The key to room number thirty three of the Esmeralda guest house clicked. He pushes the door back. Its pungent aroma wafted straight at him, gently brushing his face. With eyes closed, he inhaled; the smell was as familiar to him as his own body odour.
He laid down his small case by the dresser and went to the bathroom to freshen up. The mosaic tiled walls with their ornate Modernist whorls and the antique enamamelled bath tub brings a fond smirk to his face. He opened the plain glass window to allow just enough air into the room to aid circulation, but not wide enough to awash the room’s scent. Room no. 33 occupies the roof top of the twelve bed roomed guest house on Rue du Rivoli, a side street just yards from Notre Dame. The view from the room is romantic and private. If you lent and peered to the right from the room’s window, you can see the south side of Notre Dame, to your left the Sacred Hearts in Monte Marte in the distance. In between were mired grey roofs of some grandeur buildings, some were just humbly quaint. The Parisian roof top has been the back drop of an eleven years romance. On this day, of every year, they would meet here in room no.33.
He had arrived early this time and so took the opportunity to take a nap. Lying on the bed, he reminisced about how it all started, how much she meant to him. He recalls their first encounter, not so much the occasion itself, but how this enigma captivated his vision and worldly senses.
He sat at the other end of the dinning table from her so he couldn’t hear her. He could barely see her either as his vision was shielding by an extra large barrister. But he knew she was there, he’d felt her pretence the entire three hours seated dinner. Short by French standards.
Being a smoker then, he craved and cherished that solitary moment after any meal, especially heavy meals, to enjoy his nicotine top ups. The French home was old and housed a patio garden to the side forecourt. He lit up and began to inhale and exhale in quiet excitement.
“Excellent wines” she acclaimed. The voice matched its physical image perfectly; it was HER. He was caught unaware and turned sharply. She stood, arms crossing her lower chest and had a slim cigarette in her hand.
“Yes, superb wines” he agreed. But he could tell that she hadn’t taken notice of what he had said. Instead, she was scanning him with squinted eyes, unpeeling him. He felt uneasy and didn’t know what was crossing her mind. She moved to his side while she puffed heavily on her cigarette. There they stood momentarily. He waited for a cue to say something witty to her. Nothing came to mind, eventually, defeated by his lack of sharpness less, he resigned himself to saying: “How do you know the ho……” She had disappeared just as silently as she had come.
Returning into the house to rejoin the other guests, he scanned the rooms for her, but she was gone.
The rest of the evening flattened out and he sensed great emptiness. Most of the other guests had left already by the time he had called it a night. He bid a thank you and good night to his host and made his way to the door. Feet heavy as he dragged himself to the bottom of the stairs. At the bottom, he was undecided was to which way he should go. Suddenly a taxi pulls up in front of him. The back door opens. He looks to his left, his right and behind him, but there was no one. Like a lost puppy he straddled towards the car and peers inside.
“Come in” she said. The door slams shut and the taxi commenced its journey, their journey. Where were they going? The atmosphere in the taxi and all around was silently calm. She faced ahead and was silent the entire journey. He pretended to be aloof yet found himself casting sideways at her as if to say - “what….?”
But it felt inappropriate to interrupt her silence.
The taxi pulled by a guest house. Just like a well trained dog, he got out of the car with a cue. She was already inside the reception and was speaking to the man behind the counter.
“Come up” she gestured to him as she ascended the stair case. He followed.
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