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Recherching les Temps Perdu

by BryanW 

Posted: 13 November 2015
Word Count: 997
Summary: For Bazz's Week 577 Challenge


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The man stares at the street sign of the road he last walked along half a century ago. He clenches his fists, stands in thought for a while, then he pulls up his coat collar and starts to walk down the road.

It is one in the morning. 

Was it a mistake to come back for this ‘Baby-Boomers Golden Get-Together’ at the university he left all of those years ago? The celebrations, if that’s what they were, are over. The one person he’d hoped to see wasn’t there, and so, at eleven, he had returned to his hotel. But then he found himself walking the empty streets of the town to search out the place his mind has kept returning to these fifty years. And now he’s nearly there.

The street lights on either side of the road create small islands of sickly yellow between the shadowy, leafless trees. The fronts of the houses look on, flat, lifeless. Like a stage set, he thinks. Unreal.

He walks slowly, as if he needs to concentrate on each step. The only sound breaking the silence of the night is the tap tap tap tap of footsteps. His own. 

“I love you, I really do,” she had said. But he hadn't replied. Why hadn't he just told her that he loved her too? 

The man shakes his head. It wasn’t the sort of thing he did. Not the sort of thing he does. 

She had continued, “And it won’t be long - only a few months. I’ll write. I’ll write every day!” 

He remembers these trees. Some had been in blossom. No, they couldn’t have. It was late June for goodness’ sake! He tries to picture that moment. There were people around them, other students. No? Just the two of them then. Were they holding hands? He can't quite …  What he does remember, what he keeps returning to in this recurring reverie, is that he didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. He would not look at her. But, oh, how he still remembers that face! Now that he'll never forget - the cascades of long red hair that surrounded it, the sprinkle of freckles over the bridge of her nose that made her seem so vulnerable, and those pale green eyes (or where they grey?) that seemed to reach into him. Was his painful reluctance to look at her because he actually knew, even then, that he was going to move on? He can remember the silence that followed her words. And always, in his mind, he remembers his averted face. He just would not look at her. What must she have thought of him at that crossroads in their lives? Did she suspect that he wasn’t yet ready to commit, that at times he had felt crushed by her? At times he had sensed she wanted too much of him. She was a woman after all. And he? Well he was only really still just a boy. And he wasn’t yet ready.


Ah. Here. This must be it then. This one. This is the house where she lodged, where he left her on that day in June fifty years ago. No? This one then? Oh for God’s sake, what does it matter? She’s not here!

And yes, she did write. She wrote every day, just as she had said she would - at first. She told him about her lycée in France - where she was working as an assistante - her language degree course had demanded it. She had decided to go over early, well before the Autumn term started, to get to know the town in which she was to live and work for the year. She told him in her letters about her loneliness, about how much she was missing him, about France, the food, the long meals with the family she was staying with, the rubbish French pop music, and about her teaching. And he did reply. He remembers doing so. But his letters were much shorter than hers and far, far less frequent. He had so little to tell her. He was never any good at small talk and feelings were as difficult to write as to talk about. 

Her daily letters became weekly ones. And then they stopped.

His mouth hangs open. He is looking, but not looking, back to where he’s just walked. He is thinking of what has passed since. Of his marriage a couple of years later. Of his two children. Of his humdrum career. Of how life takes you on a journey without signposts to give you direction and provides no chances to start again. So now he is back here at the place that his mind has taken him to every day and every night in those intervening years. “Why didn't I … If only we’d …” he says aloud, but it is too painful for him say more, let alone follow the thoughts through.  

There is a murmur of movement on the pavement near him. A cat. And she is staring at him, confused, perhaps, by this human who has wandered onto her territory in the time of the day that belongs to her. Yet she comes and rubs herself against his trouser leg. The man can't help but smile at this act of solidarity and trust. He crouches and brings his hand down to stroke the creature. With a hiss and a swipe of her paw the cat flashes off into the darkness. 

He reaches the end of her street -  the junction at the bottom. He lifts a hand to his mouth and bites at the knuckle. After a while he tugs the hand away, rubbing it with his other hand as if to warm it up or to remove some unsightly mark. He walks on, alone, taking exactly the same route as fifty years before. His stomach clenches as the cord that has been gripping it for all this time draws even tighter. 






