Posts Tagged story

Orphanage – Maxwell Chandler

My thoughts move like the needle of a compass slowly setting on a position. It was all those years ago, when we had first arrived in Paris, well before we found our footing, living over in the eighth. The excitement of being in Paris, walking the same streets as that of all of my heroes. At night, lying in bed, I would go down the long list; all the names forming a sort of prayer.

Of course I could not sleep. Powered by nervous energy I could not even manage to walk at a normal pace, which would have allowed me to take more in. Every café called to me. Initially I could not sit still long enough to be noticed and then become categorized as a regular. No surprise either that I suffered from insomnia.

There was a heat wave, my heart raced; I wondered what happened to everyone that I used to know. Even those whose fates I had long ago stopped caring about. It was just a temporary malady. The heat also messed with all the birds too. They sang, their calls coming at the wrong hours, mixing worry and confusion, groups of three or four voices echoing from the treetops and balcony flower boxes which clung to black wrought iron railings.

My head felt like it was going to crack open as I sat in the tub; hands clasped, arms around my knees which were pulled up to my chest. You rubbed a cold cloth down my back. I am thinking of horses. Momentarily I had thought that maybe I was going crazy. Years later, after everything else, I now know that had not been the case as I had actually been enjoying the sensation.

Now, I recline in a tub, several arrondissements over, Mallarme and a tea balancing on the lip. I wet a face cloth and put its hot weight on my forehead. I pull at its edge with my fingers, draping it over my nose. Still damp but no longer dripping, It forms a rough hewn royal blue shroud that bears a resemblance to me. I slowly exhale through the cloth and try to imagine who wonders what ever became of me.

 

 

 

Not for use without permission. maxwellachandler@aol.com

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Time Change – Maxwell Chandler

I always found the fatigue in the maid’s face oddly attractive. I tried not to leave too big a mess as the typical tourist and business traveler was wont to do.alley late at night

I did not require service every day which I think was secretly appreciated.

One day my timing was off, I got back from lunch before my room was ready. So patiently and unobtrusively did I stand in the corner that the maid soon forgot my presence.

As she was making up the bed she paused and looked out the window. I was the voyeur receiving knowledge for my discretion.

How long would she look? Despite being younger than I, for her there was no longer any dreams of escape but now merely that of brief distractions.

Once again aware of my presence, she blushed, backing out of the room, pulling her cart after her.

Without having sought to, she influenced me. Out of curiosity I let my gaze drift out the window, not necessarily interested in what I would see but rather what I would think in thoughts drifting.

Not meant in the same way as used to describe a maudlin holiday special, talking to you on the phone with the curtains drawn is timeless. There seems to be, as the conversation ambles, all different aspects of me and not just me as I am, but also as I had been and will be that take turns rising to the foreground.

I want.

I did.

I have.

I lost.

What times is it there?

 

-finis-

 

Not for use without permission. maxwellachandler@aol.com

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Smoke in the Lobby – Maxwell Chandler

We were in her hotel room because my tiny place had been made even smaller by the still drying paintings. Even though she was going home at the end of the week and there were parts of Vienna that she still wished to see, I stubbornly remained too sick to go out for more than a quick meal nearby.

While using her full bathroom mirror which allowed for a better shave than that of my small circle, as I smoothed my left cheek I once again told myself that I really was sick but that I could make far more of an effort, this debating continuing onto my right cheek.

A beautiful day, the windows stretched out their wings wide, reaching towards the Stadt park. We drank vermouth and sodas lying atop the covers while listening to bop.

We fell asleep. I awoke before her, the sun still shining. The perfect moment and I knew that she was truly going home soon.  20160706_090958

I put on my most unwrinkled shirt. We ran all over the city and when her legs became tired we barnstormed with a crazy Serbian taxi driver. I loaded her up with chocolates and kirsch for her journey home. Sneaking into the opera house to see the Rodin bust of Mahler, my wet shoes squeaked but still didn’t give us away.

Now she is gone. I must find a new framer since Marc ran away with a student from Algiers, at least temporarily.
I find myself going back to all the places we had been; as if there were a chance of glimpsing at least her shadow and then by stepping on it she would be unable to leave. I play our records over and over but I would have anyways.

I am sitting in the Stadt park sketching. A few benches down from me a girl stands, thighs holding her bicycle as she throws something in the trash. Her figure is made to seem plump by her sky blue capris and white ankle socks. I notice her brown mole above the corner of her right lip which slowly twitches in concentration.

As I turn to a clean page and settle she is already off. I do some detailed studies of acanthus and some poppies. I want to enjoy the weather but now indirectly so I stop at a café on my way home.

At the counter is the girl from the park whom I now find myself standing beside. She is taller than I, which had earlier been camouflaged by the bicycle.

I think of a passage from Don Quixote. The Don had told his man Sancho to go by himself to see the Don’s raison d’ etre, Dulcimina. In doing so, Sancho would then come to understand the reason for the arduous mission that the Don and he were on.

Sancho went and not being beset by passion or delusions as was his master reported back a far less superior picture including the descriptive phase:

“A horsey scent.”

Of course she had been out in the sun riding a bicycle. Two people together do not always produce roses either but it was made more tolerable by the activity which went into creating the bouquet.

I came out of my musing to sip my coffee. The girl was gone, replaced by a man with a camera around his neck carefully unfolding a map.

Finis

 

 

Not for use without permission. maxwellachandler@aol.com

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