How did it happen?

                                   How did it happen?

It was one of those bright spring mornings. You could almost hear the resin rising in the trunks of the trees overhanging the streets. I was on my way to shop at the local market. I had just turned down a narrow street when I noticed a young woman standing in a doorway. She appeared to be waiting for a taxi. I did not stop, but in passing, for a fraction of a second, our eyes met. Hers were a light blue color, but seemed tainted by a profound sadness. Instantly I felt an overwhelming sense of pity. Despite the misery shown in her eyes she was beautiful. As we passed each other she acknowledged my presence. I had the chance to smell her perfume. In the clear morning air it was intoxicating. I felt a sudden violent urge to speak to her. I had to think quickly to find an excuse.

I stopped and turned to look at her again. In doing so I was thinking of how I could approach her.

“Excuse me, I am new to this part of Paris, do you live here"?

“Yes I live here. How can I help you?” The tone of voice was as I would have imagined. Soft, with a slight Irish accent that makes one think of poetry, moorlands and fields of wildflowers.

“Thank you. I am sure you can. Please, which way is it to the market?”

“Down this street, at the bottom turn left and then you cannot miss it”.

As she gave me instructions I had a quick chance to appreciate the young woman behind the voice. She had glorious long reddish hair that accentuated her delicate fair facial skin with a small trace of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She was quite tall with what appeared to be an athletic figure hidden under a light spring coat of a green color. I was just about to try and continue the conversation when I saw, as I had predicted, a taxi coming down the street.

Our conversation ended with her wishing me a successful shopping trip.

As I continued down the street I felt deeply disturbed by this brief meeting.

My heart was beating like somebody playing the drums inside me, no doubt, my body was bothered by all kinds of mixed emotions. To steady myself I needed a cafe…. quickly. In haste I entered the corner bistro.

“Double espresso, please.”

I sat there wondering….. how could it happen? There are plenty of good looking women available for us to admire; each day in the streets, the television, advertising poster boards. Here I was in an emotional state after a brief conversation with a complete stranger that had my blood warmed nearly to fever pick. Was it her face, her perfume, her voice, maybe that gorgeous reddish hair. It certainly was all those features but above all her sad light blue eyes were something that mesmerized my senses. I had to meet her again.

On my way back from the market I looked at the letter boxes in her building. The building was not large with only ten tenants. The name Monsieur et Madame Patrick O’ Conner seemed the right person given her slight Irish accent. Later I looked up the name on the internet. In Paris I found a few O’ Conners but nobody under Patrick. Three days passed with me constantly thinking about her and seeing flashes of her face. Her imaginary presence haunted my thoughts, disturbed my work, and was making my life a misery. It was like being struck with an illness of untold origins. The cure was to go to her building and make a few discrete inquiries. This I did.

Through a neighbor, without having to address anyone in her building. I found out she generally goes to the market every second day of the week starting on Monday at about 10.30. The neighbor, being a local gossip, told me her husband was seldom seen, but he was a man not appreciated in the community. He was considered rude and arrogant.

Next Wednesday morning I was in her street having a coffee at the bistro situated at the end of the street. At 10.35 I saw her coming down the street. She was dressed in the same light green coat she wore the last time I saw her, but what I immediately thought odd was that she had a scarf tightly bound around her neck. As it was a warm spring day the scarf seemed totally out of place. The sight of her set a disturbing emotional flow of conflicting thoughts through my brain. She noticed me at the cafe and as she passed by she smiled in recognition. I called after her.

“Please, may I invite you for a coffee”.

She stopped and stood for a few seconds contemplating her reply.

“I am not sure I should,” …..there was a pause…. “but why not”.

As she sat down I caught a whiff of her perfume. I was mesmerized by looking into those sad mournful light blue eyes. Very disturbing!

“So you found the market alright……. are you living around here”?

“Yes, a few streets from here. May I ask, have you been living here a long time?”

“No, only for about 8 months and within the next six months I will be returning with my husband to Ireland.” This was said in a tone of voice that allowed me to imagine that returning to Ireland would be an everlasting regret.

Our conversation moved on to talking about Paris. We exchanged likes and dislikes, good restaurants, sights and buildings to see. The more we talked the more captivated by her presence I became. The conversation flowed at a pace as if two very dear friends had just met after a long absence. Their souls were colliding in a symphony of complete harmony.

As we were sitting on a terrace with the watery sun showing its face I noticed small beads of perspiration forming on her brow. I stopped our discussion for a minute to declare that maybe it was getting too hot to remain on the terrace. 

“ You should take off your scarf?”

“No, I have to keep it on, but I will loosen it.”

As she did so I noticed what looked like bruised marks around her neck.

She noticed the surprised facial movement that flashed across my face and quickly realized her mistake. She immediately tightened the scarf. Then she looked deeply into my eyes searching for the warmth and compassion from my senses. Without me moving she slid one of her hands across the table to make contact. I extended my hand. I was paralyzed with an enormous feeling of empathy for her. I just wanted to take her in my arms, give her a kiss  and tell her I understood.