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Comments by other Members



TassieDevil at 11:07 on 14 November 2015  Report this post
I wasn't going to even read this at first Bryan, not entering the challenge this week and all. However living in France on this horrific day, i was intrigued by the title and so read on. It has a fantastic nostalgic feel to it, a sense of what I also feel every day. My favourite poem is Frosts' The Road not Taken and your story has the same whistful feel. i have been invited to my school years fiftieth in two years. I won't go for distance reasons and there is no lost love there but I can certainly relate to his feelings.

Of his humdrum career. Of how life takes you on a journey without signposts to give you direction and provides no chances to start again.

Don't get me wrong. I've had a good life myself more through luck than planning. But here I am half a world away from my home. My only criticism would be the ending or lack thereof. I wasn't suggesting a chance meeting with his long lost love but something with more positivity. And in retrospect that's the womag writer in me whereas your story is more literary in its nature.
Well written and emotive. 

BryanW at 11:37 on 14 November 2015  Report this post
Thank you, Alan, for your thoughtful and generous comments. I was just trying to put across the 'What if ...?' thoughts that can hit us all at times - but, for some, must become obsessive and like itches, getting worse as they're picked at. This - combining with memory - which I gather is usually unreliable and changeable - can make nostalgia into something quite nightmarish. 
Bryan

TassieDevil at 11:53 on 14 November 2015  Report this post
An interesting concept; nostalgia becoming a living nightmare. It's similar to the more realistic view of Hell being constantly reliving every bad decision or action we have made in our lives over and over again.

Bazz at 16:29 on 14 November 2015  Report this post
Hi Bryan, this is a wonderfully thoughtful piece. I love the mood and tone you set, especially with

The street lights on either side of the road create small islands of sickly yellow between the shadowy, leafless trees. The fronts of the houses look on, flat, lifeless. Like a stage set, he thinks. Unreal.

You perfectly set up the strange feeling of walking into memory. I think the tale that unfolds here is very personal, and feels very authentic, the reasons, the notes of reflection. Little moments like this

And always, in his mind, he remembers his averted face. He just would not look at her. What must she have thought of him at that crossroads in their lives?

We really get into the head of this character, and understand and feel fully his regrets. I don't think the ending needs more resolution, I think this is a story without an end, and that's its power, that's its tragedy. You stir the echoes, rekindle the feelings, but afterwards, are left with nothing but shadows. This is very much a character piece, and ends perfectly with a note of painful nostalgia.

As Alan pointed out, this is a great line

Of how life takes you on a journey without signposts to give you direction and provides no chances to start again

Great response to the challenge, thanks
 

Bazz at 16:31 on 14 November 2015  Report this post

However living in France on this horrific day, i was intrigued by the title and so read on.

Hi Alan, just wondered how you were doing, the news today has been horrific, hope you and everyone you know are well...

TassieDevil at 16:42 on 14 November 2015  Report this post
Yes thanks Bazz, We live four hours drive away in the countryside of Brittany and rarely go to Paris. Still the whole country shares in the grief of what has happened.

Desormais at 15:32 on 19 November 2015  Report this post
I thought this was beautifully paced, Bryan, and I almost felt as though I were walking down that street behind him.  I loved the 'sickly yellow' from the street lights, and the almost constant rumination of his mind.  At first, I too, thought there should be some kind of resolution, but on second and third readings I changed my mind.  The cat at the end was a nice contrasting stroke too.  (I'm glad it wasn't her reincarnation) :)  Good one.  Beautifully done.

BryanW at 15:37 on 21 November 2015  Report this post
Thank you for the comments, Sandra. The cat bit is there because I wanted to make the point that when you feel a bit down, the world (in the form of a cat here) Is unsympathetic, and, as you rightly suggest, she was not some catty revenge from the woman who'd been let down and returned in another form. In an earlier draft I had the cat's swipe scratching the bloke's hand painfully and bloodily - a bit of retribution. But in the end I decided it was more appropriate that we see the man go off and know he will always find himself, obsessively, replaying this 'If only ...' moment in his head.
Bryan

Dave Morehouse at 11:42 on 22 November 2015  Report this post
Yes, the cat is the glue that binds this story in my opinion. It is a clever touch. Well done. 

There are some bits to pick for me. I got bogged down, at first read, with your MC's internal dialogue. If this were mine I might consider cutting about half of it. Another solution might me to intersperse a couple noises or smells of the night to break it up a little. 

The story is a good one and I wish it wasn't so relevant considering what has happened in the world these last few weeks. Stay safe.
Dave


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