Paris Trance. Geoff Dyer
their hands. Their fingers became intertwined. He spoke quietly. In order to hear she leaned her head towards him. He breathed in the smell of black hair, his breath a warm shiver in her ear, her spine. She traced the line of his jaw from his ear to his chin. He looked at her mouth, her full lips. She caught a glimpse of herself in his eyes. He ran his fingers through her hair. She touched his neck. She said something he could not hear and when she spoke again her lips were almost touching his cheek. She touched his fingers. His nails were clipped short. She felt his wrists, traced the bones and veins in his arms, his thin arms. He touched the ring on one of her fingers which, for all he knew, could have been the finger on which wedding rings were worn. He looked at her eyes, the deep, deep colour. She smelt the coffee on his breath. A breeze entered the room. The candle flame persisted. He breathed in the smell of her hair again. As she spoke a narrow strand of saliva stretched momentarily between her lips. He touched the mole on her cheek. She ran a finger along his lips. His lips touched her eyelids, the flutter of her eyelashes. Her fingers moved up his forearm until she came to the crook of his elbow. He did the same, moved his hand higher to feel the slight swell of her bicep. His fingers met round her arm. Their lips almost touched, then they did, for a second, and then, a few seconds later, they did so again. She kissed him, slightly – only the sound proved it was a kiss – then moved her lips away. Their lips touched again. They were kissing. His hand was on her back, feeling her spine, moving, bone by bone, up to her neck, under the mane of hair through which he ran his fingers, pulling it slightly, then harder, tilting her head back so that he could cover her throat with his mouth. He felt her hands on his back, on his skin, pulling his shirt free, surprised how thin he was. He moved his hand under her arms, feeling the sweat gathered there. Her breasts were very small. Her hands were on his shoulder-blades, running down his ribs, moving to the small of his back. They slid off the chairs so that they were kneeling, facing each other. She undid the top button of his shirt, then the second. He moved his hands around the hem of her dress, moving it slightly up her thighs, brushing the outside of her legs and then touching the inside, the softness, the unbelievable softness.
‘Come inside me.’
‘Is it safe?’
‘My period is tomorrow.’
They woke early, took it in turns to shower and then, enjoying the feel of each other’s clean skin, made love again. Nicole took another shower while Luke shaved. She walked out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, leaving wet footprints on the floor. In the mirror Luke watched her looking intently at the photo of the demonstration in Belgrade.
‘This is very strange,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘You have no idea when this photograph was taken?’
‘No. Why?’ Luke came and stood by her. There were a couple of bloody nicks on his jaw.
‘Look,’ she said, pointing to a woman near the front of the photograph. She had long black hair.
‘No!’ said Luke. ‘Can it really be?’
‘I think it is.’
‘I think it is too,’ said Luke, looking closely, shielding his eyes to stop sunlight reflecting on the glass. ‘It is you.’
‘It’s a coincidence, isn’t it?’
‘It’s incredible.’
Luke continued staring at the picture; reflected in the glass he could see Nicole dressing behind him. When she was ready they went out for breakfast, holding hands. A group of youths parted for them. It was market day on Richard Lenoir, the boulevard given over, normally, to baggy skateboarders. Stall holders were calling out the names of fruit, filling the air with the sound of strawberries, figs, raspberries, cherries. The sky was the colour of pale stone, as if, over the centuries, it had taken on the tones of the buildings below.
They walked to the Café Rotonde which everyone always referred to as the Kanterbrau because the sign advertising beer was larger than the one displaying the name of the café. An Alsatian stood guard, that is, it lay in the doorway, on the brink of sleep. When Luke was a boy Alsatians were regarded as vicious, dangerous: the man-eaters of the dog world; now, in the wake of the savage ascendancy of the Rottweiler and pitbull, they seemed dopey, loving. The only thing you had to worry about was stepping on their tails and disturbing their rest.
The waiter took their order and came back with orange pressé, café au lait, croissants, water.
‘Drinking coffee, eating one croissant and looking forward to having a second,’ said Luke. ‘That’s what I’m doing now.’ His eyes felt taut from lack of sleep. There was a tension between his relaxed body and the strained, gritty feeling of his eyes, but mainly he was aghast at the metamorphosing power of their having made love. It changed everything. Not just him and Nicole but the world around them. The smallest actions – the garbage collectors loading poubelles on to the back of the truck, the waiter carrying trays of coffee, the guy drinking a glass of red wine at the bar – celebrated the happiness of the world as it converged on the couple who had just spent their first night together. Luke looked across at a young man busy writing in a notebook and felt sorry for him: he had only his book for company – even his coffee-cup was empty.
‘I have to go,’ Nicole said, gesturing for the waiter. She had an uncancellable appointment at the university.
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Luke, touching her hair. ‘You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and last night we made love, on our first date. I can’t believe my luck.’
‘Maybe it’s not luck.’
‘What then?’
‘I don’t know.’ She ran the two words together, as in ‘dunno’. Luke was a little disappointed: at that moment, especially in the wake of Nicole’s finding herself in the photograph in his apartment, even a word like ‘destiny’ or ‘fate’ would not have embarrassed him.
‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘Are you leaving too?’
‘No, I’m going to stay here a little while.’
‘Then what do you do?’
‘I’m going to sit here and watch you walk away. Then I’m going to sit here and have another coffee which I shouldn’t have and which I’ll probably regret having. I’ll think about you, and then, just in case last night was a dream, I’m going to go home and lie in bed and hopefully fall asleep and dream it again.’
‘What will you dream?’
‘Of me pulling your dress over your head and seeing you naked for the first time, of you taking me in your mouth, the way you tasted when I first pushed my tongue into you, and how, as soon as you came, I came in your mouth too. Kissing you afterwards, then being inside you for the first time . . .’
‘What a rude dream!’
‘Can you come tonight as well?’
‘In a dream?’
‘No, for real. Can I see you tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll stay in. I’ll cook. We’ll go to sleep early. We’ll sleep for ten hours.’
‘OK.’
‘The code is C25E,’ said Luke. Nicole wrote down the number. Her pen was white, decorated with dots that matched exactly the dark green ink. Love someone, thought Luke, love their possessions.
‘Are you not working today?’
‘I don’t have to go in till later. There’s very little to do.’
‘No football?’
‘I’m too tired. Aren’t you tired?’
‘Yes.’
She kissed him on the mouth, stood up and slalomed through the thicket of café chairs, shoving one with her hip, only slightly, once. He watched her go. Tennis shoes. Tanned legs. Lime