Читать книгу Puzzled - Seraphima Bogomolova - Страница 23

‘Maybe, I don’t cry but it hurts

Maybe, I won’t say but I feel

Maybe, I don’t show but I care.’

– Vitor Mota

Episode 21 – A Charming Stranger

Nice, France, 27 December

The window of my hotel room is wide open, letting a light sea breeze in.

I stand over my suitcase and, bewildered, stare at its contents. Here we go, a beaming example of hasty packing, piles of evening dresses and nothing decent for every day, just a pair of jeans and a sweater. Uttering a sigh, I pull them on and go downstairs. In a modestly appointed room overlooking the sea continental breakfast is being served.

I sit down, order a cappuccino and look around. My eyes single out a young Arab with a plate of croissants on his table. Picking his croissants, he spreads lumps of marmalade over them and sends the croissants into his mouth. His eyes half-closed, he chews on them, slowly and thoughtfully.

Trying not to stare at him, I focus on my New Year’s Eve plans or rather on the absence of such. The idea of going to Nice came to me just a few days ago. Considering its spontaneous nature, I have really had no time to check on the plans of my few French acquaintances and, to be honest, have little inclination of doing so. I somehow feel my uninvited spontaneity won’t be appreciated.

Finished with his croissants, the Arab gets up and walks to the exit. Leaving the room, he throws a hungry look at my table, perhaps in search of something else of edible nature. You see, the French, like their breakfasts, always leave you with a slight cramp of dissatisfaction – delicious, yet not enough. I drink up my cappuccino and decide on a morning walk.

Throwing the coat on, I grab my mobile and get out. Outside, the sun shines brightly, sending merry sparks across azure waters of the sea.

I cross the street, go down the embankment a few steps and find myself right on the beach. It’s still early, it seems. There aren’t many people around, just some dog owners, walking out their fluffy friends.

Inspired by the moment, I take my mobile out, frame the view and take a picture. The phone clicks and captures a local morning scene: a charming young man, his hair ruffled by the wind into wavy locks, plays with a little dog on the gravel shore of the Côte d’Azur.

Episode 22 – A Situation

Monte Carlo – Nice, France, 27 December

I wake up and think of her again. Soon, she’ll be here, just some miles away in the neighbouring Nice. She will walk the same streets as I do, and breathe in the same air as I do, and admire the same views as I do … Only in that email of hers she hasn’t mentioned the date of her arrival, but I imagine it must be any day now.

I listen. The house seems quiet. It must be still early or else maman has decided to sleep in today, Monsieur Moreau, perhaps, too. I get up, throw some clothes on and tiptoe down the stairs. Whistling Domino out of the library, I grab the keys from my all-time favourite Porsche 911 and head to the garage.

I get in the car, lower the rooftop and, lightly pressing on the gas, drive out onto the street. The weather is perfect. The sun shines brightly, casting its warmth over the city, illuminating everything around.

There is no traffic and soon I find myself driving on the picturesque Moyenne Corniche. Pressing on the gas, I whizz along the coastal road towards Nice, and in twenty minutes arrive at the Promenades des Anglais12. As soon as I park the car, Domino jumps out and dashes across the promenade. Stopping by the stairs leading to the beach, he turns to me and wiggles his tail.

I catch up with him and go down.

Taken by the beauty of the day, I walk slowly along the edge of the sea, admiring the shimmering of sunny sparks on the water. Excitement brimming over, Domino runs back and forth, occasionally plunging into the sea and bringing his finds to me.

Getting out of his jaws yet another treasure, a small stick this time, I straighten up and look around. My eyes catch a sight of a young woman in a white coat. Smiling, she checks something in her mobile. The woman seems familiar. As I play with Domino, I observe her discreetly. She raises her eyes, catching my gaze for a split of a second, then slides her mobile into the pocket and walks past me. I instantly go weak at my knees as I recognise her.

