CHASING LIFE (13 page)

He
would enjoy letting his imagination run loose at another time. Right now he had to get to St Germain before he froze his arse off. It was one of the main streets that intersected the central area of Paris, and it was buzzing with tourists. He eventually reached a shopfront displaying winter jackets and pants. Finally, he thought. The pleasantly warm air washed over his body and defrosted his bones as he entered. Behind the counter was a brown-skinned man with a finely groomed moustache. He was folding T-shirts when he saw Dave walk in. Dave greeted him in English. The man smiled and welcomed him in a thick accent that seemed to be a complex combination of Indian or Pakistani and French.

‘How are you, sir?’

‘Good, thanks. I’d like to try on some jackets and maybe a pair of jeans.’

‘
No problem, sir. Let me know if I can be of help.’ The man couldn’t hide his enthusiasm. Even his moustache seemed to wriggle when he spoke. Dave tried on a couple of jackets and chose one. He then called the salesman over for assistance with choosing the right measurements for a great pair of jeans he had spotted. The man was more than happy to oblige, and flung three pairs of jeans of various sizes over the change cubicle partition while he was still trying on another one.

‘How is that
, sir?’

‘They’re a little tight.
’ Dave could hardly breathe in the snug jeans. When he bent over, he felt his arse-crack reveal itself to the world.

‘Yes,
let me see,’ the man said, shooing him out of the cubicle and checking him out as if sizing up a second-hand car. ‘You’re right. They won’t do.’ He walked to another section and pulled out another pair. ‘Try these ones, sir.’ He then handed him another pair. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Australia.’

‘A beautiful country, sir. Which city?’

‘Melbourne.’

‘That’s a beautiful city, sir. I have a cousin in Sydney.’

‘Sydney is nice b
ut Melbourne’s better.’ Dave replied with a wink.

‘Ah, we always brag about our own cities, don’t we?’ The man laughed.

Dave tried the new pair of jeans—they were spot on. ‘These will do,’ he said, satisfied with the man’s suggestion. He was shopping in Paris. It wasn’t a Gucci store, but it was unexpectedly satisfying—and he didn’t even mind the over-enthusiastic salesman.

‘
You want to see some T-shirts too? I have some great ones here,’ the man said as he rummaged through his stock.

‘Nah, I’m fine with these.’

‘How about a pair of runnering shoes?’ he opened a couple of boxes and brought a few pairs out in an instant.

‘Not, really
,’ Dave said. ‘I tell you what. I’ll buy two pairs of jeans and the jacket, but you have to give me a good discount. A free T-shirt maybe?’

‘
Oh, goodness! You must have plenty of money to come here on holidays from Australia,’ the man pleaded.

‘No
, the euro is too much for us. Come on, look how much I’m spending in your store.’ Dave never haggled, but he found he didn’t mind it. What was getting into him? He was enjoying himself, he realised, giving the friendly salesman a hearty slap on the shoulders.

‘
Maybe I can do a little for you. You like the cricket?’

‘Of course.
’ Dave lied.

‘Who is better, India or Australia?’

‘I’d be lying if I didn’t say India is one of the greatest,’ Dave grinned, ‘
next
to Australia.’

The salesman laughed. ‘Very good. Ten
percent, okay?’

‘
You can do better than that. How about twenty percent?’

‘I can’
t! You are very bad.’ The man yelped at Dave’s brazen suggestion and shook his head from side to side.

‘
Come on, you know you can,’ Dave persisted.

             
‘Fifteen percent. Because you are from Australia, and I like your cricket team.’

‘Thank you very much my friend,
I’ll take ‘em.’

Proud of his accomplishment,
Dave walked out wearing the jacket. The rain had stopped and he was a whole lot more comfortable. It was time to go through his to-do list, ticking off each item. He first bought a phrase book from a tourist bookstore. He wanted to at least attempt to learn the usual French greetings. He just wanted enough to get by without looking like a complete idiot who didn’t want to try beyond
merci
,
bonjour
an
d
comment-allez vous
. The French didn’t warm up to the English, he’d heard, so any effort at speaking their language would surely be welcomed. Parisian’s emphasis on fashion had already put a mark on him. Dave never fancied himself a fashionista
,
but he couldn’t help being drawn to shopfronts displaying some eye-catching clothing and footwear. He continued on and explored what this city had to offer.

