I’m a late starter in terms of writing fiction. I began to learn the art of the short story only in 2005 when I attended some workshops with Claire Keegan in University College, Cork.
Claire is a brilliant writer and an inspirational teacher. Meeting her was hugely significant for me. Her second collection of short stories, Walk the Blue Fields, was published in 2007, to rave reviews.
The first story in Walk the Blue Fields is called “The Parting Gift” and it’s written in the second person, which is unusual. In Claire’s story it works extremely well. Perhaps this was why I decided to do the same in “Return to Chez Dora”. I now feel that the use of the second person in my own story is unwieldy and unnecessary, and that it doesn’t pack the emotional punch I’d hoped for. I wanted to create a closeness with, and sympathy for, the narrator, who has settled for a less than perfect marriage and now, in middle age, decides she must be braver. However, it’s extraordinarily difficult to write effectively in the second person. Claire’s story is the only example I’ve read to date that stands out as being perfectly pitched. Maybe I’ll rewrite “Return to Chez Dora” some day, but at the moment the only thing I like about the story is that it reminds me of Paris. Aaarghhhh!
But nothing is entirely wasted. The most important thing about the story is that because I wrote it I now have a better idea of how I should write.
+
The hotel is in the first arrondissement, not far from the Louvre. The suite your husband booked is on the sixth floor and it’s wonderful — the furniture is in the style of Louis IV but the bathroom’s ultra-modern.
“Not bad, is it?” your husband asks. “I don’t know why I never brought you to Paris before.”
“It’s terrible,” you say. “Let’s get out of here and find another hotel.”
“What?”
“I’m only joking. Of course it’s fine.”
“You had me worried for a minute,” he says.
“Sorry.”
You’ve always been prone to joking, but your humour has become very black over the years, particularly since you were diagnosed. While you were in hospital you were constantly telling “sick” jokes and you relished the relief on people’s faces that followed the doubt about the propriety of laughing in the face of death. It’s better than sympathy, which always makes you want to cry.
+
After lunch, you doze on the bed. The TV is on low volume and your husband’s having a shower in the designer bathroom. When the sound of running water stops, you hear him mumbling. You rise from the bed and listen at the bathroom door.
“No,” he’s saying, in a low voice. “I can’t speak to you for long. Yes, I’m with her now. No, I can’t make it on Wednesday. How about Friday?” He pauses. “Be reasonable. Of course I can’t. Not yet anyway. Look, I must go.”
You move quickly back to the bed, lie down and close your eyes. The toilet flushes and he comes out.
You pretend to wake up.
+
Later, you surreptitiously check your watch. You sent a letter to Xavier as soon as your husband told you about this trip, and though you doubt it could have reached him you’re aching to find out.
“I’m going to ring the kids — make sure they’re OK,” you say. “Then I think I’ll roam around by myself for a while.”
“You won’t overdo it, will you? You’re still not one hundred per cent.”
“I’ll be fine,” you reply.
In fact, you fear you’re slowly dying — a little bit less of yourself every day, a little bit more of something alien. The doctors say they cut the cancer out and stitched your colon back together nice and neatly. But do they really know? You still fear that hosts of alien cells are plotting to overthrow you. You recall a horror movie called “Squirm” you saw when you were about eleven. You made your under-age way into the musty local cinema with your best friend (where is she now?), not caring what the film was about, but when zillions of worms began to multiply on the Technicolour screen, growing bigger and bigger until they’d almost taken over the world, you had to hide under your anorak, half-laughing with fright.
+
You buy a ticket in the metro. The pale yellow rectangle with its brown strip on the back seems utterly familiar, as you use it to walk through the barrier and descend the escalator. As your train shuttles through stations — Rue du Bac, Sèvres Babylone — you tell yourself it’s unlikely that Xavier got your letter. Let’s face it. Real life isn’t like the movies.
You get off at Montparnasse Bienvenue and walk towards rue Edgar Quinet. You feel tired — the doctors say it will take time — but as the streets become familiar your pace becomes faster until suddenly you’re almost sick with a rush of memories.
“Steady,” you say to yourself. “Steady.”
+
You met Xavier the very first time you went to Chez Dora. It was a basement bar, one you’d never notice unless someone told you it was there — the kind of bar that guidebooks describe as “intimate”. A hangout, heavy with smoke and noise, at the end of dark stairs that led down from the street.
There really was a Dora; a formidable American widow. Her attractive and much younger French boyfriend did the work, while she presided from her Queen Bee seat behind the bar. The place filled up quickly at night, with men and women who drank a lot and talked fast. There was always music — folk, bluegrass and traditional Irish airs.
You’d gone there with some other au-pairs you’d met in French class. They were regular enough to be slightly acquainted with the real regulars. They pointed out the girl who was famous for wearing no knickers. You drank Breton cider by the glass because it was cheap.
“Look at him,” Eva from Quebec nodded in the direction of a man carrying a violin case. “He’s always here, plays the fiddle. Isn’t he cute?”
He smiled at you from across the room. You tilted your glass too much and cider went up your nose but you managed not to sneeze. Later, he introduced himself.