Stunned, I stare at her back, trying to figure out what to do next. Meanwhile, she slowly walks away from me, moving in the direction of ‘Le Negresco Hotel’. Finally getting out of my stupor, I decide to act on a hunch and follow after her. Calling Domino, I try to put his collar on him, but, offended, he growls and puts up a fight. I lose my patience, gather him up and hurry after her.

Episode 23 – A Tail

Nice, France, 27 December

Unsuspecting, she walks along the beach, stopping occasionally to take a picture. As she reaches ‘Le Negresco Hotel’, she goes up the stairs to the promenade. I follow after her. But suddenly she stops and throws a hesitant look around. Standing just a few steps behind her I hold my breath. She hesitates for another second or two then makes a move towards the Old Town.

I go up, wait until she crosses Promenades des Anglais then continue my trailing. Domino attempts to break free from my arms but, though sympathising, I don’t let him go. Right now, I have more important staff than his immediate comfort to attend to.

Following after her, I pray for her not to suddenly turn around. But she doesn’t, not a single time in fact. It makes my trailing much easier, for there is literally nowhere for me to hide, as at this hour there aren’t many people out on the streets and shops aren’t opened yet.

Finally, we reach the Old Town. She slows down, pulls her mobile out and takes some more pictures. Tired of holding Domino in my arms, I let him down but, just in case, have him on a short leash.

After an hour of walking she comes to the Cours Saleya13market, lined with colourful fruit and vegetables stalls and cluttered with huge buckets of fresh flowers. My stomach grumbles, reminding that I haven’t eaten since six in the morning.

Manoeuvring between the stalls, I pretend to be looking at displays and at the same time try not to lose sight of her. But mesmerised as she is by the tempting displays, she seems in no hurry to leave the market. Having visited every stall and taken dozens of snapshots, she comes to a flower seller. I stop at a stall next to his. Picking through mandarins, I try to listen to their chat, but can make out very little of it except that the seller attempts to compliment her in his broken English.

‘Monsieur, you’ve already picked through my whole box of mandarins! Are you looking for some special one?’ an elderly market-woman at the mandarins stall addresses me.

‘Oh, pardon me. I must have spaced out.’ I mumble, turning red, and move away from the stall.

Meanwhile, having exchanged pleasantries with the flower seller, she buys a huge bouquet of chrysanthemums from him. Pressing the flowers against her chest, she leaves the market, strolls along the Quai des Etats Unis, and, reaching the entrance of the ‘Swiss Hotel’, walks in.

I wait then go in and walk up to the reception desk.

‘Bonjour, I’m looking for Mademoiselle … ' I begin but stop short.

‘Yes, Monsieur?’ the receptionist says.

I stare at her for a few seconds in bewilderment then finally utter the name. The receptionist types it in, studies something in her computer for a few seconds then replies:

‘I’m sorry, Monsieur, but there must be some mistake. There are no clients under this name registered in our system.’

Episode 24 – A Holiday Fling

‘Swiss Hotel’, Nice, France, 27 December

I get into the hotel elevator and bury my face in the chrysanthemums’ heads, one of my favourite flowers. Don’t even know why. It might be just because I’ve always loved the time of late autumn, or maybe, just because the yearly appearance of those fragile yet long lasting flowers announces, so beautifully, the arrival of winter magic.

Back in my room, I look for a vase. Not finding one, I call the reception, and soon, an artful arrangement of flowery tenderness comes into an existence on my night table: a welcome kiss of the Côte d’Azur.

Lying down on the bed, I look through photographs taken during my morning walk. The ones of the beach and the market seem to be especially good. I choose some and upload them on Facebook. Instantly, a comment from Nicolas arrives:

‘Is it your take on ‘the lady with the dog’14? Only in this instant the lady takes a pic of the dog … And who’s that guy next to it, your holiday fling? :-)’

I type: ‘Ha-ha, have you been thinking of your literary ex again? Yes, my holiday fling. Are you jealous? :-)’

I wait, but he doesn’t respond and, logging out of Facebook, I go to my ‘inbox’, checking for the reply from my electronic ‘admirer’, but no luck there. Shutting the laptop, I throw a glance out the window and see a patch of sky, the bright blue. A sun ray falls onto my face. Caressing, it warms and lulls me at the same time.

