used to call her, or sometimes ‘La Princesse’ because she was European and rather imposing. He hoped she wouldn’t stay to hear his set. She was the superior poet and she knew it. He couldn’t have said he actually wanted the police to burst in and arrest her for being out after the curfew – for one thing, they’d probably have taken half the audience with them if they did. But an incident like that would solve his problems.
He seemed to remember kissing her once. Did they have sex? He couldn’t remember. He only remembered a cherry liqueur taste to her mouth, while at the same time acknowledging it was absurd, an indulgence of old age to coat a memory with such a thing. He felt the saliva glands at the sides of his mouth prick at the memory – the false memory – of that cherry sweetness.
But she knew him. She could see him looking at her. She pushed her stick into the ground. A stick. Christ, how much time had passed since they’d seen each other? She stood up and walked over to him.
She had always treated him with condescension, as he remembered it. But now she was smiling graciously, tears in her eyes.
‘How you people have suffered. You were always a great man, Jesmond. But to do this…’
A poetry reading? He searched her crepy old face for a hint that she was mocking him. Or perhaps she was merely insincere, like one of those annoying people who have been brought up to be polite, the sort who used to come round to his house for a spaghetti Bolognese in student days and gush on and on and on about how delicious it was and ask for the recipe. But she was sincere, moved. The tears sparkling in her eyes proclaimed it, and the coppery crème eyeshadow glittering in the folds of her eyelids complimented the tears very nicely, in a slightly gaudy way. Her whole eye area was like a muted indoor firework display. He could have plucked her eyeballs from the sockets and strung them up and set them twirling with the tears still on them and they could have served as disco balls for fairies or other tiny creatures in some miniature dance hall.
Her fingers were splayed sideways by arthritis, so when she held them up, it looked as if she was about to make a kooky, self-deprecating joke. He took hold of her hands to pull her towards him, and he kissed her and – extraordinary miracle – he got a faint taste of cherry on her lips, something artificially sweet and fiery. It must be some lozenge she habitually ate, and had been sourcing and sucking on for more than twenty-five years. Extraordinary. He ran his tongue along his lips. Unless it was lip gloss? Did women of her age wear lip gloss or had that fallen out of fashion, linked to a time of pop stars and triviality? She noticed him smiling. She nodded once, very slowly. What was she acknowledging, exactly? She might have thought the kiss reminded him of their earlier tryst. She looked relieved, touched, grateful, as if she had remained young in one man’s heart. He couldn’t ask about the cherry taste, it would have been unchivalrous. She would go home tonight and look in the mirror before she rubbed the cream on her face to take off her make-up, and she would think, ‘You’ve still got it, girl.’ Whatever else he was, he was enough of a gentleman to let her have her dreams. After all, she had restored his to him with one kiss. It seemed that his other sugar-coated – cherry-coated, if you will – memories might not be the foolish reminiscences of an old man. Maybe she (not The Princess but she ) had loved him as much as he remembered she had.
He suddenly felt flustered, wished he had not entrusted the letters to Lucas’s wife. What had he been thinking? He always used to swear that he would not part with them until he died. It was only recently that he had come to see it as absurd that he was hoarding letters from himself . But he had come to a decision – he shivered, felt almost a superstition about it – he would return to Lucas’s the following
He seemed to remember kissing her once. Did they have sex? He couldn’t remember. He only remembered a cherry liqueur taste to her mouth, while at the same time acknowledging it was absurd, an indulgence of old age to coat a memory with such a thing. He felt the saliva glands at the sides of his mouth prick at the memory – the false memory – of that cherry sweetness.
But she knew him. She could see him looking at her. She pushed her stick into the ground. A stick. Christ, how much time had passed since they’d seen each other? She stood up and walked over to him.
She had always treated him with condescension, as he remembered it. But now she was smiling graciously, tears in her eyes.
‘How you people have suffered. You were always a great man, Jesmond. But to do this…’
A poetry reading? He searched her crepy old face for a hint that she was mocking him. Or perhaps she was merely insincere, like one of those annoying people who have been brought up to be polite, the sort who used to come round to his house for a spaghetti Bolognese in student days and gush on and on and on about how delicious it was and ask for the recipe. But she was sincere, moved. The tears sparkling in her eyes proclaimed it, and the coppery crème eyeshadow glittering in the folds of her eyelids complimented the tears very nicely, in a slightly gaudy way. Her whole eye area was like a muted indoor firework display. He could have plucked her eyeballs from the sockets and strung them up and set them twirling with the tears still on them and they could have served as disco balls for fairies or other tiny creatures in some miniature dance hall.
Her fingers were splayed sideways by arthritis, so when she held them up, it looked as if she was about to make a kooky, self-deprecating joke. He took hold of her hands to pull her towards him, and he kissed her and – extraordinary miracle – he got a faint taste of cherry on her lips, something artificially sweet and fiery. It must be some lozenge she habitually ate, and had been sourcing and sucking on for more than twenty-five years. Extraordinary. He ran his tongue along his lips. Unless it was lip gloss? Did women of her age wear lip gloss or had that fallen out of fashion, linked to a time of pop stars and triviality? She noticed him smiling. She nodded once, very slowly. What was she acknowledging, exactly? She might have thought the kiss reminded him of their earlier tryst. She looked relieved, touched, grateful, as if she had remained young in one man’s heart. He couldn’t ask about the cherry taste, it would have been unchivalrous. She would go home tonight and look in the mirror before she rubbed the cream on her face to take off her make-up, and she would think, ‘You’ve still got it, girl.’ Whatever else he was, he was enough of a gentleman to let her have her dreams. After all, she had restored his to him with one kiss. It seemed that his other sugar-coated – cherry-coated, if you will – memories might not be the foolish reminiscences of an old man. Maybe she (not The Princess but she ) had loved him as much as he remembered she had.
He suddenly felt flustered, wished he had not entrusted the letters to Lucas’s wife. What had he been thinking? He always used to swear that he would not part with them until he died. It was only recently that he had come to see it as absurd that he was hoarding letters from himself . But he had come to a decision – he shivered, felt almost a superstition about it – he would return to Lucas’s the following
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