She has no memory of Christmas.
The forestage, the orchestra pit, the auditorium, there were no spectators remaining. Or rather, there were still a few, held by that lingering fragrance which spoke of the ballet that had just finished. Their gaze, fixed upon the curtain on stage, bore the melancholy peculiar to the year’s end.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we shall close in ten minutes,’ the voice drew the fantasy back to earth.
Nothing. She had received no further messages since the one that arrived during the interval. She emerged from her reverie and descended the grand staircase. It was twelve minutes before eleven o’clock; turning her wrist, she lowered her eyes, a brief glance was enough.
Where are you? she wrote. The night was not so very cold, particularly when one was immersed in this world of families, of couples, all around her. Life was lived by twos, by threes, by fours, yet never by one.
The forecourt, the steps, the boulevard, there were fewer and fewer pedestrians. Before her, she could not discern whether there remained a stream of cars or whether they would pass her one by one, leaving a great emptiness in between. Were the cafés nearby still receiving guests? Were patrons still sharing their opera cake beneath the warmth of the lamps and their amber glow? She did not know, or perhaps she preferred not to. The only thing that gleamed was that small rectangle in her hand, long, cold, heavy.
A tremor, but it was not she. Wait for me, another quarter of an hour…
Her head lifted. She beheld a stream of cars before her, hastening, passing in procession along the boulevard that led towards their lodgings. There were still cheerful conversations drifting from the neighbouring cafés. She listened to the warm murmur that spread through the crowd, mingling with the sounds of porcelain as the guests shared their opera cake. T’was twenty minutes past eleven.
Golden light, illuminated terraces, gentle warmth, she saw him approach; she descended the steps; she hastened into his arms. A rustling; a bag crinkled in his hands. Within, a bottle of Jake Daniel’s, a lemon.
‘You have caught cold, so I went around to see which shops remained open, forgive me… You have honey at home, have you not?’
She has this memory of last Christmas…
