Enile Zola's glasses

A modern day ghost story

 

Emile Zola’s glasses

 

Starring across the Trocedero, the tower pinched against the partisan skyline. Behind her, a figure moved away, she sensed his temperament, a calm tantrum, and a mood with common sense. Wrapping, herself in the black belted jacket, a child raced between tourist groups towards the wall, a quick glance over, a gasp and returning to apologetic parents.  Emily saw the group of middle aged photographers pick their spot, 

‘Oh, you’ve finally arrived then.’ Silence, he pointed at the pre-assembling group’

‘Phhh, I hate Wednesdays’ she complained

 ‘He hates Wednesdays, middle of the week and……’ pointing at Zola.

‘So.’ leaning on the wall, Michael looked out over the Trocedero, below, gardens the mass movement of tourists, families and immigrant peddlers hustled for the perfect view of the Julaic sun falling between the girders.

The Quinton photographic Society, lined up in ballroom formation on the esplanade, waiting, posed with digital cameras and semi automatic SLR’s, looking for the moment to catch the eye of a judge, hands sweating with anal anticipation. Emily angled her slight frame against his body. Her straw blonde hair draped onto his shoulder.

‘He’s in a bad mood’

‘And’

‘He accused me of mixing up naturism with naturalism’

‘So, it all boils down to the same bare facts doesn’t it?’

‘Don’t start that again’ she thumped gently on the shoulder.

‘I see you’re back with them again’

‘And’

‘Still monument chasing for a prize’

‘And,’ checking the individual features in his face, counting for new lines. He smiled. She loosened the belt on the dark grey jacket.

‘By the way Em, I don’t like Wednesdays either, but cheap flights.’

‘Do you still love me?’

‘Do you need to ask?’

‘It feels like I have to, you don’t say much these days’

‘How can I’

‘Of course….but do you still love me?’

‘Yes’, becoming agitated.

A battered CD player, and a hip hop dancer counted himself into his convulsive routine. The electro rhythm, draws a small crowd, others sit and watch between the gaps, his partner falls in line, takes up the rhythm of a one hundred and twenty beats per minute acid jazz fusion. Beyond the grey blue roof tops, the sky hinted at the darkening procedure to follow. The group checked their settings, for the light show before them.

‘We can always leave, go over to Montmatre, it will only take a few minu…’

‘Can’t’

‘You lot will get a better view’

‘That was last year’

‘Has it been that long?’

Zola sat, admiring the water of the Varsovie fountain, engrossed the series of cascading basins. His eyes illuminated by the twelve vertical sprays. It had changed from the 1878 Exposition Universelle, built to celebrate France’s recovery from the disastrous Franco-Prussian war. For a few minutes he watched a brother and sister dipping their feet into the heat drenched water. He began to tap his pockets for his glasses.

The numbers increased, evening picnics, served on stretched blankets. Wine glasses at an angle on trimmed grass. The warmth of the day drained towards to Seine. The summer carousel, lit up like a concentric Christmas tree. Emily danced between the ornate wooden horses, moving towards the interior. Michael stood, hands in pockets, impatient, staged eye movements.

‘Em, Em….EM’ he shouted. Stopping, she looked out from the interior.

‘We don’t have much time for this’

‘You’re a spoil sport, even now, everything to the second, the right place, the….’

‘Remember, we ended up here on a whim and look what happened’, she didn’t look back, ‘and where are my shoes?’

‘I wasn’t driving the car!’ Michael brushed past her.

‘Oh, there, there you go again’ He barged through a number of American tourists.

‘Always walking, removing yourself from a difficult situation’

‘You’re starting again, we have a few hours, and…’

‘And you shouldn’t spoil it with……’

‘Right…fine…I’m sorry’ dropping his head.

‘It’s just, every year, we look after someone; we haven’t had a break since this started’

‘What did you expect?’ Michael moved heavy footed crushing the white gravel stone, the dust coating his shoes. Emily caught up with him. She slid her arm in, he look down.

‘Back in your good books then’

‘No books, you’re my bookmark’

Julia Swivosky removed the trails of the chocolate filled crepe from her hands and lips. With maps out, the wives of the American veterans society from the US 28th infantry began discussing their next move.

‘I’d like to stay for the light show, if we can, my feet, they’ve had enough.’

Silent heads nodded, others eyed the fountain, waiting to join the children already cooling their feet. The timid framed sixty three year old, from New York, on the capital cities tour.  Reduced fares, for veteran’s wives bussed between Athens, Rome, Berlin, Paris, Amsterdam and finally London.

‘I’ll join you; I want a few pictures of the Bridge’

            Michael leant towards the river watched the restaurant boats serving their passengers. The smell of roasting onions seeping up along the stones of the bridge, Emily removed the Ivory jacket. The water flowed, eddious, circulating, dirty and grey. The flow recording its history, the merchants, dyers and laundry boats, now it’s the fashionable left and right banks, filled with semi amateur artists and boat trips. This was another city that developed around its river, now forgotten. Julia approached them, breathless and picking out the dull pain from her hip. She hesitated, resting herself against the stone statue.

