Solitude

[downing]

Totally exhausted, he sat on the first bench that came into view and unhurriedly took the pack of cigarettes from his left jacket pocket. Oh, not again that threatening picture of that horrible lung cancer! There was no day when his mother lived that she didn’t smoke at least a whole pack of cigarettes. In secondary school their biology teacher told in class that cigarettes harmed not only the person that smoked (that one was called active smoker, she explained), but also those that lived in the same environment (those were passive smokers). He came home and told his mother that he had always been smoking and she hadn’t known, nor had he. Without waiting for any explanation, she hit him on the cheek and screamed: As long as I live, you are not allowed to smoke! He whimpered that he was a passive smoker – did she know what that was? What does that mean? she asked. It means that those who live in the same place with a smoker are smokers as well, even though they don’t know it! She burst in laughter and said that was the most stupid thing she had ever heard. Who the heck told you that? Mrs. Adams said it. And who is Mrs. Adams? My biology teacher. Your biology teacher is the biggest idiot I have ever heard! What? she said and laughed again. You’re a smoker without knowing it? That’s hilarious! she exclaimed, gave him a peck and left the room. They were frequent, these strange moments when she turned from blind rage to extreme happiness and they always made Tom wonder.

The other day the teacher said that most of the people who smoked died of lung cancer. Tom couldn’t face it and burst in tears. The teacher approached him and inquired what the matter was. Gasping for breath he muttered that he would die because he’s a passive smoker. Mrs. Adams tried to calm him down by explaining that the thing applies solely to active smokers. That meant that his mom will die? He dared not ask. Of course he didn’t tell anything at home – he feared another hit on his cheek or even worse. He tried to dismiss these thoughts, but every time he saw his mother lighting a cigarette, he felt a pang and had to run to the bathroom to avoid crying in front of her. He was only 11 then. In high-school, when his colleagues started smoking and didn’t die, he said to himself that Mrs. Adams might have been wrong. When Mrs. Adams passed away, he said that she was undoubtedly wrong, owing to the fact that she was dead and gone, whereas his mother and classmates who couldn’t enjoy a break without holding the white stick between their lips, lingered on.

Thus, he couldn’t understand his mother’s interdiction in what regarded his smoking, but he didn’t bring up the matter, not even when he was 18 and his group laughed at him, calling him a jackass. He immersed in his Geography studies and photography (his secret wish was to work for the National Geographic) and let his group do the talking. Soon he was told: All right! Leave us alone and take your damn photos! You’ll end up no better than your mother! Lonely and mad! Thus he learnt and felt what being abandoned meant. But no – that had happened years ago, so long ago that he remembered nothing. His mother had told him that he was 7 months old when his father left, leaving behind a worn toothbrush that she still kept in a bathroom drawer. Was she expecting him back, after so many years? Who knows? he thought and went back reading the April issue of the National Geographic.

As soon as he had learnt subtraction, he calculated the difference between their ages and number 18 emerged. Then he overheard a discussion between his mother and grandmother in which it was revealed that she had never been married. His grandmother had just learnt that James (it seemed that this was his father’s name) had married and had twins. But how old were they? Tom asked himself. If only you hadn’t got sick, you could have remarried, his grandmother uttered. That instant his mother saw him listening at the door and put an end to the conversation. Tom thought he was out of danger, thanks to his grandmother’s presence but no sooner had she left (Take care of the boy!) than his mother hit him hard and left him flat on the floor: Next time I catch you eavesdropping, you’ll see what happens!

What illness is mother suffering from? In secondary school he had the answer from Mrs. Adams who was giving a description of the bipolar disorder. He was taken aback to discover so many similarities between these people and his mother. All those changes in behaviour that occurred out of the blue, the impossibility to control herself when she was furious, a lot of tears and… one morning their form teacher sent them home earlier because the school teachers had gone on strike. The moment he got inside the apartment, he saw her standing on a chair, trying to put a rope around her neck after she had hanged it on the lamp. She gasped at Tom’s sight and hid the rope behind her back. She quickly got off the chair and forced herself to smile: Hey Tommy, how was school? He struggled not to tremble while she directed herself to the kitchen and prepared him a bowl of cereals; he was eating without daring to look at her the moment she caressed his hair and said: Tommy dear, promise not to tell anyone what mommy did? He nodded. She left. While passing the bathroom door to go in his room, he heard her weeping. He wanted to get inside and do something to comfort her, but the door was bolted. That night he was woken up by his door being set ajar, his mother stealing across the room and hugging him. He heard her sobbing: My dearest… he… God… he saved… he…. saved me. When she saw Tom looking at her astonished, she stared at her feet though it was pitch dark and she could barely see anything, raised all of a sudden and hurried outside.