I hear a knock at the door and listen, but all is quiet again. It must have been my imagination.

Getting up, I come to the window. Before me, a shimmering ribbon of lights winds away into the night. Admiring the view, I stand by the window a while, then swing it open. A breath of cold air enters the room, immediately giving me goose bumps. Humid, the air smells of seaweeds and salt. The next moment, somebody’s arms are thrown around me and I’m locked in a warm embrace, a male body passionately pressing against me.

‘Chérie … ' he whispers.

The embrace seems so cordial, so invigoratingly familiar. Trying to grasp the fleeting yet persisting memory, I’m about to turn around, but hear a loud knock at the door, then a key inserted into the lock.

I open my eyes and see a chambermaid walking in.

‘Pardon, madam.,’ she says, startled, ‘I’ve knocked, but there was no reply. I thought the room’s empty. Would you like your bed to be turndown?’

Episode 25 – Obviously

‘Le Negresco Hotel’, Nice, France, 27 December

I send the chambermaid away and get ready for diner. As it turns out, lunch I have missed already. Suddenly, I feel like going somewhere chic, a gourmet establishment of some sort with white crisp table clothes, polished silver wear, menus bursting a variety of French delicacies, and accommodating staff. Inspired by the painted image, I think of an appropriate place – Le Chantecler restaurant in the opulently elegant ‘Le Negresco Hotel’.

I don’t have a reservation, but it doesn’t discourage me. I call for a taxi and go downstairs. The hotel is just a fifteen-minute walk away but tonight I’m in the mood for a bit of indulgence.

At the entrance to the restaurant, a headwaiter greets me. A sound of clinking and clattering flows out of the Dinning Room. Schooled waiters move swiftly between the tables, serving their high-end clientele.

‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle, do you have a reservation?’ the headwaiter asks.

‘As a matter of fact, I don’t … ' I reply.

His eyebrow flies up.

‘The thing is … ' I say.

‘Pardon, Monsieur, it’s my fault. I haven’t told Mademoiselle about the reservation. It’s under my name – Mohamed Al Murshidi.’ the young Arab, I watched this morning at breakfast, joins in, unexpectedly appearing at the entrance.

The headwaiter marks something in his list and motions us to follow him.

The Arab lets me before him. The Dining Room is full: the devotees of French gastronomy made up of families, couples, and groups of friends, seem to occupy each and every table.

Mohamed’s table is set for one but this ‘slip’ is instantly corrected. The headwater waves his hand and as if by magic a second set appears on it.

We sit down.

‘Thank you very much. It’s most kind of you,’ I say, ‘I’m afraid without your intervention I wouldn’t be able to dine here tonight.’

‘My pleasure, but, honestly, even without my intervention you’d be perfectly fine tonight.’ he replies, his English impeccable.

‘Well, I don’t know … In this case, you might be slightly overestimating the power of feminine charm.’ I say, throwing a look around. The restaurant is fully booked for tonight.

12

The Promenade des Anglais (Niçard: Camin dei Anglés) is a celebrated promenade along the Mediterranean in Nice, France.

13

Cours Saleya hosts four different markets. The most well-known is the Marché aux Fleurs, or Flower Market. It’s actually a combination of the flower market and the fruit and vegetable market but the name, Marché aux Fleurs is commonly applied to the whole thing. The fruit and vegetable stands pack up by 13.30 in the afternoon but the flower stalls stay open until about 17.30.

14

The Lady with the Dog (Russian: Dama s sobachkoy) is a short story by Anton Chekhov first published in 1899. It tells the story of an adulterous affair between a Russian banker and a young lady he meets while vacationing in Yalta.