Above the rooftops ... I remember

“Ma’am, it’s almost closing time. Shall I lead you downstairs?”
The lady drummed her fingers on the cold banister, listening absently to the sound of her nails touching the stone. She didn’t have the faintest desire to leave.
The waiter sighed impatiently.
“Ma’am?”
The woman smiled at his funny accent and eyed him for a moment.
“I’ll be down in a minute, thank you.”
The waiter mumbled something and let the woman alone on the balcony. It seemed like the whole Paris was whispering and ruffling that night. The old lady puffed. ‘It’s always ruffling.’ She took a sip of wine from her glass and swallowed it slowly, as if it had the power to stop time. ‘Or turn it back.’ After putting the glass on the stone banister, the lady coughed and rubbed her hands. It was too cold for a May night.
The woman raised her head and gazed at the immensity of Paris, which was laying in front of her, just like a dream, like something that was once hers and now no one’s. It was a strange feeling, something familiar, but so far away… She could see Paris, she could taste it, she could listen to it from the tiny balcony above the rooftops. The lady covered her eyes with her palm and let herself gripped by the night rumors. She wanted to challenge Paris. She wanted to know if it remembered her. Oh, how she loved to listen to the city.
It was the evening air buzzing with excited hum of laughter and voice chatter. It was the rush of the late cars on Champs-Elysees. It was the clinking of glasses from the outdoor cafes and restaurants and the busy waiters who busted to and fro carrying mouth-watering plates of food. It was the beeping of ambulances. It was the clock at Notre Dame announcing midnight. It was the barking of the stray dogs and the accordion music. It was the silence… She could even hear herself laughing, walking briskly on the streets. With him…
“Ma’am, you really should leave. We have to close the restaurant now”, the waiter’s funny voice startled her.
“Close it.”
“I’m not sure you understood me, ma’am. We can’t close if you’re here. Please come with me.”
“Just close it.”
“Ma’am I …”
“Close it, I said!”
The woman’s scream echoed in the night and when she turned around, the man noticed the big tears in her eyes. She had her fists tightened and she was staring at the waiter, who had made a step backwards. Her heart was beating fast, really fast, and it made her dizzy.
Then, it happened again. Paris was silent.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry”, the lady cried, wiping her tears over and over again. “I’m sorry, I’ll come with you.”
The man nodded.
“Shall I bring you a glass of water?”
“No, thank you, I’m fine.”
The woman looked at Paris again and took a deep breath.
“So you know Paris well?”
She glanced at the waiter, who was now leaning over the balcony next to her.
“Pretty well, yes.”
They both paused for a second, then the man continued, fingering his moustache.
“Could you tell me what happened?”
“What?”
“Why were you crying?”
“Oh…”
The wind made some grey threads of her hair float.
“That’s a long story.”
The waiter cleared his throat.
“I have time.”
“Don’t you have to close the restaurant?” the lady asked, playing with her hands.
“It can wait.”
He sighed.
“We don’t see an old lady crying on our restaurant balcony every day. “
He looked at her kindly.
“Oh, well then.”
The woman closed her eyes again and held hard on the stone banister.
“They say”, she begun, “They say it’s just a matter of time until we forget things. And I believed it. I tried so hard to forget it all. To forget him.”
She opened her eyes and looked blindly at the lights of Paris. Her voice was trembling.
“I guess I couldn’t.”
She paused again and listened to the young waiter breathing slowly.
“I was 18 then”, she went on. “And Mark as well. We came here in a February, all the way from London, so that he could take his pictures. Mark wanted to become a photographer and he took me with him to Paris. But the real reason we came here was the fact that we wanted to run away, you know, to be just the two of us. I remember the way he held his camera, how he analyzed the light. It crosses my mind every time. What’s funny, though, is that I can’t remember his face completely.
She smiled.
