there passed in a
constant inspiration of poetry and poets, writers and artists, food
and music and art and those defyingly beautiful streets and
buildings, those beautiful people. It was with a reluctance that I
left but I told myself to put my fear aside and to move towards this
man who seemed like my fate.
I met him as arranged
by the fountain outside Gent train station. I was sat upon the low
circular stone wall surrounding the water, facing it. He came up
behind me and put his hands upon my eyes, I turned and he put a
flower into my hands and kissed me – but his lips felt cold. I
went to kiss him again but he moved his face and said that we must
go. I felt a weight pressing in on my heart.
We got into his classic
small van, like that of a 1940s baker, and trundled towards his home
– which at that time was a huge old Leyland truck fitted out with a
wooden galley kitchen, double bed and small sitting area, parked up
on a big green field next to various stone outhouses which he was
using as his studio and dark room spaces.
He didn't speak much as
we drove, he just smoked cigarettes and played music; jazz. We
arrived at his place and as we got into the truck he said that he'd
made me a vegetable tagine and he handed me a beer. He took a seat
and gestured for me to sit down also, opposite him, slightly away. I
felt like my death was coming and I wanted it to come quickly,
without the agony of any charade or pain.
The next hours were
horrendous and I cannot explain them in detail; only some parts. We
drank the beer, he rolled a joint, he spent some time just looking at
me, studying my face, putting his hands to his own face in displays
of despair and finally he spoke, 'Why did you come?'. At these words
my being sickened. I replied that he had asked me, that he had
written many long letters in fact begging me to see him – at this
he went to a draw and pulled out another long letter and told me to
read it when I was far from him. I began to cry, silently. All I
wished for was to be gone, to disappear, to not have to do what I was
going to have to do which was to extract myself and deal with getting
home to Cornwall from this rural location miles away in Europe and
over the sea. He produced dinner and told me I should eat, that he
had made this food especially for me. I said I couldn't eat. He
became angry. I looked out of the window, across that green field
that seemed so innocent and at ease, and I wondered how I could get
back to the train station from this obscure place. Then suddenly he
wailed, 'Oh! What have I done!' and he grabbed me passionately and
begged me to forgive him, saying over and over, softly now, that he
had been confused, that he loved me – Yes! That he needed me, that
oh! He had upset me, no! And he kissed me until I returned the kiss,
he held me until I returned the holding and he asked me over and over
to forget everything from these last hours. But then in the midst of
that he pulled away suddenly and again put his head in his hands now
saying loudly that he was in love. I knew this was not with me. I
told him to go to her. I said it softly, as someone that knows it is
over. More time passed. The dark had fallen around us and within
us. He lit some candles, he continued to smoke, we drank some more
beer, he fell in and out of long monologues of his confusion then
silence. Sometimes he said we could never be together. Other times
he said we must leave immediately for some days in Amsterdam – that
it was this place, these surroundings that were destroying him. He
said if only I had been with him, stayed with him from the beginning,
that everything he had done was because he was tortured without me.
Other times he said he knew the love he had for the other girl was
real and that what he thought he'd felt for me was all fake. He
pleaded insanity. He said his father had been mad and now he too was
unwell. Throughout it all I didn't speak. Then he exclaimed, 'I
want a girlfriend that eats half a goat roasted on a fire, that eats
cheese as the sun sets!' The absurdity gave me some strength and I
said that I would leave that night and could he drive me to the train
station. He didn't reply, just looked at me for some time, then he
grabbed me towards him and began to cry, huge heaving sobs. And in
the middle of the crying he put his mouth on mine and began to kiss
me again and this time it felt real and I felt that within this mess
we perhaps had finally reached a plateau of sincerity and we made
love, slowly, beautifully.
But then when all the
beauty was done, when we should be lying in each other's arms with
tenderness, he struck the cold metal blade into my heart as he said,
'Now it is over. I will take you to the station first thing in the
morning.'
I had to sleep that
night in the truck, with him by my side but not by my side. And the
night was freezing and I was cold in every single way, through my
very core, through my very existence. And to stay sane I thought of
the people that loved me, my friends, I thought of their smiles and
their warmth. And finally the dawn came and we got up, without one
word passing between us and he passed me a coffee, wordless, without
looking at me. He ate. But I could not. And finally he just
gestured to my bag and we went out to the van and he drove in the
cold rain and when we reached the train station he took my bag from
the back and handed it me and we did not say anything. And he got
back into the van and drove away.
In that train station I
cried and cried, endless tears, now with no witness – for it did
not matter much to me what strangers saw. It took me 16 hours to get
back to the shores of west Cornwall and to the arms of people that
truly loved me.
I burnt all his letters
and dissolved their ash.
Nothing more passed
between us, not one word.
5 years later, it was a
beautiful sunny June day in Penzance and I decided to wear the shoes
with blue flowers on that I had worn the day I met him at that Gent
fountain – and not worn since. I walked along the flower filled
alley ways and went with a light step to the library. After looking
through various books and music collections I used a computer to
check my emails and there – in my hotmail inbox – was an email
from him. He said that he was in Albania on a photo-journalistic
travel and had spent several weeks in a hospital in a near death
state. He did not specify why or how. But he said that on waking
from a partial coma his only thought was me and that he had seen my
face and my smile and it brought him back to life. This was all he
said. I wrote back immediately asking him for details of his illness
and about his condition now and expressing worry and concern but also
saying that I only wished him well and that crazily only that morning
I had worn the shoes with the blue flowers that I had worn when we
had last met. He wrote back to say I was in his heart and hoped he
would be forever in mine. I wrote back asking what Albania was like
and that I only knew it from a childish fantastical way of TinTin's
adventures in countries that seemed to be akin. He wrote back with
one line 'Yes, I know who TinTin is, the author was Flemish.
Goodbye.'
And that was that.
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