Post by Rose on Feb 3, 2006 14:25:19 GMT
I first saw you in a small café in an old part of the city. I was on my lunch break and was sick of eating at the expensive pubs and arty restaurants near my office, so I went in search of somewhere more interesting. I wandered down streets that got smaller and smaller, through the winding cobbled alleys, peered down at by the upper stories leaning in closer and closer, 'til I found it. The place was crowded in between a pub and a tired looking laundrette. Le Café Vert; green peeling paint, dirty windows, and you, sat cross-legged at one of the little tables that jutted out into the street. You wore a floppy hat over your long brown hair, and your eyes were hidden as you read the book you clutched in your flowery lap. Your clothes were unusual; blouse and shawl and flowery skirt, with beads and feathers sewn to the cuffs and old lady broaches adorning your front. You had pieces of lace tied around your wrists.
I ducked inside and ordered a sandwich from the bored woman behind the counter. There was barely room for the two old women and the family in the corner, so I had a good excuse to move outside and look at you some more. From this angle I could see your face, as you absorbed your novel, a cup of tea sat undrunk on the table in front of you. It is easy to look back and imagine myself struck by your beauty – in fact, I was disappointed. You weren't ugly, oh no, but your face was imperfect, normal. Still, I found myself entranced; your expression kept altering, twitching to a slight smile, or a frown, and sometimes your lips moved as if you repeated some word that pleased you. You seemed oblivious to me. I ate my sandwich, feeling voyeuristic, but unable to stop looking, finding myself smiling in response to your smile in response to whatever you were reading.
I glanced at my watch, realizing I had spent too long wandering the streets, and finished my sandwich hurriedly, before standing to make my way back. I left a tip, feeling happy and generous towards the world. Just as I turned to leave, you looked up and smiled at me; a knowing, private little smile, as if you knew I'd been watching you and put on a show just for me. I smiled back, but you just flicked your eyes back to your book as if I'd never been there at all.
I came back the next day, but you weren't there.
The following Monday I turned up again, but still you weren't there. It wasn't until the next Thursday, one week later, that I saw you again. I had all but given up hope, and sat staring into space. Some small movement suddenly brought my eyes in from infinity to land on your face in the pub window opposite, grinning. I suddenly felt ridiculous. How long had you been sitting there, watching me, as I jumped at every passing pedestrian, and checked my watch, trying to push my lunch hour to the very limit? I saw your head move as if you laughed, and then you stood and disappeared from view, only to reappear at the door as you walked over to me.
I did not know why I waited for you. I did not know why I looked for you. I had no interest in love. I barely had interest in lust; Oh I took my pleasure from time to time, from women who briefly thought I might be able to save them, who all came to see I was as broken as I knew all along. I tried, for them, to fix myself, but those well meaning women could not fill whatever it was that was empty inside me. I had resigned myself to the void long ago, when I realized I could not give up my heart when I had no heart left. So what of this woman? I suppose you intrigued me. I had not been intrigued in a long time, so I did not resist when you suggested we go for a walk through the streets.
Strange woman, you talked of flowers and dreams and songs the stars made when the moon got lonely. I could hardly follow what you said, but I listened, and I preferred your talk to the numbers and names and games of my real life. I was so absorbed, I did not notice the time until I was late by a full half hour to return to work. I made my excuses, but you would not listen. You looked at me coyly and said,
“But we are almost at the river. I live just round this corner. You must see my house... she is beautiful... Surely your work can spare you for a little longer? You can say there was an accident, a woman was going to jump in the river, but you saved her. Say the weeds got wrapped around your leg and you could not escape.” You looked at me expectantly, child-like. I couldn't help it; I laughed.
“The weeds, of course... I'm sure they'll understand...” You smiled, and pulled me on to your house.
The weeds wrapped tight around my leg, I did not escape to work all that day. The river lapped outside and the bells on the boats rocked and rang and the smell of the saltwater mixed in with the smell of your hair.
The next morning, you woke me with breakfast on an old silver tray, wearing a faded sheet wrapped around your middle like a sarong. You poured me tea, sat cross-legged on the bed, composed as a matron at the head of your table. Reverentially, you peeled two oranges, then separated the segments slowly.
“These came all the way from China,” you said, as you placed one piece carefully on my tongue. As I bit into it, the juices filled my mouth, sweet and strong, and as soon as I finished it, you had another crescent ready to slip between my lips.