In a gentle voice she said. “I have something to tell you. I live with a monster. A man who treats me like a slave. At times, particularly when he drinks, he is brutal with me”.

There was then a period of silence while she, no doubt, was collecting her thoughts. She still was holding my hand across the table. For my part I was spinning like a top; moved by compassion, anger and sadness. I could not even imagine this beautiful creator could receive such treatment. I suddenly saw a vision of a butterfly with someone tearing its wings off and piecing its heart with a pin. I was about to speak but before I could utter a word…. she spoke.

“I know what you're thinking. You want to take me to the police, but that is impossible. I will try to explain. As I have already told you we have come to Paris on a relatively short stay or I should say we were ordered to come. 

I come from a family of four with a home in a medium sized village about twenty miles out of Dublin. My husband comes from the same village. His father has a very successful business in which my father works as one of the managers. My mother does not work but looks after the home and my younger sister who at the present is bed ridden with a not too serious medical problem. My father is a very dominating man who expects us all to abide by his wishes. He is the law and judge. Hence at the age of twenty I was married to the only son of the man that owns an important business in the district. As I said this is where my father works. My husband is like his father, a ruthless and unpleasant man. Our marriage was not one of two people in love but forced on us by the wishes of both our parents. The marriage was doomed from the start but held together by the continual interference of the parents.

My husband and his parents were desperate, that probably is not a strong enough word, for us to have a child. For some reason I was not able to become pregnant even after various doctors told me nothing physically preventing me from having a child. My husband was also examined and as with me there was no medical reason why we could not have children. The doctors all suggested rest and relaxing activities. As a result of all these opinions both families decided we should spend a year in Paris city of love and romance. They considered this would or might result in a child.

Their decision has proved to be a disaster. My husband has no occupation in which to channel his energy. He does not speak French, which in this city is a handicap. He has lost the regular contact with his friends in Ireland which were always a great part of his life. He is like a caged lion sleeping and pacing around the apartment. Out of complete boredom I suspect he is using and dealing in drugs. Immersed in all this frustration he attacks me as he considers I am the person he can blame. If he was not such a cruel and self centered man I might have some empathy for him. But I feel like a dog that has been shouted at and whipped into total submission. I can never forgive him for forcing me to live a life of anxiety and fear”

At that moment I felt her hand give mine a gentle squeeze. I noticed for a fraction of a second her beautiful eyes had lost that note of sadness.

“Thank you for listening to me. The day we first saw each other I knew that if in the future we had the good fortune to meet again I would find somebody that might understand and comfort me. Now I must go as I have lunch to prepare. Can we meet in two weeks time at this place at the same time?

My reply was instant, “Of course, sooner if you like.”

“No, to meet sooner is not possible.” She slowly withdrew her hand, got up and made her way towards the market.

I sat there in a state of bewilderment, my emotions seemed jumbled up like some trees one finds with visible roots stretching out in all directions. Hers was an extremely sad story. It seemed the only answer was her husband’s death either by an accident, illness, or murder. The thought of any divorce seemed out of the question. I kept asking myself what was my role in this? A few days ago I first saw this young woman. There is no doubt I was instantly attached to her facial looks as though some powerful magnet within me was drawing her towards me. It was an attraction of my soul, my inner feelings, devoid of carnal emotion. 

Now having coffee with her confirmed her inner spirit was as beautiful as the exterior. I had an insatiable desire to spend  time with her beside me so that I could constantly look into her eyes and run my fingers through her hair. Sitting today listening to her story only intensified this desire. I so wanted to take the sadness out of her beautiful eyes and fall in love with her. To wait two weeks to see her again was for me a cruel punishment. As I drank the last drop of my coffee I felt tears forming in my eyes.

Two weeks later I arrived early for our meeting. Like an anxious school boy I kept looking down her street. She never came. I might have made a mistake. It might have been three weeks instead of two. The tension I was feeling gave me a splitting headache. I returned home like a dog with my tail between my legs. 

A week later I returned to the cafe. She did not appear. Something was wrong. I went back up her street to her building. No longer was the name Conners on a letter box. In desperation I went to find the neighbor that I had previously spoken to.

As she began telling me what happened. My world seemed devoid of hope, the feelings and the loss of a love I could have for someone.

The neighbor told me that in the middle of the night about twelve days ago she was rushed to the hospital, but found dead on arrival. Rumor has it that there were traces of bruises around her neck where it was thought she had previously tried to hang herself, but apparently she finally took an overdose of sleeping pills with a mixture of alcohol. She was cremated in a strictly private ceremony Apparently there was no police investigation concerning her death. Within two days after the funeral her husband left for Ireland.

I never again walked down the street where she had lived or took a coffee in the cafe at the end of the road.

David Nutt                               November 2024