I fell from the balcony of the fourth floor of the Grenville Hotel. My body becoming impaled on the ornate spiked railings which guarded the lower basement of that three-star establishment. An ignominious demise, but even in the act of dying, I tried to maintain a certain elegance, a cigarette held languidly between the first two fingers of my right hand.
A red stain, resembling Sicily, formed on the concrete below me. My eyes flickered, desperate to close, but before I succumbed, my cigarette fell into the well of the basement, landing precisely where Etna would have been on that red map. A curl of smoke drifted carelessly upwards as a wry smile formed on my lips. I had met a charming young lady there when I was a teenager and wondered what had become of her after our night together. Disappointment with future lovers I assumed. The smoke hung in the cool night air for a few seconds, as if waiting for my last breath. In those moments my thoughts turned to those who had cherished me.
Everyone has their own version of history, and I imagine Rose’s account would have been particularly tainted. Rose was in love with me once, probably still is if she would only admit it. It’s a curse I have born all my life. Aunts, cousins, friends of my mother, they were all infatuated with me.
Rose was immersed in the writings of the romantic poets when we met, foolish fantasies. She became pregnant within a few months of us sleeping together. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, the foetus was mine, I should have taken some responsibility. But it was typical of Rose not to have taken precautions, not to think about the consequences of her desires. The problem was entirely of her own making.
I had no desire for parenthood, for marriage, or, as it turned out, for Rose. I imagine she poured her heart out to Sarah, her closest friend. Quite a striking girl, although a tad too religious for my tastes. Sarah would most probably have argued vehemently against abortion, delaying the whole sordid business until the last possible moment. For several weeks I heard no more about it, so I presumed Rose had done the sensible thing and resolved the problem.
Later, she sent me a letter, a very old-fashioned thing to do and quite bothersome. Apparently, she suffered some sort of complication with the procedure and would be unable to conceive in the future. I have no idea why she thought I would be interested. The letter was delivered by hand, by Sarah, who turned out to be a fascinating creature. There are few rewards more enjoyable, than being the inspiration for the fall from grace of a child of the church. My participation in her downward spiral was overstated in her later protestations.
I’m not certain Rose ever graduated. I never asked Sarah what became of her, and our paths didn’t cross again.
Sarah and I were together, off and on, for some ten years. We were married for six of them, but had been, on the evening of my demise, separated for two months and six days.
She really should have known that I would have affairs, women gravitate towards me, it is not my fault if they throw themselves into my arms. And our marriage had not been without its minor aggravations. After several miscarriages, and despite the best efforts of medical science, we both had to accept that a child was not going to materialise. Sarah wanted to explore the possibility of adoption, but why on earth would I wish to bring up another man’s child, it was unconscionable.
She suffered with mental health issues after her final miscarriage. But that doesn’t really qualify as an illness, does it? I have always thought it more indicative of a weakness in character.
Sarah read my private text messages while she drifted moodily around our home. And one never gains anything meaningful from eavesdropping or snooping. I assured her my dalliances were nothing more than that, temporary diversions of a physical nature. But when she challenged me, I admitted that I had been having an affair with Penny for some three or four years. I had not kept a detailed record of our meetings, so couldn’t be more precise about the dates and timings. I explained to Sarah that she had not been there for me, she had changed, become needy. How else was a man expected to sate his physical needs.
The night of that revelation, I was banished to the sofa, in my own home. The next day I packed three bags and moved into a small apartment owned by the university, my then employer. It would not be a stretch of the imagination to see her murdering me, but I doubt she could summon the mental strength, never mind the physical strength, to have tumbled me off that balcony.
Let me be completely honest. I felt no guilt about siring a child with Penny. It was her who had chosen to abandon birth control. How can women be so duplicitous. I have always been honest; it is in my very nature. On the night that I was so callously murdered, Jasper would have been six years old. I believe I forgot his birthday, but I am sure he will have fond memories of me.
