Read Online The Making of Minty Malone by Isabel Wolff - Free Book Online
Authors: Isabel Wolff
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the rail, and shut my eyes. Then the squeak and shriek of the pulley announced the return of the lift. The doors drew back with a throaty click, and a new batch of tourists was disgorged. Helen and I stepped in and began our long descent to the ground.
‘Where now?’ she said, as we walked away, slightly unsteadily, through the milling crowd.
‘Latin Quarter?’
‘OK.’
‘A little stroll in the Jardins du Luxembourg?’
‘Fine. How do we get there?’
‘Let’s take the Metro,’ I said.
As we walked down the steps into the station at Champs de Mars, we were hit by the dank, oily aroma of the underground, and the sound of a violin. Its tone was rich and sweet, and as we entered the tunnel it grew louder. I found myself wanting to follow the sound as though it were Ariadne’s thread. Halfway down the main walkway we found its source. An old man in a shabby black coat was playing a honey-coloured violin. His hair was sparse and white. His hands were papery and thin, and the veins on them stood out like pale blue wires. He must have been in his late seventies, maybe more. He’d rigged up a portable cassette player to provide ad hoc accompaniment, and he was playing Schubert’s Ave Maria. We automatically slowed our steps. He drew to the end of the piece, lifted off the bow, paused for a second, then began to play an old, familiar song. And as we stopped to listen, the words ran through my mind.
I see trees of green, red roses too …
‘How lovely,’ said Helen.
I see them bloom, for me and you …
‘Lovely,’ she repeated.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
His violin case was open at his feet. A few coins shone brightly against the worn black felt.
I see skies of blue, and clouds of white …
I put my hands in my jacket pocket, and drew out a 50-centime piece. Not enough. Not nearly.
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night …
I opened my bag for a note.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
Twenty francs? That would do. Or perhaps fifty. Or a hundred? It was only a tenner, after all.
I see friends shakin’ hands, sayin’, ‘How do you do?’ They’re really sayin’, ‘I love you. ’
That’s what Dominic said to me, when he proposed. But it wasn’t true. I knew that now. I looked at my diamond ring, sparkling on my right hand. Its facets flashed like frost.
I hear babies cry, I watch them grow ,
They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know …
I hesitated for a second, then pulled it off, and placed it amongst the coins.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
‘ Merci, madame ,’ I heard our busker say. ‘ Merci, madame. Merci. ’ He looked uncertain, so I smiled. Then we turned and walked away.
‘Are you sure?’ Helen said, handing me a tissue.
‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m sure.’
And I think to myself …what a wonderful world.
‘What a wonderful place,’ said Helen half an hour later as we strolled through the Jardins du Luxembourg in the late afternoon sun. Middle-aged men played chess under the plane trees; people walked their dogs across the lawns, and children spun their yo-yos back and forth, flinging them out with theatrical flourish, then reeling them in again, fast. Lining the paths were flowerbeds filled with roses, and, in the distance, we could hear the soft ‘thwock!’ of tennis balls. Helen consulted the guide.
‘Isadora Duncan danced here,’ she said. ‘And Ernest Hemingway used to come and shoot the pigeons.’
‘That’s nice.’
We passed the octagonal pond in front of the Palais, and walked down an avenue of chestnut trees. Joggers ran past us, working off their foie gras; sunbathers and bookworms lounged in park chairs. We could hear the yapping of small dogs, and the chattering of birds. This unhurried existence was a million miles from the fume-filled avenues of the centre. There was childish laughter from a playground. We stopped for a second and watched a group of children rise and
‘Where now?’ she said, as we walked away, slightly unsteadily, through the milling crowd.
‘Latin Quarter?’
‘OK.’
‘A little stroll in the Jardins du Luxembourg?’
‘Fine. How do we get there?’
‘Let’s take the Metro,’ I said.
As we walked down the steps into the station at Champs de Mars, we were hit by the dank, oily aroma of the underground, and the sound of a violin. Its tone was rich and sweet, and as we entered the tunnel it grew louder. I found myself wanting to follow the sound as though it were Ariadne’s thread. Halfway down the main walkway we found its source. An old man in a shabby black coat was playing a honey-coloured violin. His hair was sparse and white. His hands were papery and thin, and the veins on them stood out like pale blue wires. He must have been in his late seventies, maybe more. He’d rigged up a portable cassette player to provide ad hoc accompaniment, and he was playing Schubert’s Ave Maria. We automatically slowed our steps. He drew to the end of the piece, lifted off the bow, paused for a second, then began to play an old, familiar song. And as we stopped to listen, the words ran through my mind.
I see trees of green, red roses too …
‘How lovely,’ said Helen.
I see them bloom, for me and you …
‘Lovely,’ she repeated.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
His violin case was open at his feet. A few coins shone brightly against the worn black felt.
I see skies of blue, and clouds of white …
I put my hands in my jacket pocket, and drew out a 50-centime piece. Not enough. Not nearly.
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night …
I opened my bag for a note.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
Twenty francs? That would do. Or perhaps fifty. Or a hundred? It was only a tenner, after all.
I see friends shakin’ hands, sayin’, ‘How do you do?’ They’re really sayin’, ‘I love you. ’
That’s what Dominic said to me, when he proposed. But it wasn’t true. I knew that now. I looked at my diamond ring, sparkling on my right hand. Its facets flashed like frost.
I hear babies cry, I watch them grow ,
They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know …
I hesitated for a second, then pulled it off, and placed it amongst the coins.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
‘ Merci, madame ,’ I heard our busker say. ‘ Merci, madame. Merci. ’ He looked uncertain, so I smiled. Then we turned and walked away.
‘Are you sure?’ Helen said, handing me a tissue.
‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m sure.’
And I think to myself …what a wonderful world.
‘What a wonderful place,’ said Helen half an hour later as we strolled through the Jardins du Luxembourg in the late afternoon sun. Middle-aged men played chess under the plane trees; people walked their dogs across the lawns, and children spun their yo-yos back and forth, flinging them out with theatrical flourish, then reeling them in again, fast. Lining the paths were flowerbeds filled with roses, and, in the distance, we could hear the soft ‘thwock!’ of tennis balls. Helen consulted the guide.
‘Isadora Duncan danced here,’ she said. ‘And Ernest Hemingway used to come and shoot the pigeons.’
‘That’s nice.’
We passed the octagonal pond in front of the Palais, and walked down an avenue of chestnut trees. Joggers ran past us, working off their foie gras; sunbathers and bookworms lounged in park chairs. We could hear the yapping of small dogs, and the chattering of birds. This unhurried existence was a million miles from the fume-filled avenues of the centre. There was childish laughter from a playground. We stopped for a second and watched a group of children rise and
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