The
cafés were brimming with people under outdoor heaters. Coffee and some tea were the most common beverages consumed. He was being unusually observant, and he picked up on people’s faces as they walked by, mannerisms as they held conversations, the little gestures they made with their hands when responding to comment, it was all so fascinating. The simple and elegant dress sense of the Parisians complimented their surroundings. There was no such thing as excess, overuse of colour or tackiness. The buildings and cafés were uniform in design, yet unique in individuality. If Honk Kong people were visiting guests, they’d be considered vulgar and loud.

Older men had their pants and shoes perfectly pressed and polished, little kids were bundled in
colour-coordinated hats, scarfs and jackets. And there was an almost visceral sense between women about their beauty and fashion. In Australia, Dave knew right away when certain fads were ‘in’. There, trendsetters ignited a horde of followers, but he didn’t see it in Paris. The women showed a sense of individuality through their clothes. It was as if their personality came though their fashion. Everything they wore fit. There were no sweatpants, tracksuits or the daggy old shoes used for a quick trip to the store. It wasn’t expensive but rather well kept clothes. The incredibly subtle use of makeup was also noted—used just enough to enhance the facial features and show lines gracefully, rather than hiding behind a mask.

Half hi
s day was spent on shopping. He’d never before bought so much at one time: black leather boots, casual brown shoes, polo tops, a fitted linen sports jacket, running shoes and a number of dressy T-shirts. It made him feel renewed. So, this, he thought, is why women call shopping ‘therapy’.

Da
ve couldn’t remember ever taking such interest in his appearance. He considered himself a practical man, the ‘why change it if it still works’ type. He’d always bought clothes for their functional purpose. While married, he’d completely relied on Julia’s guidance in the clothes department. When he tried to look fancy, she’d say, ‘I refuse to go out with you if you keep dressing like a golfer.’ When he tried a more conservative look, she’d say ‘You dress like a fifty-year-old politician.’ Eventually he gave up, and she took over decisions about his attire. It was an arrangement they’d both been happy with.

Now Dave
found himself glancing at his reflection in windows to check out how he looked. Having exhausted his spending quota for a whole month, he sat down for a coffee at a restaurant opposite the Notre Dame Cathedral. He watched the line of people waiting to enter the magnificent structure, its heavenly spires majestically reaching for the sky. Staring at that remarkable edifice, Dave’s mind drifted. He questioned his course of action once again. Was this the right thing to do? Should he be back in Melbourne finding himself a girl to settle down with and start a family? What was he doing here in Paris when he should have had a family of his own by now? Was Amy right in saying he was being hasty?

Dave
was frustrated at the thought of how his life had turned out. His mood was being ruined again, in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. He seemed to be capable of destroying a moment no matter how perfect it was. Control yourself, damn it, he thought. He had to stop these moments of anxiety and trepidation, but he seemed to keep recycling the same destructive thought patterns no matter how hard he tried to stop it. How could he come to a place like Paris as a single man? Julia should have been with him.

He
hated that he had to be starting over, going through the ordeal of not knowing whether he’d ever find the right girl again. The right girl? He’d already lost the perfect one. All his friends had partners. They were moving on and going way beyond the point he was at. What was he doing wasting time and money in a foreign country?

He breathed in
and released a long breath, trying to relax and distract himself by observing people. It didn’t work. The same thoughts kept going round the roundabout.

Dave
suddenly chuckled when it occurred to him that he was running away from a past that he was carrying with him. The irony. Why not go back to Melbourne? It wouldn’t be hard to relapse into a life of monotonous mediocrity, and if he was going to stay stuck in this funk, he may as well.

No, he
thought defiantly as he finished his coffee. He had to make a mark in his life. Was it selfish to want more? To want the best? Was it wrong to aim for better than just good enough, even if it meant never achieving it? He knew Julia would be backing him all the way.

‘Oh
Julia, I’m trying so hard,’ he whispered. Reaching into his jacket, he took her letter out of his wallet. I can’t go back to the same job and the same routine, he thought, as if justifying himself to her as he held it. Under all the clutter of thought something else stirred, something eager for more in life. Whatever it was, he had to pursue it. It felt like his last chance. Whatever feeling told him to quit his job was now telling him to keep trying. If only he knew where he was meant to be. He picked up the menu and realised that what he needed just then was a good meal. He ordered the biggest steak and chips available and indulged in it wholeheartedly.

