Nostalgia (Part 7)

We walked through the kitchen and I was surprised to see that she scarcely used the cane and her footsteps seemed to be a little more sure; I did not feel as though I was slowing my pace as much as I had previously. We passed two closed doorways, when we came to the open doorway that I had steadfastly refused to peer into on my arrival. A simple living room; sofas, a chair, a small bookcase, a TV and a hi-fi with small wall-mounted speakers; part of a surround sound array, if I was any judge.

“Will that do?” She said, pointing to a small oaken table at the side of one of the sofas.

“Parfaitement,” I replied. “C’est une si jolie table!’ I swooped it up in my arms and made to leave the room.

“Wait,” she said. “You earlier understood some Italian, I think; now you are speaking French, if my schoolgirl French is any judge. Are you multi-lingual aside from your abilities as an atom-smasher?”

“Only because of my atom-smashing abilities,” I replied. “Switzerland is a small but intensely strange country. Depending on where you are, they either speak Bastard-French, Bastard-German, Bastard-Italian or Bastard-Romany; there is no Swiss language. Romany, I cannot handle but the other three? I have managed to pick up a phrase or two working in Geneva.”

“So, what have you picked up in German; other than ‘I would very much like to fuck you’?” She asked.

“How about: ‘Die Ohrtrompete meiner Grossmutter wurde vom Blitz getroffen’; very useful down the Bierkeller, that is.”

“I know that I am going to regret this,” she said. “However, what does that mean?”

“My grandmother’s ear trumpet has been struck by lightning,” I replied with as big a grin on my face as I could chance without splitting my face asunder.

We both burst with laughter and it was some minutes before we could get ourselves under a measure of control. However, as we gained control of our twitching muscles and our laughter had started to subside, we found ourselves with our arms wrapped around each other. It took but a moment to disengage but not before I had felt the warmth of her breasts against my chest and her sweet breath against my cheek.

“Not a good idea,” I said. “Making jokes with you in a highly volatile state, vis-a-vis the laughter threshold; I shall endeavour to desist henceforth.”

“And you speak English!”

I carried the table into the garden and placed it between the two chairs. The sun was still warm but it had set beneath the roofline of the streets of terraced houses and so the warmth was only one of the air; there was no radiant heat. Not that I needed any additional heat. The beer was coming! That would surely cool.

She came out into the garden behind me and, laying her cane upon the ground, laid herself on the chair. She closed her eyes. Within a few seconds, her head had tilted to the side and I knew, somehow I knew, that she was asleep.

 I tried to busy myself while she slept, dinner would soon come; a-knock-knock-knocking at the door or a-ring-ring-ringing at the bell. I washed the dirty cups. I found some beer glasses in yet another cupboard and I placed one on the lawn at the side of her chair; I would not drink alone but then, one glass was enough; I only needed the bottle or the can. There was nothing more to do and so I sat down to wait for the pizza; not on my chair but on the grass at the side of hers. I traced the outlines of her face, her nose, her mouth in the warm evening air, as though I had a pencil, or charcoal, and some paper. I tried to imagine her eyes so that I could add them in later; always a good trick for budding artists. Acquire the form; worry about the details later. I traced the outlines of her breasts with my finger in that same still air, her slight paunch, the ample curve of her buttocks and thighs; a sign of middle age I reminded myself. It happens to us all.

The doorbell rang!

I went to the door and opened it. I asked the man mountain that stood before me how much the total was. £16.90 was the giant’s only reply. I searched my pocket and I gave him £20.00. It is a shit job delivering pizza, especially for an immigrant; why shouldn’t he earn an extra £3.00 for five minutes work? It was only marginally less than he earned in an hour. He thanked me in what I think was his own language. Living in London, you get used to residing in the Tower of Babel; the only conversations down at the mini-market all seem to be in Polish nowadays. At least it means that you can get decent ‘kiszona kapusta’, Sauerkraut, from the neighbourhood’s small ‘Polski Sklep’.

There were 4 cans of Budweiser as well so I put two in the fridge; it was one of those fridges that you could not miss. I grabbed two pieces of paper towel to do service as serviettes (and I am well aware of the irony in that phrase) and took the pizza, two cans of beer and the paper towel out to the garden with all the panache, or so I thought, of the Queen’s butler. She was awake; the bell had awakened her from slumber. She rubbed her eyes and peered up at me; much as the myopic, without their spectacles, are wont to do.