No excuse I ever made would work – you would have me there each night if you couldn't have me in the day. My work suffered, but I didn't care. You intoxicated me. But I worried. I was empty; this would not last; I was broken. How could I tell you? Would I break your heart? Would you laugh? Deep inside, there was still a void, and no matter how you poured into me you could not fill it. Didn't I know? Hadn't I tried all I could? I turned to religion once, hoped that Jesus might make up my lack. I studied the Bible, and opened my heart to Him, gave myself up to Him. I spent hours on my knees, praying for something to release me. I remember that dawn, I had stayed all night in the church, kneeling and praying, and as the morning light came in through the windows I knew the moment of enlightenment was come, and looked up at Jesus, sunlight streaming through his halo, and looked straight into his eyes, his sad, sad eyes... and saw a man as alone as I was, as broken as I was, and he didn't reach out his hand.
When you tried to pull me into bed, I pulled back, delayed, distracted. I asked you what you did for a living and you took your bag and my hand, and led me to the river. There, in the muds, was a variety of rubbish and debris, a local dumping ground, and repository of the tides. You hunkered down and pulled out a camera, snapping away at strange items, misshapen driftwood, worn glass, rusted bits of machinery. I didn't get it. This was garbage, a local eyesore. You told me to look harder. I looked at you, so far away in the muck, and opened my mouth to tell you I was empty, that I couldn't see your beauties because there was no beauty in me. Then, behind your head, growing out of the bank, I saw tiny blue flowers, the same colour as your eyes and the sky, growing out of a tin can. I saw your hand reflected in the broken bottle you held. I saw a net draped across a crate, like the shawl draped across your shoulders. I looked in your eyes and saw myself, and I was beautiful.
And I knew why I had no heart to give those women. I knew why Jesus would not take me. I knew why I had been empty all these years. Because you already held my heart, kept it safe with your trinkets and oranges, ready for me to find you, ready for you to fill me. Jesus knew he could not free me, because I already belonged to another. I opened my mouth to say the words, but you hushed me. You said, “I know,” and took my hand, and led me into the waters.
--
It's a translation of the song Suzanne by Leonard Cohen:
Suzanne takes you down to
her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body
with your mind.
And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body
with his mind.
Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body
with her mind.
--
It sort of wrote itself, and I was really pleased with it to start with, but now I can't decide if I like it or if it's a bit cliche... Anyway, please critique it as harshly as you like (without telling me I'm failure as a writer and should go drown myself immediately for the sake of the literary community. That would be a bit far...).
I ducked inside and ordered a sandwich from the bored woman behind the counter. There was barely room for the two old women and the family in the corner, so I had a good excuse to move outside and look at you some more. From this angle I could see your face, as you absorbed your novel, a cup of tea sat undrunk on the table in front of you. It is easy to look back and imagine myself struck by your beauty – in fact, I was disappointed. You weren't ugly, oh no, but your face was imperfect, normal. Still, I found myself entranced; your expression kept altering, twitching to a slight smile, or a frown, and sometimes your lips moved as if you repeated some word that pleased you. You seemed oblivious to me. I ate my sandwich, feeling voyeuristic, but unable to stop looking, finding myself smiling in response to your smile in response to whatever you were reading.
I glanced at my watch, realizing I had spent too long wandering the streets, and finished my sandwich hurriedly, before standing to make my way back. I left a tip, feeling happy and generous towards the world. Just as I turned to leave, you looked up and smiled at me; a knowing, private little smile, as if you knew I'd been watching you and put on a show just for me. I smiled back, but you just flicked your eyes back to your book as if I'd never been there at all.
I came back the next day, but you weren't there.
The following Monday I turned up again, but still you weren't there. It wasn't until the next Thursday, one week later, that I saw you again. I had all but given up hope, and sat staring into space. Some small movement suddenly brought my eyes in from infinity to land on your face in the pub window opposite, grinning. I suddenly felt ridiculous. How long had you been sitting there, watching me, as I jumped at every passing pedestrian, and checked my watch, trying to push my lunch hour to the very limit? I saw your head move as if you laughed, and then you stood and disappeared from view, only to reappear at the door as you walked over to me.