After finishing his meal, Dave felt much better. He collected his overflowing shopping bags and left to look for a café where he could watch people pass by, from another view this time: opposite the Louvre. The Louvre, he thought to himself. He was excited again. One day he was in Melbourne, then Hong Kong, and now he was about to see the Louvre.

‘
Excusez-moi
. May I have a café latte
s'il vous plaît
?’ he asked a waiter in what he suspected was a mangled accent.

‘
Café au lait
? Yes,’ the man replied, indifferent to Dave’s attempt to show off his linguistic skills engraved on his face. The waiter moved about quickly, wiping down tables for waiting guests.

‘
Great, but can you please make sure it’s made right?’

‘It’s jus
t coffee and milk,’ the waiter scoffed, offended at the question and looking at him with the disdainful expression one gives to an ignorant fool.

‘
Yes, but it’s the way it’s made …’ Dave searched the man’s eyes for understanding but there was no reciprocation.

‘Sure, whatever,
’ the waiter answered, disappearing into the kitchen while calling out in French. The coffee arrived so quickly that Dave was hesitant to try it. The colour was all wrong, and it was boiling hot. He couldn’t take another disappointment, not another mockery of the beverage he loved so much. The drink that was made with love and admiration back in Café Trieste seemed to be served as ‘coffee and milk’ here in this café. A travesty, he thought. He took a sip and decided that from now on he would stick to espresso. They couldn’t get that wrong, surely. In any case, he was glad he’d been distracted from his previous state of mind, even if it meant getting all worked up over a beverage.

Chapter 15

Dave
opened his map of Paris and took a look at the location of the Jazz Inn for the umpteenth time. Just the thought of Erin excited him. Tonight, he’d be dressed to impress, unlike the shabby Dave he was in Hong Kong. In the meantime, there was much to explore in this beautiful city. He finished his sad excuse for a latte and continued prowling through the cobbled streets of Paris, at every turn stumbling upon a magnificent fountain or a statue of some fallen hero from the old empire. It would be smarter, he thought, to catch one of the sightseeing double-deckers he saw everywhere to cover some ground.

Dave
boarded one and climbed to the upper deck where the cityscape gave him a magnificent view. Sudden gusts of chilly wind ruined an otherwise comfortable ride. His fingers cramped with cold and he blew on them for warmth. He plugged himself into the audio guide with the complimentary earphones and flicked through a number of languages before settling on English. The particular route this bus took encompassed the Champs-
é
lysées, the Eiffel Tower, the Invalides Hotel, passed the Grand Opera building and then back to the Louvre. New passengers were picked up along the way while others departed from the tour to explore on foot.

By the time the bus arrived back in front of the Lou
vre, he was getting weary of history lessons. The enormous queue for entry at the Louvre dissuaded him from going in. He was exhausted. Once on foot again, he decided to walk back to his apartment, since it was getting late anyway. The peaceful openness of the grand boulevards of Paris was a stark contrast to the claustrophobic clutter of Hong Kong. However, he did find himself missing the hideous intrusions of that neon city. David found it incredible that all these beautiful buildings that looked like museums were homes and shops, places where people went about their everyday lives.

Back in his apartment Dave prepared
dinner with some simple ingredients he’d grabbed on his way home, and afterward he sprawled on his bed, lazily flicking through French television channels. It was 10:30 in the evening. Should he start getting ready for a night out, or sleep? His brain advised him to get dressed, shave, put his shoes on and get himself out there—he was in Paris, after all. But his body had other plans. He stayed on the bed, surfing through the hundred-plus channels, only a handful of which were in English—BBC, CNN, Bloomberg—antidotes for an insomniac.

In the morning, Dave cursed himself for not making an effort to go out the night before. Today he decided he would go straight to the Louvre. He prepared himself with a hearty breakfast and a shower before setting off. He grabbed his bag of rubbish before venturing out. Outside the air was so cold that it felt like fingernails scraping his skin, but he slowly acclimatised, and the layers of clothing soon warmed him like an oven.

