Are you ready? he asks at 5:25, and we throw open the coat-closet doors, pulling out heavy parkas and scarves and woolen hats. We've eaten an early dinner of fragrant chicken slowly simmered in a lemony, fresh cilantro sauce with Indian spices, and the apartment smells warm, beckoning us to stay. But his French class starts in half an hour, and there's only one more week until the final week of oral exams. I lace my boots, zip my parka, wrap my scarf around my face, pull on a fleece headband and a wool hat over that; the final addition is a pair of stretchy gloves and a pair of thick handknit mittens, and then, padded to twice our size, we tumble out into the night.
In spite of the extreme cold, people are riding bicycles in the snow; young men with bare heads leave the park carrying hockey sticks over their shoulders. In a basement apartment, goldfish swim obliviously in a large heated tank. On the streetlight posts someone has put up white signs saying "La Collecte" bearing big red teardrop-shapes, and arrows pointing forward. What is it? he asks, and I say, blood - blood collection. But where? We speculate: the church? the firehouse? the school? All the signs are the same, leading us on toward the beating crimson source. A thin girl wearing a short skirt and tights crosses Brebeuf, her bare hands struggling to light a cigarette. Another girl hurries across, her mittened hand pressed over her mouth and nose. I feel my own cheeks prickling; soon I'll barely be able to feel them at all.
At Le Poisson Rouge, white tablecloths and wine glasses shine against the dim interior; the staff, in silhouette, eat at a back table before the first patrons arrive. In the window of the medical supply store, the macabre skeleton manikin still wears her white doctor's coat and stethoscope, and the clerk, in a black t-shirt, frowns over the cash register as he always does at the end of the day. We walk faster to make it across Christophe-Colombe with the green light. There are more red teardrop signs. Look how much lighter the sky is each evening! he remarks, as rue Rachel stretches out straight in front of us, all the way to the mountain and the lighted cross at the peak. I squeeze his hand. We pass Cafe Rico, where the smell of roasting coffee beans permeates a full block. The teardrop signs finally point to the right: the blood collection is somewhere inside the same building as the Toyota dealership! An answer, but wrapped as opaquely as a heart in the chest of urban life.
We're very cold now, but walking fast. How are you? I ask and he nods. It feels good, he adds, and I silently agree. People come out of the fresh pasta store clutching brown paper bags and hurry away down the street; overgrown pink-blooming geraniums and aloe vera plants press their greenness against the long expanse of steamy windows. As we run across St. Hubert, we pass the little boy who's always accompanied home from school by his mother or father at this exact hour; the parent firmly grasps his hand while the boy talks and gesticulates with the other: an exuberant personality refusing to be contained inside the bundle of hooded down parka, hat and snowpants.
Past the bars with their round St. Ambroise and Belle Geule signs; the clothing store where metal grills are being drawn inside the windows by a clerk; the frites shop with its smell of grease and potatoes. How many times have we walked like this, matching our steps, hips close together, noticing all the same things? I only think about it when I'm walking with people whose eyes are so different, who cover up all the possible sights and sounds and smells with their own conversations. Now that thought is succeeded, in quick succession, by a pang of regret for the times we've walked together in anger, and then shifts rapidly back to our rhythm, then to the cruel mathematics of years, and the unbearable potential for loss. I recognize the cycle of thoughts, and deliberately notice our steps - right, left, right, left - and the pattern keeps me here, now - and then we're at the corner of St. Denis where a firetruck is crossing rue Rachel surrounded by cars and I say all right, I'm leaving you here and then hesitate and say, no I'll wait with you for the light to change. I stamp my feet rather than stand still and he turns his face to me and we find each other's mouths, tongues exploring a startling wet heat while our icy cheeks press together. There's snow on his dark lashes. Dark-clothed figures stream around us and when we pull apart the last second has passed and the amber light changes to green; our hands separate; we move perpendicularly, arrows pointing in different directions, lost in the swiftly moving crowd.
Beth, this is so perfect a Valentine post, not a word or feeling out of place. All the rest of the manufactured mushy slushy sentimentality of an entirely fictitious feast can be dumped but you've made a simple evening's report into a genuine love poem.
Posted by: Natalie | February 14, 2007 at 08:22 PM
Thank you Natalie, I'm so glad you felt that way!
Posted by: beth | February 14, 2007 at 09:32 PM
Yes, as Natalie said! Thank you for such a lovingly written glimpse into your life as a couple, how the seemingly ordinary and everyday can be extraordinary.
Posted by: marja-leena | February 14, 2007 at 09:59 PM
Mmm. Just lovely, Beth. Perfect.
Posted by: Jean | February 15, 2007 at 07:52 AM
Beautiful, Beth. One of my favorites, even as I sit beside my heater, trying to remove the chill of a Michigan winter.
Posted by: Jan | February 15, 2007 at 08:24 AM
I second (third?) the motion. That really is lovely.
Posted by: Peter | February 15, 2007 at 09:17 AM
Oh, Beth, thank you!
Posted by: Tom Montag | February 15, 2007 at 09:36 AM
I've always felt that winter was the best season for city life. Thanks for sharing...really enjoyed this.
Posted by: the sylph | February 15, 2007 at 10:59 AM
Wow, you make winter sound almost bearable! ;-)
Posted by: blork | February 15, 2007 at 11:36 AM
(o)
Posted by: dale | February 15, 2007 at 04:20 PM
A moving and courageous account....
Posted by: CdV | February 15, 2007 at 05:57 PM
Oh Beth. :-)
Posted by: rr | February 16, 2007 at 03:51 AM
Oh.
Posted by: MB | February 16, 2007 at 02:50 PM
This is a really good post.
Posted by: Dave | February 16, 2007 at 03:10 PM
That we are here for now, that we can love for now: it covers, as they say, a multitude of sins.
This is deeply felt and generously written, Beth. Thank you for sharing it.
Posted by: Teju | February 17, 2007 at 02:16 PM
I feel this more and more when I read certain blog posts: what in the world do I possibly have in way of response? Witness is an entirity.
Posted by: Bill | February 18, 2007 at 11:14 AM
Wonderful.
Posted by: leslee | February 19, 2007 at 12:47 PM
Ohhh.....beth, it's beautiful. I read and read it again.
Posted by: anasalwa | February 20, 2007 at 06:41 AM