“Xavier?” you said. “That’s such a great name. Does it begin with an ‘X’?”
“She needs something to put under ‘X’ in her address book,” Eva told him, cruelly.
You were embarrassed. You regretted telling Eva about the ‘Z’ section of your address book; you did have a Zachary in there so it wouldn’t be an empty page — someone you met once at the Pompidou Centre, shared a coffee with, invited to Ireland as if you were employed by Bord Fáilte and never bothered to meet again.
You tried to hold onto the conversation, though it was difficult with your hesitant French and his non-existent English. Someone called his name and he moved to a corner of the bar where he took his violin gently from its green-lined case and softly dusted the bow with resin.
As people shushed each other he began to play Irish airs and every time he ended a tune the bar crowd cheered.
Then you had to run for the last metro.
+
The second time you went to Chez Dora, Xavier was with a band. Young Americans, big-boned and tall, they played bluegrass and country music and looked happy. The singer said how glad they were to have found this fine French musician who truly “_got_” what they were about and really “added to their sound”. He thanked Xavier twice. Xavier smiled at you and winked.
“He’s twenty-six,” hissed Eva. “Too old for you.”
“He’s a wee bit strange,” said Jeanette, the Scottish nanny, dubiously. “But he plays well.”
When the music stopped, you applauded with the others.
“I’ll be back soon,” you said then. “Just off to the ladies.”
You picked up your bag and went to the door marked “Femmes”. When you finished, you washed your hands and looked in the mirror. You looked ok, though you’d had three glasses of cider. Then you walked back into the dark hall at the bottom of the stairs that led to the bar — and Xavier was standing there.
“Oh,” you said.
He smiled.
“Hi,” you said. You remember thinking Well, that’s a bit lame.
He said nothing, just held out your coat. It was a black astrakhan you’d bought in the flea market.
“Oh, you’ve got my coat. Vous avez mon… Oh God, I’ve forgotten the word!”
“Manteau,” he said. “I tell your friends.”
He took you by the hand and led you like a child up the stairs and outside into the cold November night. You understood that he was asking you to go for a walk. He held your coat while you put it on.
“My friends will wonder where I am,” you said.
You gathered from what he said, in French, that he had left his violin with your friends and had asked them to wait for you.
“Alright then,” you said.
Night-time people walked the narrow paths but you saw them only as blurs. Your breath made a cloud when you breathed out hard.
“Fog breath,” you said.
“Fug bress,” he said, and exhaled.
You laughed and competed to see who could create the biggest cloud in the cold air, then he leaned forward to kiss you and that was how it began.
+
On your first proper date you walked with him in Montparnasse cemetery, where you stopped in front of the saddest, wildest grave you’d ever seen. A woman in stone struggled under the weight of her own tombstone, desperately trying to return to life, while her lover stood naked and weeping above ground.
“_La Séparation du Couple_,” he said. “C’est chouette, eh?”
You loved everything about Paris, you told him. Even the graveyards.
+
He took you to his apartment for dinner. You had to walk up six flights of stairs to get there. You were laughing before you even got to the top. It was one room with two gas rings. You’d been in bigger bathrooms.
He made Steak Tartare — his favourite dish, he said. Raw mince mixed with two eggs, a handful of capers, some Worcestershire sauce, a few drops of Tabasco. You were horrified and tried to be polite as you gulped red wine, but then you had another fit of laughter and he ended up having you.
+
“Where do you come from?” you asked him, later.
“Up north,” he said.
“Do you have family?”
“No. No one.”
“What do those mean?” You indicated the three black dots tattooed on his wrist.
“Nothing.”
+
He busked in the metro for money. On a good day he’d meet you in Chez Dora, pockets bulging with coins. He’d pour them noisily onto the table. “Le fric, c’est chic,” he’d grin, and the drinks were on him. But there were times when he couldn’t bear the tedium of playing tunes of popular appeal in the false light of the metro. Then he played for drinks in Chez Dora instead. The girl who wore no knickers was always there. She smiled at him and treated you as if you were something the cat brought in.
+
He didn’t want you to go home. You would live with him and learn to play the mandolin and everything would be fine. You told your mother on the phone that you were thinking of staying in Paris and she went ballistic. Your father wrote a stern letter. You decided not to tell them you were sleeping with a man who had no proper job, no family and three black dots tattooed on his wrist.
It rained on your last night together. You fought because he’d flirted in Chez Dora with the girl who wore no knickers. You turned your back on him in bed. In spite of this he attempted to fuck you in the middle of the night.
Early next morning you argued again in the damp street.
“Go fuck yourself,” you said, in French. You’d learnt the phrase from him. You watched him pick up his violin case and walk away. After he turned the corner you cried, then bawled.
You went to Chez Dora that night but he wasn’t there. Next day you went back to his room and knocked on the door frantically but no one answered. You went to the bar again but he wasn’t there. You went to his room one last time, and left a tear-stained note under the door with your address in Ireland, before getting the train to Orly airport and flying home.
+
Two years later, a letter arrived. As soon as you saw the thin black writing and the French stamp you knew it was from Xavier.