‘Excuse me, Excuse me,’ they ignored her.

‘Excuse me, yes you young man’ Michael looked round.

‘She can’t be talking to us’

‘Yes I am’ Julia pronounced

‘Yes she is’

‘I am, and I can see you both, just. Emily came out from behind Michael.

‘Alright what am I wearing?’

‘An off white jacket, and he is male I think’

‘S**t’ Both returned to their original positions.

‘Better say something, before, before they take her away’ He moved and faced her.

‘You…old woman go a……’Emily stepped in front of him.

‘What he trying to say in his own way is that, the normals can see you talking and pointing at fresh air, they might think that you are, you know marbles, lost them, in need of a long armed jacket’

‘Oh’

‘She understands’

‘Best thing you can do is…go back to your friends’

            The esplanade filled with passing trade, groups and sightseers. For the photographers, there was no point in small talk, they where following lines of visual conversation. Their movements limited to cleaning lens, sorting digital images, downsizing the required energy, wasting time for a sense of relaxation. That promise of the light show a few minutes away. They absorbed the sense of their position. The light, thinning, spraying out from the horizon; clouds forming inverted snow covered mountains, another Wednesday crawling from its calendared bed.

‘I don’t think she is going to …..go, until…’

‘We help her’

‘Possibly,….are you going to ask?’ Silence

‘Julia, can I call you Julia’ she nodded

‘Is there anything we can do for you?’ Julia moved away from her leaning post, towards them. Placing her small rucksack down, she removed a large purse. The black and white photographs appeared, showing a male dressed in a military uniform and a young bride.

‘Teenage wedding, I was nineteen and pregnant, they shipped him to England, landed in Normandy, that’s when I received the telegram’

‘And what do you want us to do?’ Michael pressed sarcastically.

‘He was killed outside Paris. I have done the grave and every reunion, I still have the memories, but I have lost his face, I can’t see it any longer without the photographs.’ Emily squeezed his hand.

‘Ok….Ok what is his name’ his shoulders dropped in resignation.

‘John Swinosky, the second’ Michael pursed his lips, wanting to ask the obvious question, She squeezed his hand again.

‘His unit’

‘U.S 28^th Infantry, the keystones’

‘Died’

‘20th August 19 forty four, Fontanbleu’

‘Thank you’ Michael flipped open his mobile and started walking away. He typed in a few numbers. Julia watched, replacing the photographs.

‘You have mobiles, what’s with the mobile’

‘Central registry’

‘Central registry?

‘We give them, name, age, place of death, DOD, they type it in we get an answer within seconds’

‘Yahoo for the dead’

‘You could say that’

You use it a lot’

‘You’re the expectation, we use it amongst ourselves, lost, unwanted, or misplaced’

‘Keeps you busy’

‘Another part of the……’

‘Right we have found him, but’

‘There is always a but’

‘No it is not a bad but, but lets say….How much do you know about his death’

‘Very little’ Michael glanced over at Emily. She nodded.

‘He was part of a small reconnaissance unit that entered the city; he was killed by a sniper’

‘And’

‘And... He is here in the city’ Julia picked up, a smile opened up her face she came closer to him.

‘And’

‘He’s been assigned,’ looking at Emily he frowned.

‘He is looking after a group of….Japanese tourists; they are on the Champs Elysees, shopping’

‘How do I get to, how do I recognise, see him, how do I’

‘SSh Julia, remember, where you are’

‘They’ve just caught the metro, here in fifteen minutes’

‘Thank you, thank you both, thank you’

‘You can’t’ Michael turned away to face the river. Emily moved forward.

‘The best thing you can do is to wait with your friends’

‘Yes, yes you’re right’ Julia waited for a few seconds composing herself, pulling at her jacket, straightening her hair, brushing away invisible fibres.

The lights began to flicker from the bottom of each supporting leg. The show drew the attention of the waiting crowd. Children screamed out in excitement, parents stopping in the tracks, fathers lifting up children, mothers bent over prams pointing at the tower. The light bounced through the night sky, racing away. Spinning throughout, like the quiet ballerina in practice. The camera flashes accumulated, matching the light show, desynchronized. This part of the city fell silent, couples drew closer. Arguments stopped.

‘That was nice of you’

‘What?’

‘Helping her out like that’

‘I wanted to get rid of her, that’s all.’ Emily smiled at him, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

‘I Love you’

‘How many times have we seen this’

‘Not enough’

‘Oh, don’t look now but look who has just arrived’, Michael indicated with his head.

‘Monsieur, Madam….I was wondering if you could, I appear to have misplaced my glasses temporarily.’ Emily looked at Michael. A smile approached his face.

‘Time to go Monsieur Zola’ She tightened the belt on her white jacket.