Posted by To Isolde
Saturday morning in the Montreal Central Train Station.
Beautiful sunny summer day.
Short ride to Quebec City.
As usual, you do not wear make up. No need for that, anyway. You are beautiful au naturel.
Check in at the Château Frontenac.
Stroll in the old city.
First time we spend so much time together.
The night falls.
The sounds of the city die down.
We are alone in the darkness.
Together.
Palpitations.
I palpiti, i palpiti sentir
(The beating, the beating of her heart I could feel)
Una Furtiva Lagrima, from Donizetti’s Opera ‘L’elisir D’amore’
It is the evening screening of Kurosawa’s “Dreams” in a Montreal theater.
I feel you closer than ever.
We retreat to the Château Champlain.
The room is quite high up.
Beautiful views.
Well stocked mini bar.
We do not talk a lot.
How did you cross the Irish Sea?
Early evening screening of Peter Greenaway’s “The thief, the cook, his wife and her lover” in Montreal.
Strange movie.
It appears dark and dangerous, but deep down it is a comedy.
There is no absolution in the human condition, deep inside lurks the beast.
The beast Isolde, the beast.
Your father was a cook.
I remember that.
Summer is gone.
Winter has come.
Snow all over Montreal.
I like you with the heat, I like you with the cold.
It is early evening.
We pass by a department store, I look at the display and I see a beautiful winter coat.
I want to buy it and offer it to you.
Your outright rejection leaves me cold.
I do not insist.
I may have been misunderstood.
We retreat in your flat.
It is warm and very quiet.
In the early hours I get a cab and head back to the Queen Elizabeth.
The city is asleep and there is snow everywhere.
Your face is imprinted on the vast white surfaces all over the urban landscape.
Early in the year in London, UK.
The night before you arrived me employer threw a party for all personnel. Spent the night in the countryside South of London.
I get up early to drive to Heathrow.
You flew in on a business class upgrade and came out of the place fresh as a rose.
Sutherland 78, Pimlico, London.
My work schedule is busy.
But I am here for you.
Evening screening of Bernardo Bertolucci’s “The Sheltering Sky” in Picadilly.
We are drifting apart.
Dinner with your Spanish girlfriend.
Somewhere near Tottenham Court Road.
Flamenco music and a couple of dancers.
Heavy drinking.
The time has come for goodbye.
Some years later.
I find you again.
Gone is the storm.
The Irish Sea is calm.
The crossing over to Cornwall should be smooth now.