H
e looked around, searching for bins to dispose of his rubbish. A short, heavy man who looked to be in his sixties was shifting cardboard boxes about, cleaning the courtyard. Dave figured it was most likely the superintendent. The man called out in Dave’s direction in a husky smoker’s voice. Dave glanced around, then realised it was him the man was calling to. The sparse hair on his head grew unkempt around the perimeter of his scalp, like last year’s Christmas decorations. His wide flat nose flared with each laboured breath and, when he spoke, he lazily extended his words. The man pointed to Dave’s rubbish bag.

Dave yelled back
, trying to explain that he couldn’t understand what he was saying, and that he was only searching for a rubbish bin. It was hopeless. The man understood not a word of English.

‘Rubbish! Look, see?
I must throw away,’ Dave repeated the same words louder, but had no idea what the man was trying to say in return. He knew it was hopeless, and he found the tone of the man’s voice quite rude. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t understand you,’ Dave said, waving him off and walking away. Obviously the man was objecting to his attempt to dump rubbish in his apartment complex, Dave thought. How rude! He went off in search of a bin on the street while the man yelled louder after him.

Once consulting with his map,
he headed for the Louvre through the beautiful Jardin des Plates, by Université Denis Diderot and onto Quai Sant-Bernard. He walked along the Seine River, over the bridge leading to the Notre Dame Cathedral and toward rue de Rivoli. He had a quick but much-needed stopover for an espresso in the shopping precinct before walking all the way down to the Musée du Louvre.

T
he queue at the Louvre was huge, but now he knew to expect it. Dave took his time to look around properly. The enormity of the renowned structure housed some of the world’s best art—it was the least he could do. In front of the Louvre stood the glass pyramid. Dave had read that it was a symbol of contemporary art that was somewhat hated by many Parisians. It just doesn’t fit in with the historic building, Dave thought. He moved through the line, taking in the surroundings. When he finally bought his ticket, he entered the museum.

T
ourists swarmed from one section to another. It was like a human ant farm: they were moving up escalators, downstairs, waiting in queues and looking lost. A map of the museum differentiated each floor by a specific colour and Dave walked to the one closest to him. It led into a vast area full of marble statues from ancient times, depicting mythical creatures and idealised human figures. They ranged from Roman times to the Renaissance. Students sat cross-legged on the ground, pads in hand, squinting and concentrating hard on getting their sketches just right.

Dave was somewhat under
whelmed. He thought he’d be more impressed with such incredible sculptures. Had Julia been there, she’d instil excitement in him with her infectious energy. She had a way of explaining art that got him interested, and it was fun how she’d get wound up about it. She was irresistible when she spoke passionately about a mishmash of colours that represented nothing to him. Dave’s lips curved into a smile, remembering some of their past visits to art galleries and museums. It was a weakness of hers to get wound up when Dave poked fun at her. She’d get angry and call him ignorant. He’d joke about it just to see her turn red. ‘You’re as arty as a plank of wood, Dave,’ she told him once. It was in remark to a comment he’d made about ‘Rembrandt’ sounding like a kitchen appliance.

So much art surrounded him that Dave
had only the patience to gaze at each artwork for a few seconds. An hour later, he moved along to another level—the Egyptian and Persian collections. In a section just before the exit, and somewhat obstructed from direct view, a human form grabbed his attention. Dave looked up to see a white-marble statue of a naked man about his size, with one knee on the floor and his arm resting on the other. Fanned out across his back were wings like that of an angel. His shoulders were slumped, and his head was bowed down with an expression of sadness. The marble glistened, even though it was dated from over a thousand years ago. The statue was positioned high above the stairs, with its head looking down, as if the figure were watching visitors as they went.

Dave
checked the description on a metal plate at its feet, but it was in French. All he could confirm was that it was an angel. The muscular features, facial structure, contours and ridges on its skin were all the work of a master craftsman. The lifelike statue looked like a perfect human form with supernatural origins. Dave was trying to work out the significance of this creation. He could imagine it perched atop a building looking down at humanity. Would it be counting our deeds and weighing up our worth? he wondered. Would it be passing judgement? Would it fly off at some point to tell God, ‘They haven’t changed?’

Dave felt
suddenly repulsed and angered at the pile of marble. He hated the image it represented, the hypocrisy he saw in it. What kind of God would take away a life as young and beautiful as his wife’s?

