I wonder if I’m gonna meet Charlie along one of the park’s alleys, so crowded all day long, filled with children unsuccessfully alluring squirrels with nuts, with all-ages tourists, hucksters, parrots forecasting your future for only two pounds Let Rico-the-Wizard tell fortunes for you, young lady, and photos with stuffed animals or costumes of the period, and so quiet in the humid and umbrageous gloom of the November nights, about who knows what café from the neighborhood, or on the cliff of the river, counting the stars. We have never made a date, or a promise: we used to have our own life, forbidden for the other one, but above all, because of our wordless faith, that the connection between us is more than words can tell, and that any attempt of changing something – a look back, an expensive present, a jealousy scene – would ruin everything with no turning back.
A week passed and I didn’t see her, so – I have no doubt about it – she must have been waiting for me to find her, to kiss her passionately, to take her for a movie, then for few Cuba-Libres, and finally, in that small hallbed-room, beyond the bouquinistes from Rue de Seine, rented specially for our seldom nightly trysts, in which none of us would ever enter without the other.
I have never known Charlie’s occupation, whether she has any family, friends – nothing but few images and faces stylized by the gaps of memory – pictures fallen from her handbag on Match 21, three and a half years ago, the day I first met her, I picked them up and gave them back to her, and she accepted to join me for a coffee, on a garden beside. Of course I didn’t tell her about Carmen either, about my labour in the editorial office, about my poor mother, or anything else personal which would have no bearing on the evenings and nights spent together. We use to make remarks upon one or another play or movie, I read her my last short-stories, we kiss each other at large, or just walk silently, hand in hand, from dusk till dawn, but without feeling the silence as awkward or unentertaining. Every time we conclude the night making love for few hours, or millenniums – cause nothing from the outside world can reach us – and leaving in turn, not trying to hide ourselves from something or someone – even if, maybe it would be more cautious to do so – but for avoiding the breaking up, and good-bye words. One of us is getting dressed, and leaves wordless, while the other one still lies, rapt in that easy linger, till the life comes back step by step with her routinely, arid current.
I saw her one day, while I was coming back from work, getting in a luxurious car (on the right-hand) – a black Rolls-Royce, but I passed in the crowd, and she didn’t hold back not so much as a single moment, even if our glances had crossed in a hurry.
One of those days, about one year after I had first met her, we stood longer in a grog mill, I mixed the booze, and I started to let my hair down, asked her to promise me that nothing from what we have will ever change. With the smile on her face, she entreated me to stop at once, then, noticing that I keep on pleading, she got on her feet, leaving me alone at the table, to clench the booze in my fists, and the cigarette between my teeth. After that evening I didn’t see her for three weeks, even if I was looking for her mere often than usually, but when we finally crossed our path, in a coffee house, in St. Germain des Prés, she reproached me nothing, and she didn’t let me know (from one single gesture, or a glance) that she would keep any spice of anger.
Only once, after almost two months of stargazing absence, she caught my face in her hands, she kissed me softly, and she told me that she had been left aboard. Yes, I missed you, but I had to. I didn’t answer her, but she knew from my glance that the succinct explanation that I hadn’t asked for, meant for me more than half of the nights spent together heaps more than the six years of marriage with Carmen.
Among the regulars of the places that we hang out to, it happens to come across one of my distant kith and kin, or maybe one of hers, but we keep on holding hands, kissing passionately, cause these nights belong to us, and nothing could crumble their romance. The potman sometimes asks me what does your wife wish to drink, and I answer him so seriously that Pinot Noire, of cause, but after he leaves, we look each other in the eye, and to burst into laugher.
That day, long time ago (the day with the photos) we didn’t make the acquaintance (even if I was sure that it couldn’t be just a simple encounter), and the next time, one night, dans le Parc de Belleville, getting together (by chance?) she told me that her name is Charlie. Charlie and?... Charlie from what?... Only Charlie. Your Charlie. It’s enough.
One week ago, we had seen à La Grande Comédie, la pièce Le clan des divorcées. For me, it wasn’t the first time, but she was moved to tears. Now, it’s quite late, and all the plays have already began, but I don’t care: we never plan our time: it happens to be both in the tune for the same things, or we let ourselves going with the wind to who-knows-what places, sometimes even taking no account of the direction.
I have been walking for a while, and I’m asking myself whether I’m gonna meat Charlie along one of these umbrageous alleys, near the lake, or on the bridge, left from the entry. I light a cigarette and I see her, with her dainty and elegant hat, with a thin chestnut sprig in her hand, giving me a thievish look, as a child playing, behind a tree trunk.