He was 13 and from that day there hadn’t been a single night in which he didn’t worry about her when he fell asleep. He had nightmares half a night and when he woke up, he held his breath, trying to catch any sound from her room. Most of the time, she treaded on the floor and smoked voraciously.

One month before the suicide attempt, she had come exhilarated from work:

‘Tom! Tom! The manager gave me a perk for the Christmas holiday. He told me – Suzanne, take the kid and go somewhere east, perhaps New York will do the job. How much do you think I got?’

‘200 bucks?’

‘Not even close!’

‘400?’

‘500!’

‘Hooray! And are we really going to New York?’

‘Sure! If you want to.’

He recalled her being so enthusiastic that her eyes shone as they walked hand in hand through the snow that had besieged the city. Santa and his reindeers appeared on the advertisements, they were hanging from the cables that had been placed with that very occasion, they passed by them on the street. There were real Santas and wax Santas. One of them asked him what his name was (Tom, like the one in Tom & Jerry?) and gave him a candlestick (Bless you child, take care and never forget to light a candle in this one every Christmas from your life. It will help you recall this holiday and your precious mom.) Suzanne hadn’t been to New York either and they were both amazed when the huge Christmas Tree in Rockeffeller Center emerged in front of their eyes.

Considering all these, it was hard to see why she tried to kill herself that morning, one month later. However, days went by and she didn’t go to work anymore so he understood. The manager had offered her a perk and sent her out of town for a holiday with the hope that this would alter her disposition. Honestly speaking, Tom had many times wondered how those rich snobs who bought clothes from the shop got along with her. She was on the dole and there were no other questions to be asked.

When she worked, 8 hours a day she was saved from intoxicating herself with nicotine, but since she stood at home, she had been smoking almost continuously. Weeks passed and she didn’t seem to be interested in seeking another job. Then months passed and grandmother asked whether she had lost her mind thinking that she can live without working. You’ll see I can live very well, she answered abruptly and changed the subject. The dole money that she received allowed her and Tom to live comfortably. Of course, there hadn’t been any vacation since that unforgettable wintry New York delight. Yet Tom’s collection of National Geographic created desires within himself that were hard to control – he wanted to go around the world, to visit the European capitals, as well as the most obscure places from Africa and India. Then years passed and it was plain to him that she had no intention of changing the situation in which she had been living for such a long time. One evening, while they were silently eating, he exclaimed: ‘Mom!’. He had made an entire speech about how their lack of money hindered him from fulfilling his dreams – but how could he talk about his desire to photograph the sunset from a boat on the Pacific? She would have laughed and said that she had lived all right without seeing the Pacific at all. But at least once in his life he had to face the situation and tell her what he had been thinking all those years. When she heard, she raised her head and waited. It was then when he saw her face as it really was. She was old, so old that she was almost unrecognisable. It seemed as if she had turned 45 overnight. And for God’s sake, she was only 36! She didn’t have any make-up, her lips were dry and colourless, her eyes had gone far back in their sockets and there were at least a dozen of wrinkles on her forehead. Not to mention the look on her face which showed that she was present just physically… in reality she seemed to be wandering aimlessly through unknown lands. As far as Japan? No, it was farther, in an entire different universe. He said: ‘Delicious food, mom.’ Then she seemed to have woken up from a dream; she looked at him surprised and answered at length ‘You’re welcome, Tom.’ And that was it – the conversation he had hoped for.

Best things in life come unexpected – Tom had heard so many times this saying, but he had never given it too much attention. Yet he knew it was true when, a few days after he had turned 23, he bought the current issue of National Geographic and sought the rubric called your photo. There it was – the picture he had taken a couple of weeks ago. He had always had an eye for misery; he usually encountered it in a crowd, most frequently when people stepped on each other’s feet, making their way amid the elbows of all those that hindered them from reaching their destination – this usually being money or power or whatever else gave them a sense of fulfillment – while failing to look around them and notice that there were people that needed a buck or even less, people that needed a soothing word, kids that needed a family and poor men that needed a bed in which to die peacefully. One of the latter was a man about 60 dressed in shabby clothes who was holding a paper which said: I’m hungry and I want to sleep. Tom gave him all the money that he had in his pockets and then asked the man’s permission to photograph him. The second day he went again to the place, but the man was gone.