His funny cartoon drawings covered more space on the letter than his words did. A bulldog with a huge flea collar and manic eyes humped an astonished poodle in a frilly skirt. In a comic self-portrait he’d become ridiculously obese, with a huge face from which a voice bubble proclaimed, “Je suis desolée, j’ai trop bouffée”. There were other pictures too, including a relatively normal line drawing of himself playing the violin with lots of delicate notes and arrows flying around in the air.
He was sorry, he said. He had gone to visit friends. He missed you and had never forgotten you. “Je t’aime, quand même,” he wrote. I love you all the same.
By then, you were about to be married. Your husband-to-be was in his final year of medicine. Your parents considered him a fine catch. You already knew he was a good lover. You were three months pregnant and worried the wedding dress wouldn’t fit.
You wrote back in your best French. You asked Xavier to say hi to everyone in Chez Dora. You had always loved him.
You hoped you’d got the tenses right.
+
Your son is only three when you discover that your husband is cheating on you. You leave the child with your mother and disappear for a few days.
When you return, your husband cries and says he’s a complete fool. You look at your toddler’s round face and agree to stay. You swear to yourself you’ll never leave them again. No one but Xavier will ever know where you’ve been.
Two years later, when your husband takes another lover, you simply don’t have the energy to leave. Your second child, a tiny girl, was born prematurely and has health problems. Your children need you. Your husband’s affair ends. Life goes on.
Now you’ve been married for twenty years. Your husband is a well-respected dermatologist. You know he’s a good provider, and that he loves his children. You know, too, that in times of difficulty he will always turn temporarily to other women. This time he’ll claim it’s the worry about your cancer that made him do it. He will be penitent. He always is.
+
Afternoon is leading into early evening when you find the building where Chez Dora used to be. You begin to descend the stairs but stop halfway, confused. The stairwell isn’t dark like it used to be. All the way down, lurid lights illuminate images of hearts and dragons, flowers and birds, anchors and Japanese lettering. At the bottom of the stairs, above the door, the neon sign still says Chez Dora, but, underneath, the words “_Studio de tatouage_” have been added and below that, there’s a list of prices.
In spite of this, you walk in. There are two rooms. In the first, the walls are covered with more tattoo designs and there are free-standing display stands too: serpents curl around anchors, there are scores of butterflies, daggers in bleeding hearts, runic symbols and rows of Japanese script. Two easy chairs sit in one corner beside a low table covered with magazines.
A dark-haired man of about your age emerges from the room beyond. He’s wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt and barbed wire tattoos circle his muscular upper arms.
“Sorry,” you say. “I was looking for the bar.”
The man smiles and replies in English. “I should have changed the name, but I liked the sign.”
“I used to drink here once,” you say.
“Sorry I can’t offer you a drink,” he says, amiably. “How about a tattoo?” He’s definitely from England.
“I’m too old for a tattoo.”
“Nonsense! I was about to close up, but I’ll do one for you right now, if you like. How about something like this?”
He points to some delicate images of birds and flowers.
“Alright,” you say, astonishing yourself. “Something small.”
“Good idea,” he says. “How about a feather?” He shows you feathers of many different sizes and colours, gives you a price. “Feathers symbolise the ability to take flight. Is that what you want?”
“Yes. That one.” You point to a small reddish-orange feather, with multi-coloured sparks surrounding it.
“Even better, a phoenix feather. Maybe on your shoulder?”
“Ok.”
He brings you into the farther room where he motions for you to sit in a barber-style chair facing a large mirror. On a shelf nearby, bottles of coloured ink are ranged next to something that resembles a dentist’s drill.
He assures you that he’s highly qualified, that his business has won awards, that everything is sterilised. He switches on a strong light and rubs something gently on your shoulder. He takes a package from a drawer and rips it open, then attaches the enclosed needle to the drill. When he switches the instrument on there’s a harsh buzzing sound, but you feel surprisingly calm. You’ve been numb for so long that you yearn to feel pain. The sharp sting of the needle comes as a relief, and as a convenient excuse when a tear escapes from your left eye.
“You have lovely skin,” he says, as he offers you a tissue.
You wonder where your letter to Xavier went and you imagine it sitting, unclaimed, in a pile of junk mail in some dusty communal hall. You ask the tattooist some questions to distract yourself. He came from Peterborough years ago, he says, and somehow never went home.
“Black dots tattooed on someone’s wrist. What do they mean?” you ask.
“Usually they mean you’ve done jail-time. One dot for each year.”
“Oh.” Everything, you realise, means something, but only if you allow yourself to see it.
When the tattoo is done, he holds a mirror so you can view it in reverse in the larger mirror on the wall. You’re astonished. You feel as if the chair you’re sitting in is a time machine and that the only evidence that you’ve been travelling in time is the small, beautiful feather on your shoulder. You murmur your approval, adjust your clothing and pay. He hands you a leaflet and your receipt, and you hardly listen as he instructs you on aftercare.
“Let me buy you a drink,” he suggests.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have time.”
You feel a giddy impulse to say “_I’ve got to fly_”. Instead, you thank him and leave.
Halfway up the stairs you look back at the neon sign that still says Chez Dora and you watch until it winks. You don’t look back again.