The Calligrapher
Like all calligraphers, I hate mistakes with a vehemence I can hardly describe. And my abhorrence leads me to dwell with a vagrant's fixity on the reasons for my downfall - but my primary mistake was not, I think, that I misjudged Cecile. Because she was so incontestably at home in the "Nude Action Body" department (which was, after all, where we had met), I suspect I could have relied on her not to behave inartistically had she known what devastation her actions were going to cause. But alas, she did not. No - my primary mistake was to let her stay another night. We didn't discuss it out loud. But come five, I found myself stepping out to the shops and begging Roy, my excellent local supplier and a man who looks as close as is possible to an obese version of Hitler, to let me have one of his brother's fresh salmon. It cost me more than any other human being in the history of mankind has ever paid for a single fish, but life is short and inconvenient and there is no sense protesting.
Perhaps it was the light that day - bright, sharp, enthusiastic, a real rarity - or perhaps the spirit of the poem, with its heavy insistence on the altar of the lovers' bed as the only dwelling place of truth worth worshipping.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere
Either way, I was scarcely conscious that the afternoon had given way to a wine-suffused evening. I had recruited two bottles of the crispest Sauvignon Blanc and a handful of haricots verts to go with the salmon, and at seven-thirty we were still fooling around together in my kitchenette (already quite drunk) as I prepared the creature in lemon and tarragon before wrapping it in foil and placing it carefully in the oven.
There then followed nine truly Caligulan hours, during which several really good things happened, including, I think, Cecile finding an old cigarette holder that William had left and an attempt at a bilingual game of pornographic forfeit Scrabble, which I very happily lost.
When, finally, I fell asleep, the sun was rising.
Another NYT recommendation. This book by a British novelist was unusual in that many of John Donne's poems are interspersed throughout. It was interesting/entertaining enough but somehow I was able to guess(foresee) both of the twists in the end, so that sort of ruined some of the fun. |