A few days later after the publication, he received a letter in which he was asked whether he would like to work for the National Geographic; at first, he would be tested in a project that lasted one month and involved taking photos throughout Paris. If they were satisfied by his work, they would sign a contract. He told his mother, who received the matter with indifference, but made no attempt to stop him. Why should I, if the plane ticket is paid by the company? she smiled and lighted another cigarette.



Amid the smoke of his cigar, he noticed a couple leaning against one of the blocks of stone that formed the medieval fortress on whose land a park had been settled hundreds of years later. They’re probably making plans for the future, Tom thought. How many children they’re going to have, how much they’re going to spend per day, per week and per year, where they’ll go in vacation in the next 5 years… Stop! he would have wanted to shout. Live for today, live for this moment, you never know when a bad news comes and spoils your evening and your entire life, a voice whispered inside himself and he shuddered as the memory approached. In vain did he try to avoid recalling, the memory was there and he had to relive it once more.



He had been in Paris for 3 weeks and had taken hundreds of photos, but he hadn’t reached Sacre Coeur until that delightful summer afternoon. At times, the delicate summer breeze caressed his face as he strolled around the basilica, taking photos from more angles. The spectacular white building, an European Taj Mahal. His mind flew to that impressive love story about the emperor who built a huge mausoleum for his wife who had died, a building that would last throughout the centuries as the symbol of fidelity. If I had the emperor’s fortune, for whom would I build my own Taj Mahal? And the answer came inevitably – for no one. He was 23 and loved no one. It stroke him as deadly painful, but he didn’t have time to immerse himself into self-pity, because his thoughts were interrupted by a warm voice: ‘Excuse me, have you got any idea where the guide went?’ He turned his head to his right, from where the voice came and noticed a girl of about 20 who seemed confused, despite her efforts to smile.

‘I’m sorry, I haven’t got any idea.’

‘Thank you and excuse me for disturbing.’

‘No problem at all.’ he answered and went back to his photographing. Yet he looked one more time after her and caught a glimpse of her blue flowered dress that reached her ankles. Afterwards she went out of his view. I’ve had enough, how about resting a little on the bench? he wondered and no sooner had he chosen his place on a bench, than he heard the same warm and familiar voice:

‘I am so sorry for disturbing again. Could you please help me?’ he heard that warm and familiar voice uttering. He raised his head and the girl couldn’t be seen clearly because of the sunlight.

‘Of course.’

‘Could I sit down? I am really tired.’

‘By all means. You’ve lost your guide?’

‘Yes. You know, I was in the basilica and I didn’t notice him and the other 3 of them leaving. I thought they might have gone downstairs, but they aren’t there. I really don’t know what to do.’

‘Have you booked a place somewhere at a hotel where they might have gone?’

‘Sure, at the Plaza. But they won’t be there till 9, when we’re leaving back to Vienna.’

‘I could help you find the way to the hotel, if you want me to.’

‘No, thank you. The truth is I don’t want to go there, because I’ve seen so little of Paris and I would like to see more of the place this afternoon. But I’ve lost sight of the guide and as you see, I’m not the type of girl which walks around a whole new city on her own. One needs courage to do that, so…’

‘I could show you around.’

‘Thank you, but I couldn’t ask you that. You might have things to do and… you know, the world’s busy, no one’s got time to wander the streets with a stranger.’

‘I have. Honestly, I really could show you around the place. You see, I’m a tourist myself. I’m currently working for the National Geographic, I’ve only got one week left and plenty of things to see.’

‘Are you sure this wouldn’t be too much trouble for you?’

Tom nodded and they began the walk of their lives.

‘How is it, working for the National?’

‘They’re testing me. You know, I’ve got this picture of an old man on the street and they published it. Then they said – how about staying a month in Paris, all costs paid, take a lot of photos and let us see whether we enjoy your work. It’s just temporary. ‘

‘You mean that photo with the man – Hungry and need sleep?’

‘Yeah, exactly. Do you know it?’

‘Sure I do. Doesn’t the whole world know it?’ she laughed

‘No, the fact is, I guess there was a slight chance to meet a person who reads the National every month.’