I did not know why I waited for you. I did not know why I looked for you. I had no interest in love. I barely had interest in lust; Oh I took my pleasure from time to time, from women who briefly thought I might be able to save them, who all came to see I was as broken as I knew all along. I tried, for them, to fix myself, but those well meaning women could not fill whatever it was that was empty inside me. I had resigned myself to the void long ago, when I realized I could not give up my heart when I had no heart left. So what of this woman? I suppose you intrigued me. I had not been intrigued in a long time, so I did not resist when you suggested we go for a walk through the streets.
Strange woman, you talked of flowers and dreams and songs the stars made when the moon got lonely. I could hardly follow what you said, but I listened, and I preferred your talk to the numbers and names and games of my real life. I was so absorbed, I did not notice the time until I was late by a full half hour to return to work. I made my excuses, but you would not listen. You looked at me coyly and said,
“But we are almost at the river. I live just round this corner. You must see my house... she is beautiful... Surely your work can spare you for a little longer? You can say there was an accident, a woman was going to jump in the river, but you saved her. Say the weeds got wrapped around your leg and you could not escape.” You looked at me expectantly, child-like. I couldn't help it; I laughed.
“The weeds, of course... I'm sure they'll understand...” You smiled, and pulled me on to your house.
The weeds wrapped tight around my leg, I did not escape to work all that day. The river lapped outside and the bells on the boats rocked and rang and the smell of the saltwater mixed in with the smell of your hair.
The next morning, you woke me with breakfast on an old silver tray, wearing a faded sheet wrapped around your middle like a sarong. You poured me tea, sat cross-legged on the bed, composed as a matron at the head of your table. Reverentially, you peeled two oranges, then separated the segments slowly.
“These came all the way from China,” you said, as you placed one piece carefully on my tongue. As I bit into it, the juices filled my mouth, sweet and strong, and as soon as I finished it, you had another crescent ready to slip between my lips.
No excuse I ever made would work – you would have me there each night if you couldn't have me in the day. My work suffered, but I didn't care. You intoxicated me. But I worried. I was empty; this would not last; I was broken. How could I tell you? Would I break your heart? Would you laugh? Deep inside, there was still a void, and no matter how you poured into me you could not fill it. Didn't I know? Hadn't I tried all I could? I turned to religion once, hoped that Jesus might make up my lack. I studied the Bible, and opened my heart to Him, gave myself up to Him. I spent hours on my knees, praying for something to release me. I remember that dawn, I had stayed all night in the church, kneeling and praying, and as the morning light came in through the windows I knew the moment of enlightenment was come, and looked up at Jesus, sunlight streaming through his halo, and looked straight into his eyes, his sad, sad eyes... and saw a man as alone as I was, as broken as I was, and he didn't reach out his hand.
When you tried to pull me into bed, I pulled back, delayed, distracted. I asked you what you did for a living and you took your bag and my hand, and led me to the river. There, in the muds, was a variety of rubbish and debris, a local dumping ground, and repository of the tides. You hunkered down and pulled out a camera, snapping away at strange items, misshapen driftwood, worn glass, rusted bits of machinery. I didn't get it. This was garbage, a local eyesore. You told me to look harder. I looked at you, so far away in the muck, and opened my mouth to tell you I was empty, that I couldn't see your beauties because there was no beauty in me. Then, behind your head, growing out of the bank, I saw tiny blue flowers, the same colour as your eyes and the sky, growing out of a tin can. I saw your hand reflected in the broken bottle you held. I saw a net draped across a crate, like the shawl draped across your shoulders. I looked in your eyes and saw myself, and I was beautiful.
And I knew why I had no heart to give those women. I knew why Jesus would not take me. I knew why I had been empty all these years. Because you already held my heart, kept it safe with your trinkets and oranges, ready for me to find you, ready for you to fill me. Jesus knew he could not free me, because I already belonged to another. I opened my mouth to say the words, but you hushed me. You said, “I know,” and took my hand, and led me into the waters.
--
It's a translation of the song Suzanne by Leonard Cohen:
Suzanne takes you down to
her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body
with your mind.
And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body
with his mind.
Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body
with her mind.
--
It sort of wrote itself, and I was really pleased with it to start with, but now I can't decide if I like it or if it's a bit cliche... Anyway, please critique it as harshly as you like (without telling me I'm failure as a writer and should go drown myself immediately for the sake of the literary community. That would be a bit far...).