Getting Hitched Fiction - We Lost Our Way

By Félix Calvino

The man listens to Madame DuPont’s Bastille Day speech, then claps. He takes a glass of wine from a waiter’s tray and thinks about the woman with the long black hair and pale complexion he had seen earlier looking out the window facing the garden.

He finds her in the next room in the company of two men. A large wall mirror, trapped in a gilded frame, confirms her graceful contours.

She too catches a glimpse of him in the same mirror. She has seen him before, looking intently at a small Gauguin hanging to the right of the door to the study. She is intrigued by the expression on his face, then disturbed by the sudden, wild fantasies in her head. She takes a drink of champagne and orange juice, excuses herself and wanders away.

They are in the library. He is looking at a primitive sculpture on the centre of a long table in the middle of the room. She is in a group listening to Madame DuPont. When the hostess is called away, the woman takes another drink, this time of straight champagne.

They stand across from one another at the buffet table. They exchange smiles. He makes superficial observations, she offers measured responses. They eat and drink, laugh at little things, discover common interests. He thinks she is lovely. She feels fear and excitement.

Time passes.

Outside the tall windows, rain is still falling. Inside, the man thinks, hilarity is playing havoc with social graces and hidden agendas.

‘It is getting noisy,’ the woman says.

‘I agree. Perhaps we should go somewhere for a quiet drink.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about a drink. I’m not used to it.’ She touches her face. “Does it show?’

‘Yes. It gives extra charm.’

Their eyes meet for a moment, and again, as if to get another serving of an increasingly delicious thrill. But their exit is subject to protocol. And the piano recital in the large room is long, very long. And on the way to the front door, Madame DuPont has many things to say, and says them at length. Outside, the streets are gleaming and wet. Daylight is fading. In the taxi to a well-known bar he finds her hands on her lap, warm and inviting.

The place is crowded, the music loud, and they don’t stay long. Their second choice is a small jazz venue they both like. No sooner do they sit down and order a drink than some friends of the woman arrive. The friends are in a festive mood. They order a round of cocktails. They want to know who her companion is, where they have been, where they are going, so the couple leave.

They settle in the lounge of a prestigious hotel. It is a large room with high ornate ceilings and good reproductions of English and Dutch masters on the walls.

They sit on a dark green leather couch by the marble fireplace at the far end of the room and order a bottle of French champagne. Earlier calculated approaches and equally calculated resistance are no longer an impediment to their eager feelings. 

At nearby tables, grave-looking women returning from the opera for a nightcap stare at the couple and then whisper among themselves or to their tuxedoed husbands.

A waiter, instructed by the night supervisor, has a discreet word with the man while pretending to tidy the table. The man responds with a gesture of concern and the woman with half-suppressed laughter the moment the waiter turns his back on them.

‘It is the drink, sir,’ the waiter reports to the night supervisor.

The request to leave is courteous yet firm. The woman and the man stand up. They remain motionless for a long moment, as if searching for resolve to walk cross the room and into the cold night.

Outside the lounge, a wrong turn takes them to a dimly lit dining room. They shelter in a secluded corner, under a big round table with overhanging tablecloth, already set for breakfast.

Moments later they are hit by the beam of a powerful torch, followed by a voice saying ‘May I help,’ then the voice taking the form of a security man on his knees, peering from behind the tablecloth.

‘I’ll manage,’ replies the man in an annoyed tone.

‘Sir, I am only questioning the use of the hotel dining room.’

They get up, rearrange their hair and clothes, and join the security man waiting outside the dining room door. 

‘We lost our way,’ the man says.  

‘I understand,’ the security man replies.

On the street, the rain and wind have stopped, and a big moon is halfway up the sky.

They set out for the Botanic Gardens, a short distance away. The Macquarie Street entrance is locked. Further up, the main gates are also locked and the shaded benches on each side already occupied.

They notice the Mitchell Library’s semi-dark porch across the road and go there. But the gentleman-in-residence, surrounded by his worldly goods and an empty bottle of sherry, is simply rude.

They retreat to the library’s front steps. They sit silently. Not long after, the woman gets up and walks away.

A new day begins to dawn.

***

© Félix Calvino 2008

Félix Calvino is the author of the short story collection A Hatful of Cherries (Australian Scholarly Publishing, Melbourne, 2007).

The short stories on this website are copyright and cannot be copied for any purpose. However, you are welcome to link to any story.

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