‘Who said I read it every month? One day I was passing by one press kiosk when I saw the magazine and said: I’ve never bought this one; I could buy the first issue in my life this very day. Funny, isn’t it?’

She didn’t give him time to answer and went on:

‘And now, because you’re working for the National, I might buy the July issue as well, to see your photos of Paris.’

‘I don’t know whether they’ll like them.’

‘Owing to the fact that you’re the one who had taken that amazing photo last month, I have no doubt that they will. Or maybe they won’t, in one case only.’

‘Which is…?’

‘If those editors have no brain at all!’ She exclaimed and giggled. She had an original way of laughing and becoming serious the very next moment. She almost made you ask yourself whether she truly laughed or it had been merely your imagination.

‘Good for you. I mean, being able to do whatever you want.’

‘Don’t you do the same thing?’

‘I’ve got to study Mathematics at university and I don’t like it that much. Sometimes it’s ok, but there are moments when I’d throw away all those books and run through the fields, like in that Wordsworth poem, you know:

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you’ll grow double:
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,
Why all this toil and trouble?’


‘To be honest, I don’t know anything about Wordsworth.’

‘He’s the oldest of the English Romantic poets and one of the founders of the literary movement. I like him. I like you. I mean, I adore the fact that you’re so sincere. All those snobs at university – they would stare at me all evening long and if I just mentioned the name Wordsworth, without asking them anything, they would stiffen up and say: ‘Oh, sure, that great American mathematician we’ve been studying in the first years of faculty.’

They both laughed and she became again serious: ‘Give me a break, I’m sick and tired of all those rich guys who aren’t at all interested in me. The only thing they see when they look at me is my father’s money. If they haven’t heard about someone, why shouldn’t they say so? They’re not studying Literature to be ashamed of not knowing about one or another.’

‘How do you know about Wordsworth, if you’re a mathematician?’

‘I would have wanted to study English literature but my father, who’s an engineer, said that the world had enough of fantasy which brought no good and he won’t allow his daughter to burden the world with other whimsical stuff. I told him I won’t be writing, because I haven’t got talent. That the most I’ll do is research, but he concluded that Maths was the thing for me. I said ok – I’m not really the revolutionary type, I told you. Besides, I liked Maths as well. Not as much as literature, but anyway. I can manage.’

When they reached Eiffel Tower, she was eager to take the elevator and have the view of the city.

‘Have you been up there?’

‘Sure, the first day I came here. But I can wait for you down here.’

‘Won’t you come with me?’

‘I don’t want to spoil the moment.’

‘Come on, don’t be silly. You won’t spoil anything.’

Inside the Tower, he asked her:

‘How come you lost your guide, after all? What were you doing?’

‘I was praying.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘I was praying for someone to love me whom I could love back.’

An inconvenient silence followed, after which he looked at his wrist watch and told her it was 7 and they still had a long way until the Plaza.

On Boulevard Montmartre he passed by a phone booth and wondered what his mother might be doing.

‘Excuse me a while, I think I’ll give a call.’

It took quite a while until the connection with the States was made and then – quite strange, it was his grandmother who answered the phone.

‘Tom, thank God you called! I’ve been calling you for hours at your hotel and they told me you were in town. You’re back now?’

‘No, I’m in a phone booth. Has something happened?’ he asked worried

‘When is the soonest you can come back home?’

‘I’ve got to stay one more week in Paris.’

‘No, no, Tom. That is impossible. Can you come tomorrow?’

‘I told you I can’t. But – wait. What is the matter, tell me, grandma!’

‘I can’t tell you. Don’t ask me anything. Just come home as soon as you can.’

‘Please tell me. I won’t be able to sleep tonight if you don’t.’

‘Then don’t sleep. Take the first plane and come home.’

‘I won’t talk to you ever again if you don’t tell me what happened!’

‘Tom, I didn’t want to tell you, but you forced me to.’

‘Yeah, I did. I take responsibility for whatever it is.’

‘Suzanne died this afternoon.’

His blood froze.

‘Are you still there, Tom?’

He felt tears rising within himself. In vain did he try to speak.

‘She had a heart-attack. I had told her so many times to quit smoking and now – what does it matter anymore. Just come home.’

‘Sure, grandma. I’m heading for the airport.’

‘I’m waiting for you. I’m sorry, Tom.’

‘Bye, grandma.’

