There is a distance, a veil between us.
– Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front, Ch. 6
Notting Hill, London, 6 June 2008
It’s summer but the rain drizzles tirelessly, all day covering rooftops and pavements with its shimmering net.
I get out of the tube, open my umbrella and hurry off along the High Street. Reaching the café, I stop and peer in – the place seems deserted.
I push the door and walk in. Inside, small round tables line up along the walls. I choose one close to the bar. Placing my umbrella on the floor, I sit down, perching on the edge of the chair.
I’m five minutes late.
He couldn’t have left already, could he?
I take my raincoat off and look around. The cafe is not only bare of clients, but waiters are also nowhere to be seen.
What a strange place, I think and try to take on more confident posture.
Some time passes.
Outside, the rain is still drizzling.
I pull my mobile out and put it on the table. Thoughts – one strangest than the other – start whirling in my head. I grab the menu and stare at it. Running my eyes over the list, I try to take my mind off him.
Suddenly, out of the unseen depth of the cafe a waiter in a white t-shirt and a pair of shabby blue jeans emeges.
“Are you ready to order?” He asks.
Startled, I stare at him. He stares back.
“Not yet.” I reply.
He shrugs indifferently and disappears, leaving me alone again.
I put the menu down and look at the clock hanging above the bar. Almost an hour has passed since my arrival. I must have mixed up with the dates.
I dial his number.
Something clicks and an automated message informs me: “The number is out of reach.”
London, 24 December 2010
Outside, big fluffy snowflakes silently swirl in a magical dance.
In the windows of an Edwardian house across the street a tall Christmas tree is visible. Hanging on the prickly paws are golden apples and walnuts, red bows and coloured nets with sweetmeats. Glittering in its glory, the tree twinkles merrily at me.
The church bells chime in the distance.
I move away from the window.
An aroma of pine tree and oranges wafts in the air. I throw a pleased glance at the Christmas tree, flickering in the dimness of my living room. A big shiny bauble on a lower branch catches my eye. The snowy Rockefeller Square1 is skilfully depicted on it. I think of my friends scattered around the world.
What are they up to right now?
I take my laptop and curl up on the sofa.
My inbox has new messages. I scan them quickly, mostly Christmas wishes but one email stands out. The sender’s name looks familiar. Intrigued, I click on the message. It opens up.
The doorbell rings.
I leap off the sofa and rush out into the hall.
The door opened, a frosty wind blows a handful of prickly snowflakes into my face.
At the doorstep Nicolas stands, a Russian ushanka-hat on his head and a bottle of French wine in his hands.
“Hey, you’re early.” I say.
“No, I am not. Right on time, as agreed, at seven.” He replies, presenting me with the bottle.
“Thanks. I must have been dreaming, then.”
“Yeah. The happy don’t keep account of time, as one of your Russian classics said once.”
“Do you mean Alexander Griboyedov?”2
“That’s right,” says Nicolas, pulling his hat off, and walks in. “That phrase is the only legacy left to me by my ex, a devotee of Russian classics.”
“And the hat?” I ask, smiling.
“And the hat too…”
I leave him in the hall and head to the kitchen.
Monte Carlo, 24 December 2010
Before me, the sea stretches out into the horizon. Above it, the dark purple clouds hang low in the sky.
I hear gusts of wind, crashing against the French windows of my room. With every gust the glass trembles and sweats down glistening droplets of rain.
I sit at the desk, cocooned by the soft glow of the candle standing by my laptop.
The sound of rushed footsteps and lifted voices is coming from downstairs. Maman is throwing a big reception tonight: her annual Christmas dinner. If it were for me I wouldn’t attend it. I hate chatting to the girls of her friends, pretending to be interested in nonsense they utter at me.
Directing my thoughts towards more positive subject, I Google her name, which by now has become so dear to me, and scroll through the links. A site that seems interesting catches my eye.
I click on it.
Suddenly, the door opens and in marches maman.
“Mum, why on earth you can never knock?” I cry out, deleting the page from the screen.
“What an annoying habit to sit in darkness,” she says and turns the light on.
I squint.
“Chéri3, why are you sitting at your desk, not ready? The guests will be arriving in half an hour and, apparently, you haven’t been to shower yet!”