‘Tell God to go to hell,
’ he whispered and walked away to the museum’s Egyptian art wing. There, thousands of pieces, from mummified humans and animals to jewellery and pots were on display. The collection seemed to extend to a never-ending scale. There was just too much to take in and, even though it didn’t actually arouse much interest in him, he felt obliged to make an effort and see it. He was in Paris, after all. It was the thing to do, was it not?

Couples made up a large number of t
he visitors, both young and old, many of them honeymooners, he guessed. The feeling of loneliness that was settling on him was inescapable; he yearned for someone to share the moment with him. Someone like Erin should be at his side, he thought. He hated walking around aimlessly and was trying hard to convince himself that there was a purpose to this endeavour.

After a
nother two hours of walking through the hallways, passageways and gallery rooms of the Louvre, Dave decided to end his tour. The place was simply too massive to be seen in one day, and he was in no mood for it anyway. His expectations of the Louvre were overblown. Mona Lisa would have to wait for another visit. The crowding had peaked, and he found it difficult to sit in one place without being bumped, nudged and having his view constantly obstructed.

Outside
the Louvre, he took his map in hand and searched for the quickest route to the Boulevard St Germain, which would lead him to the Jazz Inn. Dave’s mood immediately lifted, and his eagerness grew with each step as he picked up the pace. Unfortunately, his fitness level was at its lowest point ever, which meant he had to take frequent breaks to sit for a moment and massage his leg muscles. The view along the way was worth every step; it seemed there wasn’t a boring or dull street in the city of Paris.

Dave noticed that t
he golden arches of McDonald’s outlets were a lot smaller than usual and much more subtle. He theorised that strict advertisement codes must protect the historic quarters from commercial pollution. He appreciated it—it allowed the authenticity of the city to be retained, and he found himself absorbed by it. The in-your-face billboards and giant posters, like those in Hong Kong, weren’t there to distract him.

The Jazz Inn was
a little bar sandwiched between a church and a department store. The sign was a ‘J’ in the shape of a trumpet highlighted in blue neon lights against the backdrop of black bricks. The large wooden door of the old building was shut. Dave peered into the tiny barred windows but couldn’t see any movement inside among the piled chairs and empty tables. On the door, a schedule listed the local and overseas artists that were performing that week. It was his second night in Paris. According to the schedule, Leon Bernard and the Black Kats were to play all-time favourites starting at 9:00 that evening.

It was 7:15
. Perfect, Dave thought. He had enough time to go back to his apartment, chill out and get ready for the evening. A small
supermarché
was conveniently located near his apartment—he thought he’d grab some wine and something to eat before he went back. He was appreciating the liberal attitude the Europeans took toward alcohol—it was sold pretty much in every convenient store he came across.

C
igarettes however, he’d noticed, were only sold at shops with signs displaying tobacco. He’d also noticed how prolific smoking was in Paris. It seemed that one didn’t light up due to addiction; smoking was a way of life. A social gathering didn’t seem to happen without smokers. It was simply part of their culture. He saw in all the cafés he passed that, from university students to conservative senior ladies, one enthusiastically sparked up while engaged in a conversation over politics, with a short black on the side or a glass of Bordeaux.

Dave
picked up a couple of bottles of wine, scotch and Coke. The woman serving at the counter gave him a smile and held his gaze. She had her hair tied in a bun, revealing a warm face with a long, elegant neck. She took her time scanning his items, sneaking glances at him as she did. Dave was embarrassed; she was flirting with him, and he didn’t know what to do. He stiffened up. The woman was in her mid-thirties, his age, and apparently single. Dave tried to interact, but his goofy hand gestures and uncomfortable laughs made him feel like Mr Bean. His inability to speak French forced him to improvise awkwardly. This was the first time on his trip that he was meeting an attractive woman in a sober state, and it didn’t go well at all. He reminded himself to look at the phrase book he’d bought.

A drizzle chilled the air outside and threatened to spoil the night
, but Dave remained excited. At his apartment, after switching on the television to hear the sound of English voices in the background, he peeled off his clothes in a hurry, took a shower and dressed for the night before pouring himself a double scotch and Coke. A BBC news presenter ran through updates of the elections in England.

By the time Dave had downed two refills
, he knew all about the current political state of the UK, as told by the BBC. It was 8:30 in the evening. When he leaped up, he felt a slight dizziness. The alcohol was circulating more easily now that he was on his feet. The sound of steps on the pavement outside his apartment indicated the beginning of nightlife. It was time to go.