He lingered in the booth and tried to calm down, at least until he left the girl at the Plaza. The first thing he said to her was:

‘Have you got a cigarette?’

‘Sure.’ She searched her bag and offered him a whole pack. With a shaking hand, he chose one. She lighted it for him and the next second he was smoking for the first time in his life. ‘You are not allowed to smoke as long as I live!’ he recalled and felt a pang, the same that he had been feeling for years when he saw his mother smoking. What am I doing? He knew that was the most illogical thing he had ever done. He had heard so many times the fact that smoking relieved stress. Inspire, expire – it was true, he felt better. He felt that if he hadn’t smoked, he would have gone mad unavoidably.

‘Has something happened? Your eyes are a bit red.’

‘Nothing’s happened.’ He lied. ‘Let’s go to the Plaza. It’s already 8 and you’re leaving at 9.’

‘Wait a minute.’

‘What is it?’ he asked

‘You’re odd, you know. But … ich liebe dich.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak any foreign languages. I’ve only learnt a little French in high-school and I barely remember anything. What did you say?’

‘It’s something that you can only tell in your mother tongue, otherwise you can’t feel it rightly. It’s the first time I’ve ever said it to anyone and it really feels great.’

He saw that she didn’t want to say what the meaning of the phrase was. Maybe it’s not that important, he thought.

‘Promise me you’ll look it up?’

‘Say it again. I didn’t remember it.’

She stood in front of him and he saw her blue eyes glowing with emotion. ‘Ich liebe dich.’ she said again and then shivered.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s a strange and unique feeling. I don’t know whether I’ll ever have it again.’

‘We’re at the Plaza now. It’s 8:30, so you’re just in time. Thank you for this delightful evening.’

‘I am really grateful for all that you did for me – I’ll never forget you and I hope we’ll meet again.’

‘I’d like to.’

‘Will you let me?’

‘What?’

‘This’ she smiled shyly and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Thank you for showing me around.’

‘You’re welcome. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’

On his way across the Atlantic it dawned on him that he didn’t know her name. He didn’t have her number. He only had that Ich liebe dich thing which he noted on a notebook, in case he forgot it. He had promised her to look it up.



She might have married one of those snobs that were after her father’s money. She might have tons of grandchildren. Or – he froze – she might have died. I’ve married and divorced. She might have done so as well, he wondered when he put out his cigarette. He never tried quitting. At first he thought he would smoke only one, but he needed another before the funeral, another after the service and once his mother was buried, he had got used to it.

He sensed that he was being looked at, but it wasn’t just that, it was as if someone was pointing a gun at his nape. He closed his eyes and counted the seconds until he would be killed. The shot failed to come. He realised the stupidity of the idea and almost laughed – Me shot? I won’t have such a glorious end. However, the feeling persisted. He didn’t want to turn around because he might have given satisfaction to the one who had been gazing him uninterruptedly for the last 3 minutes. Suddenly the feeling disappeared, but his wish to identify the trespasser of his thoughts was bigger than himself, so he made an attempt to rise. Attempt failed. The second one was successful – he placed his right hand on the edge of the bench and when he was totally upright (as upright as a man of 72 could be), he looked towards the place from where he had been sensing the gun. Indeed, there was someone sitting on a bench, but someone totally different from the terrorist he had imagined. It seemed to be a young man of merely 20, maybe even less, who was deeply concentrated in looking at his camera. He’s enjoying the photo he’s taken, Tom thought. With uncertain moves, he directed himself towards the bench on which the boy sat. The latter sensed the move and looked at him a bit anxious, yet he went back to his camera. Slowly but surely, Tom got near his bench: My first picture that got published was as well a picture of an old man. The boy was astounded and muttered: Sir, I’m sorry… No, you needn’t apologise – I know the feeling. You’ve got the set, you’ve got the subject, the only thing you need to do is press the button and it’s there – immortalised forever. The boy wasn’t as nervous as he had been before, but he was still expecting something. Tom wondered what else to say and decided to end with: Be sure to call the picture Solitude. There’s no other appropriate title. Good luck, young man!

Curious thing, he said to himself. I won’t be remembered for the thousands of pictures I had taken throughout my career – all those unique safari shots, extraordinary skydivers or marvellously coloured fish in the Indian Ocean. I’ll be remembered thanks to a photo of myself taken by a young man while I was sitting on a bench when I was 72.