Courting Alfred (1)
The one thing that made it special –the one thing that made it possible and the one thing that ultimately ruined it – was of course my utter cluelessness. You see, I either have a clue or I have a romance, that’s just how I roll. Might be somehow connected to my nasty little habit of immediately looking for something wrong in every guy showing just the slightest bit of interest in me. (Clearly, there are only two possible explanations: a.) cruel joke on me, or B.) final act of desperation on part of the guy.) Thus, the longer I remain unaware of his intentions the longer I can postpone the self-destructive paranoia. I’m just not that attractive. We don’t need to start a discussion about unrealistic beauty standards now; I think the entire issue is so depressing that I prefer to blame my personal lack of success in the dating department on other deficiencies. On my bad days I’m a doubt ridden, stressed out, disgruntled zombie staggering through my life while looking as grim as possible and I can somehow see why that’s not terribly sexy to most people. On my good days however I can transcend the neurotic mess that I doubtlessly am. On my good days I can be quite serene. And my theory is that I just had a number of good days in Cannes. Now maybe, just maybe, serenity looks better on me than my usual default expressions of wild-eyed exhaustion (“Don’t you see I’m busy? Don’t bother me now or I’ll snap) or sullen existential discomfort (I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo/what the hell I’m doing here?) Or maybe it was that famous light that has attracted so many painters to the region which was kinder to me than the light in our lines of latitude. Or maybe there was such an abundance of beauty in this summer at the Côte d’Azur that my own lack of beauty simply didn’t bother me. At any rate, for some reason or another I did not think it was completely absurd that Alfred might have seen something in me that people usually don’t. Or maybe it was him. Somehow I doubt that I was so much less fucked up at 17 than I am now, yet I never suspected him of any foul play. We were both in Cannes to improve our French. His was better than mine, which earned him a place in the advanced course of the language school we both attended and my instant admiration. He came over to my class in one of the breaks, only to point out a mistake on the cover of my dictionary, which I found awkward but cute. We had met on the airport, where we had engaged in surprisingly effortless small talk and I remember thinking of him before falling asleep on that night. “ I’m going to botch that entry examination tomorrow, I shouldn’t have booked the water-skiing, this will be a disaster, why does everyone at this school speak better French than me? But this Alfred, that’s a nice one.” So he came to see me in the breaks, and when our group went out in the evening, I spent most of the time talking to him. On one of my free afternoons, while initially aimlessly strolling down the Croisette, I found myself heading towards the park where he had told me he had been the day before, in the vague hope that I might find him there again. He was not there and I went home, not giving the entire thing much thought. And then came the night of the lost shoe. One of the girls of our group was celebrating her birthday, and we were having a party on the beach. Now picture the scene: sea, stars, wine, the distant laughter of the others, Alfred and me, sitting a bit apart from rest and group, him resting his head on my lap. And I didn’t think anything about it. So when I went back to fetch some more wine and Lila asked me about my progress with Alfred, I was completely surprised. Had she not made that remark, I swear I would have never connected the dots. Which actually might have been better in the greater scheme of things, as it all went pretty much downhill from there. I returned to him, overwhelmed by this shiny new perspective on things and suddenly he talks about not being able to talk about things, but maybe he’ll write to me about it someday. (“It is impossible to say just what I mean”, hm? ) And I even have the nerve to ask whether it’s something about me, but no, that’s not what he meant, that’s not what he meant at all. So when he goes on, talking about wanting something that is near, yet inaccessible, what else should I believe other than that it’s merely meant to be understood on a metaphysical level? And yet, my friend’s remark still in my ears, I cannot help thinking that maybe, just maybe, on a different level it might be a little bit about me too – which makes me terribly ditzy, a state of mind I’m not used to and cannot deal with. And then some people suggest that we go swimming and I’m up and gone to join them, and he stays and the moment is lost. Now, this midnight-swimming-session was only the first in a line of shitty ideas I had in the following days, but it basically set the pattern. I don’t regret it, though – the really regrettable moves were made later. I guess I just needed this at this moment, the cold water, the vastness of the sea, blackness surrounding me, time to think about this development – a bit of distance after unexpected intimacy. I was however determined to further investigate the matter (and maybe disabuse someone from certain misconceptions about inaccessibility) in the further course of the night, but alas, when we returned, the remaining party was in a state of disarray, hastily packing their things and getting out of the way of the caterpillar that had arrived during our absence, preparing the beach for the next wave of tourists. The caterpillar had wrecked havoc on the beach and my things in particular, as I had not been there to rescue them in time. So I spent the rest of the night searching for my right shoe. Unsuccessfully, by the way. Lost the shoe, lost the chance, lost the man. But I didn’t know this then. It was the second Friday of a three-week stay and I thought there still would be time.
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25.12.2008 - 17:35 Uhr
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