STORIES, AFTER EIGHT is a FREE publication. To receive new posts and support me and my work, consider becoming a paid subscriber.
6 Paris 1956
If there was one thing Martin was most grateful for, it was that Paris hadn’t been bombed during the War — not like Berlin had been bombed, or London. There’d been damages sustained as the German army retreated, obviously, but not enough to be considered threatening — there were no buildings that had collapsed, or had even threatened to collapse. There were other cities that had been bombed during the war — Liverpool, Dresden, Rotterdam — the list was endless he knew, but Paris had basically gone untouched during the War, and for that, he was truly grateful. A man could walk the streets of old Paris in relative safety these days.
So different from just five years ago; so different from when I first came here.
He stepped out of the club and looked up at the approaching dawn as it spread its way across the distant city, a pink sky that brushed against the horizon like a shy lover. The air was cool and crisp where the shadows crept alongside the buildings. The streets were wet with the morning’s dew, reflecting dull street lights that lit up the lumpy cobblestoned lanes. There were delivery trucks on the wide boulevards and he could hear their tires whining in the distance as he walked toward the steps leading up to the doors of the Sacré Cœur. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, and looking up at the long climb, sighed.
Walking the streets early in the morning gave Martin the time he needed to think about where his life was taking him. Sometimes he over-thought things, and sometimes he dwelt on the past; but honestly, he had to ask himself: what sort of promise did the future hold for him these days? During his days with the ICD, Martin had been shocked to find out that Dieter had been interned at Sachsenhausen as well — only to find out later that he’d been sent back to Plotzensee Prison immediately after the war. It was enough just knowing that he was still alive, Martin thought. Dieter had been ordered back to prison in compliance with his sentence as stated under Article 175a — a later amendment to Article 175, which Martin had always thought was inhumane — but the Americans and the Brits had their own rigid laws concerning homosexuality, and would accept no appeals.
He’d gone in search of him all the same — had scoured the city looking for him — but found no trace of the man. It was as if Dieter had simply disappeared. It was shortly after that — shortly after his argument with Annaliese about Rudi — that Martin had set off for Paris to start his new life.
Beck had been right about that as well, he reminded himself, taking a cigarette out of the battered package in his pocket. The music world was a small place and had a long memory. People had all but accused him of being a collaborator because he’d played private concerts for the National Socialist elite. He tried explaining to them that he’d had no choice. He even went as far as to show them the tattoo they inked into his arm. But even as they turned their backs on him, he wondered if their reasons for denying him might have been his rumoured homosexuality.
He stopped at the same small sidewalk cafe he always stopped at on his way home. He ordered a ham and cheese croissant with an espresso, just as he always did, and then sat at the small table on the sidewalk they placed outside for him — placing a section of newspaper he carried on the dew-laden chair — before he sat down and lit his last cigarette, watching the sun rise over the city. He couldn’t see the river, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there; he knew where it was. It was a breath-taking view of the city all the same, and one he never tired of.
The Eiffel Tower stood in the distance with a defiance that never ceased to amaze him. He could see the Bois de Vincennes and behind him, if he turned his head, the basilica of St. Denis, as well as the airport. He couldn’t really see the airport, but it’s where the planes coming in from London, and New York dropped out of sight. He marvelled at how far the world had come in such a short time.
Or had it?
He enjoyed his morning espresso while watching the city come to life. Along with the sights and sounds, there was the smell of fresh baked bread, and roasted coffee, that never failed to remind him of the bread his mother baked. Life was simpler back then, he thought, before the war; before the madness had taken over.
What was it about life he thought, that made a man value what he had to hold on to? Was it really any different from the life he used to live? Sure, the venue was different, but that was all. The audiences cared little for what he played, but it was the same when he played in front of those elitist snobs. He found it hard to believe that this was how his life was supposed to end.
What was it Bijou said about being an old queen? Is that what I am? A washed up, aging queen?
He took the section of newspaper he had tucked under his arm and opened the front page. The threat of war in the Middle East seemed to hold the world’s attention with The Suez Crisis.
Everything’s a crisis these days, he thought. The world’s coming apart at the seams, and nobody wants to stitch it back together.
He looked at his watch briefly, and dozed as he so often did, until the waiter came out to take his cup and plate inside. He opened his eyes and smiled at the man, thanking him, and then reached for his cigarettes. He looked at the empty package and realized he’d already smoked his last one.
“Monsieur?” the waiter said, offering him a cigarette.
Martin smiled and thanked the man as he accepted the cigarette. He sat back in his chair, his hat on the table, his legs crossed, and watched a woman across the street pause before crossing.
Coward, he thought.
He watched her as she approached, looking familiar he thought, as she paused and looked down.
“Martin?” she asked.
He looked up at her with a ready smile and held the newspaper up to block the sun.
“Hello Annalise, are you here long?”
“They told me I’d find you here,” she said. “I didn’t believe it. They said you come here in the morning after working all night in one of those clubs. Is it true? Are you working in one of those clubs?”
He nodded. “I am.”
The waiter came out with another chair and Martin stood up as the waiter moved the table to make room. He smiled and asked her politely if she would care for anything. Martin ordered two espressos, invited her to sit, and then sat across from her and put the newspaper on the table, under his hat.
“And why would you be looking for me? Has my mother died? It would be a shame to hear that now, here I mean, under the circumstances.”
“No. I don’t know what I’ll do when she does. I could never do it alone.”
“You get used to it,” Martin said. “Being alone, I mean.”
“I thought you came here with that man?”
“What man?”
“You know very well who I mean,” she said with a playful smile.
“And why would you think that?”
“You said you loved him. Nothing stands in the way of love, remember? Isn’t that what you told me once? Or did I hear that somewhere else?”
“I did love him. But you didn’t, did you?” he said after a moment.
“No,” she said, bowing her head. “I didn’t.”
“I supposed it’s understandable, isn’t it?”
“Understandable?” she asked, and smiled at the waiter as he brought out the espresso.
Get full access to Scribbler -- The Golden Years at benwoestenburg.substack.com/subscribe
Share this post