She fell into my eyes one summer Sunday when the Swissair steward brought her up front of the Caravelle to sit by me at the window. Locks of flaxen hair framing a soft bronze smile. And carelessly gathered up on top of her head in a loose bun. She squeezed past me into her place smelling like an enchanted wood. An anarchic visitation. Spare a risqué thought for those ripe melons tipped no doubt with little gold stars. Naturally I looked nonchalant and relaxed but felt the need to slip my hand under my shirt to feel what the heart was doing. I could feel it pounding in my ears. On this bright afternoon in Copenhagen people by so many slender goddesses.
And I was freshly tired from Chicago and slyly remembered the toss-up it had been at the last moment whether to break the journey at Copenhagen or Mexico City. But visa problems and the Bergmanesque lure of Scandinavia spelled out the choice. I chuckled that old enemy Fate should have played so coolly into my hands.
‘Fasten seat-belts, please!’ And now bands of webbing tightly stretched. Our thighs almost touching, thanks to the happy geography of economy class. From the shield of my dark glasses I spied the blonde down on her long brown legs. And cherished her hirsute haberdashery. Only the night before in Rush Street, Chicago, I had feasted on girls who wore their thoughts right out front so you could serve yourself like hamburgers at an automat.
Now, how to make her unbutton a smile for me and not the steward hovering lasciviously with plastic trays. Wished I’d had time to visit my wordsmith about a new phrase. She gurgled like a child as we rose through grey banks of cloud to see the sun setting on top of a silky white sea. I wanted to take her hand longing for turbulence. But instead said, ‘Mademoiselle, is this the first time you’ve traveled by Caravelle?’ She almost smiled and said: ‘No. I’m a student in Geneva and go home to Malmo three times a year.’ I said how funny I live in Geneva too. And told her I was married and liked Bach. We talked some time and quaffed frothy beer and I ventured to admire he new blonde moustache. This time she laughed but soon came the cool dry handshake after the touchdown.
However, a few days later a miracle calling to my cluttered office and a golden brown voice floated among the thudding typewriters. Vouchsafing me a day or two in the country. Two get-away people driving into rural France through tunneled roads of tall poplars: erstwhile sentinels of la Grande Armee. Now sad golden branches of a premature autumn. We lunched near Macon in a discreet way on hefty steaks and draught Beaujolais. I was amazed where she tucked all those goodies in her svelte frame. And loved her mobile eyes as she mopped up the sauce with bread and thrust an intimate fork into my salad.
Please feel free to spear my lettuce while I gobble you up under the smooth silk. Oh, mademoiselle, you don’t know me well, but on one of these chill autumn nights can’t I creep into your narrow student’s bed. In this arid autumn season of mine. She said gently she did but not for me please and it wall all a matter of chemistry. But she smiled as she said it and patted my sad knuckles.
That evening in the Casino at Annecy we danced until two and at the bar bumped into two people I knew. She understood at once and said I’ll meet you in the car while I handed out several drinks as bribes. Later I found her asleep on the back seat like a lovely doll placed reverently there by a child.
Later that night I was tormented by the thought of her in the next room brushing her teeth and stretching like a tiger between lonely sheets. And in my own sleepless bed hopelessly islanded by a Siberia of raging linen.
A few days afterwards the telephone rang in my office space and I put the talking instrument to my grey face hoping someone would vouchsafe a few smiling words. She says can we meet for lunch, there’s something I must tell you. I said sure I’ll pick you up at twelve as I could use some sympathetic news.
And through the blood red goblet her wide green eyes almost misty as she said thank you again for a wonderful weekend. But you know it can never be. Even with all love’s charity. Do call me again though sometime. But not too soon please. Turning away I was old. And almost wished I’d come back to Europe via Mexico City.
Roger Collis 1966 The Guardian
Tags: The Guardian