“He had really blue eyes and curly brown hair. That’s all I remember. And his perfume was something fresh and floral. I know because I had bought it for him. We used to walk down Rue de Rivoli every night. There was a boutique there which we both loved. It sold the most beautiful flowers in Paris. Oh, and we liked to scare the pigeons in front of the Cathedral. And we would wake up early only to go and feed them. I remember Mark laughing noisily while throwing the small pieces of bread. Baguette, actually. And there were the long walks on Champs-Elysees and around Place de la Concorde. Another funny thing is how I hated all this romantic stuff. I’ve always found it useless. Mark would laugh at me and tell me that I was weird and funny. Oh, God, and when we bought those scarves! It was really late, I remember, and we found a café open and we ordered some hazelnut cappuccino. The best I’ve ever tasted. And right in front of the café, there was an old woman selling scarves. We looked at each other and giggled. A minute later, we were speeding towards the hotel with our scarves on. His was blue. Mine was purple. But I lost it on a bench, I think, on the banks of Seine. And then…”
The lady stopped and balanced her breathing. Her head was hurting. Her memories were hurting. She looked at the waiter, who was fixing her with attention.
“Then he brought me here. In this very restaurant.”
She turned her head again.
“It was cold, very cold, and Chez Pierrot was crowded. We ate sea fruit that night and camembert. Funny combination, I know… And after that we went up here, on the balcony above the rooftops. That’s how he called it. We came here and we listened to Paris and held hands. That’s all. I remember our hands were freezing cold and we ordered some red wine up here. Mark wanted to take a photo of us, but I said no. I dived in the warmth of his jacket and told him something like: “Photographs are crap. Keep the moment in mind and never let it go.”
The woman giggled.
“And then we kissed… It was one of those kisses which last forever. I mean, we had kissed for many times before, but that kiss… Awshh, that kiss was priceless. It’s my last memory from Paris…”
The lady coughed and folded her arms. Her body was quivering and what hurt the most was that she couldn’t share her real feelings with anyone. She remembered the way he touched her, the way he kissed her forehead and how he caressed her messy reddish hair.
“Memories are painful”, she continued. “You know, I believe in this astrology of eyes. There are times when you simply look in someone’s eyes and you know. I knew. Life’s a funny thing. Stuff happens over and over and there are moments which you want to cherish forever and moments which you try so hard to burry. I never liked taking photos. They just don’t scream the truth. They don’t turn back time, they don’t bring back smells, textures, smiles… And, indeed, I don’t have many photographs from the most important moments in my life. Like this one I just told you about.”
The old lady rubbed the banister.
“Mark lost his memory in an accident some weeks after we came back to London. That was the only time in my entire life when I wished I had made more photos. Everything changed then. He started his life again. He never remembered me… And I moved on. But I will always remember it all. Always. And so will Paris…”
The woman’s voice faded.
“Wow”
The waiter put the glass on the banister. The lady noticed that it was empty and smiled.
“I’m sorry to hear that”, the man added, looking at his feet. “Hmm”, he puffed, “This really is an interesting story.”
“And it’s not even over.”
The woman glimpsed at him kindly.
“Some things are just meant to stick around you like… forever… My husband is also a photographer. And my son studies to become one. See how strange it all is? And no one knows about Mark. No one. Only I know. I remember everything. Maybe I’m too old to remember to buy milk, but I guess I’m never too old to remember him… Some say a true love story lasts forever… And I kind of agree,”
The waiter was shaking with emotion. He came closer to the old lady and put his hand on her back. He wanted to say something. Anything. But it was one of those moments when you know and can’t speak.
The woman saw his confusion and smiled thankfully. She shook her head.
“Yes, it’s true. A blessing or a curse, you could say. If you ask me now, just stay strong, this is my politics. And don’t try to forget. Because you know you won’t.”
The waiter turned to her.
“What?” the woman asked, jovially. “Conclusions? I don’t like them either.”
As Tour Eiffel sparkled in the distance and Paris turned quiet again, she added:
“My name is Mildred Hooke and this is my story.”
And, somehow, she thought, one of the stories of Paris.