Sweeping sun

The wind bit into Clotie’s ankles as she walked along cigarette corpses and wet leaves. Amidst honking bikes and tired buses, fall clothes and coats swirled into a rustling fog that tamed Montmartre down a little bit. 

“Elle se decide celle-là ou merde?”, a fringed woman in a masculine suit grunted. Clotie stepped to the side and let the busy insect take the lead into the metro station. A deep sigh burned into Clotie’s neck – she turned around.

Purple eyelids closed in despise at her. “Mon pied, mademoiselle.”

“Pardon, je-”  The woman arranged her faded Hermes scarf around her neck and swept off Clotie’s words like dusty steam. Before she could add anything, someone elbowed her to the side of the stairs, flying down their invisible red carpet.

Clotie massaged her ribcage, in silence, and watched them all hurtle down the stolid stairs. Her gaze ran back to the entrance of the metro station. When was the last time she smelt that mold? A golf ball grew in her throat. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder and walked down the stairs with care. No tears today. 

Bacteria shook up and down her seat as the metro dove into dim tunnels, rats certainly racing all over the rails. The lava of wet and sweat clutched thick into her trachea. She ducked into the patchouli of her shawl and drowned herself in imaginary humus and ocean waves. “Pigalle… Pigalle”, a male voice whispered in the microphone. People poured out of the train in a flow absurdly steady for a single stop. As twice as many flooded in, a grey face hinted at Clotie to leave her folding seat. She pretended not to notice and closed her eyes. The lament of a rusty trumpet broke into the air, zigzagging to the quavering of a bass. “Vienen a verme”, a voice whispered in an imploring mic, filling up the air with a grey mist. People looked away, wishing the voice could disappear. But Clotie, now alert, scanned through the block of beings - who was that soul echoing her silent tremor? Was that a sign? She lifted up from her seat, tilting her head forward. But before she could locate the voice, a faraway growl shut it down. The trumpet, the bass, the voice, all swallowed by the crowd, withdrew as they had arisen – blankly.

Another stop, another flow. Another grey face. Followed by throats growing raucous and eyes popping out at Clotie’s folding seat – no respite. She stood up. And, avoiding the now-triumphant eye of the first grey face, she grabbed the moist bar above her head, her gaze drifting. She crossed her reflection in the scratched window glass. It looked sad. She tried to wipe it off with her woollen sleeve and remembered that wasn’t a sketch, that was reality. Bodies squeezed her closer to the door and, for a second, she felt her feet leaving off the floor. Her face still sad. She pressed the back of her hand onto her red lips and, with round movements, spread touches of colour onto her bleak cheeks. Better. She tussled her fringe with swift picks. Much better. In her head started the rehearsal for the tell-you-about-myself show due to begin in an hour. She tussled her fringe twice more and frowned. Dragged her half-emptied foundation powder out of her bag and brought it closer to her freckles. Will whatshername see through her fable? Possibly. It was all from that first link she found online, anyway. In the tiny powder mirror, her nose looked fine – still room for growth. She closed the mirror down and shook her head. Her first ever job interview was today – and she owed it all to Alf. 

Until three days ago, Clotie and Alf rented a studio by the halted carrousel rue des Abbesses, in Montmarte. Clotie liked that street. At night, she’d kick her way through plastic bags in the glint of yellowish lights, back and forth, before climbing the heights of the Butte. There, by Dalida’s profaned statue, she would sketch knots and curves, often for hours, in silence. The wind would blow through the back of her blouse and she’d go back home teasing the flu. The rest of her time was rituals. She liked to sit in their armchair that smelled of rotten leather. She liked to wipe the glass of the muddy aquarium with her sleeve and stop abruptly - remembering the fish had died five months ago. She loved to then lay her blond curls on her folded elbow and daze through the dusty window. Jump into her cold jeans, throw on her Dr Martens and head out for a nut and Roquefort salad, anywhere downstairs. An empty portfolio under her arm, she'd look out for tourists – scrolling mentally through meagre sentences from her first English class, 25 years ago, that she could throw at them. She liked how her accent twinkled, and thought so would anyone else. But nothing ever happened. She would shrug at herself, gulping down a cake with praline rose, and walk back up to the studio for a nap. 

Their studio – la Marmiche – sat on the last floor of a building where the staircase smelled of mothballs and rotting wood. The heavy air soaked into everybody’s pores and people spent their nights scrubbing their skins in tiny bathtubs. So did Alf, certainly. Possibly, maybe. She didn’t know, for they barely spoke. Alf wandered through the city in floating jeans and in a cappuccino jacket, that looked like it had been cut off that desolating armchair upstairs. He smoked, dictating poetry in his head. Or so she had been told. By whom? She couldn’t remember. Perhaps she had once bumped into his grey eyes, lost in the city. That was unlikely, though, for she went beyond rue des Abbesses only at sunset. And he only at dawn. Most likely, she stalked him once and they both erased this episode from their memories, out of shame, and in agreement. 

Their money came from relatives who died on the same day, four years ago. Hers in an avalanche in Franche-Comté, his in a sea resort in Arcachon. To Clotie, who did not believe in coincidences, that double-grief-double-jackpot episode proved Alf was her soulmate. The artist she would share her struggles with, forever. She hence shortened his name from Alphonse to Alf.  For Alf in English means “moitié”, as in “alf past height o’clock”, “alf a kilometer” and “my second-alf” – ma moitié, my soulmate. They were meant to suffer together and, although she never told him, their longing for depth and inspiration filled her with pride. Their lives, and life together, were cubic art. Clotie and Alf dreamed of showing their work in bustling galleries where mulled wine and smoke would grip the air. But both feared and mulled wine and smoke and the air. 

On the window to her right, her fingers wandered. They drew two circles. One for him, one for her. Alfland et Clotieland – their covert shelters. She smiled and smirked, holding the smirk longer than the smile. She had never noticed it, but that was true: she and Alf had drifted apart long ago. Two bubbles gliding above the mud towards a stained dormer. Towards a high sun and a glittering sea that would heal their hearts with warmth and salt.

An old man to her left cleared his throat, throwing out a cloud of wine. “Maman, c’est quoi?”, a finger that looked like a tiny carrot was pointing at the window. “Shh, it’s nothing, sweetie.” It’s nothing, sweetie. Clotie erased the two circles like a sly spot off the aquarium. Of all their art and passion, all that remained was nothing, sweetie. Perhaps that woman was right. Perhaps Clotie had believed in that nothing while Alf knew. For if he didn’t know, why slip on his shoes and walk out? He always knew. Clotie’s eyes squinted. Was it three days or three months ago? 

“Pont des arts…Pont des arts”, the sugary voice announced as the metro slowed down. Clotie arranged her high ponytail and stepped off. She trotted up the empty stairs, holding the back of her lucky charm skirt against her translucid legs. As she emerged from the underground, the wind bit again. Behind her knees, this time, and she squeaked. A chill ran down her spine as she looked around, at the creme buildings in stern ashlar. Their lone and plain slate. Their opaque windows like pouting mouths. The wind bit once more, through her blouse and into her heart. It bit off a piece and took it away. Clotie watched it fly. Faraway. To Alf, wherever he was. She glanced back at the metro station, ready to dive back in.  

But, ahead, far ahead, a sunbeam was sweeping off dead leaves.