Penny was one of Sarah’s oldest friends. They had known each other from school days, so Penny was riddled with guilt over our arrangement. On several occasions I had to prevent her from confessing all to Sarah. It would have helped nobody. Sarah was quite content with Penny’s explanation that she did not care to discuss Jasper’s parentage.
Our relationship had begun soon after Sarah and I were married. We had, by chance, bumped into each other at a conference. She told me later that it was as if we were always destined to be together. I didn’t feel quite the same way. Over the years she kept pressing me to leave Sarah. So much for best friends. She gave me an ultimatum, leave or she would end it herself. I was not sure whether she meant our arrangement, or her life. I lost no sleep over either of those scenarios.
As a free man once again, I was more relaxed. That is when I met Karen at a conference. Our paths had crossed occasionally after we graduated. Karen worked in the same academic field as I. By then she had invested in contact lenses, and I was pleased to discover that she was not entirely impervious to my charms. At university that conundrum had perplexed me. However, she was cautious, whether out of habit or shyness I do not know. But I do pride myself on being willing to rise to a challenge.
We were booked into the same hotel, a few days after Sarah had finally confronted Penny and I had relocated. I was glad to be many miles away from them both, and the weariness they provoked in me. Distance makes the heart grow calmer in my case.
Karen was not the most attractive woman I had ever met, but she had something else, a genuinely unique brain. I had been close to many girls at college, and many since, but few of them were blessed with the same clarity of thought as Karen possessed. If I was inclined to raise a family with anyone, it would be with someone like her.
She was also harder to coax into my bed than any woman I had encountered. It was only on the third night that I succeeded in my challenge. I believe even Sisyphus would have expressed admiration when I finally achieved my goal.
I confided in her that my relationship with Sarah had come to a natural conclusion, that I was free to embark on the rest of my life. I believe I also revealed my admiration for her academic achievements. Not as a ploy you understand, but a genuine opinion.
She resisted all attempts to commit to a coalition of our talents, arguing that I needed space and perspective to be certain I was, this time, ready to commit. In fact, we didn’t consummate our relationship again until some weeks after that conference. For the first time in my life, I realised I was competing for, rather than being, the prize.
We had been cohabiting for less than a week when a meeting was mentioned by Karen, one she couldn’t avoid. I thought nothing of it as I knew little of her social connections and cared even less.
The evening my life ended, I had been watching a fascinating documentary on Byzantine art. Karen’s phone call interrupted the programme at a crucial point, so I was not in the best of moods when she asked if I could collect her from the Grenville Hotel. She suggested I park the car and come up to the fourth-floor function room in which her meeting had been held. She said she was reluctant to loiter in the street, waiting for me, as I was habitually late.
I was somewhat surprised when I entered the room and saw her with the three women who had caused so much aggravation in my life. She had never been part of their circle. In fact, I rarely saw her talk to anyone when we were at university.
Those present were all stood facing the door, I presume anticipating my entrance. The sight of the four of them together, united, rather disturbed my equilibrium. They each held a charged glass, the distinctive yellow labelled bottle was on the table, Veuve Clicquot, La Grande Dame of champagnes. I wondered which of them believed they deserved the sobriquet of Grand Dame, and none amongst them could be accurately described as a widow.
They smiled but said nothing. I almost turned on my heels and left immediately, but that would have been a sign of weakness, an admission of defeat. Instead, I took a slim case from the inside pocket of my jacket and carefully selected a Sobranie cigarette. They were all identical of course, save the colour, but the action gave me time to think.
It was Rose who told me, quite firmly, that I couldn’t smoke in the hotel. It was the first time I had heard her voice in years. The first words she had directed towards me since that outrageous letter.
I noticed the doors to the balcony were open, a warm summer breeze was drifting the curtains. I shrugged, and wandered casually towards the open doors, lighting my cigarette first, a small act of defiance.
The lights of the city were spread before me. A vast arena full of interesting challenges. I needed to put behind me the tedious realms of academia and find a woman with spirit and a sense of purpose.
Was it one pair of hands or four? I never knew for certain. The force which propelled me over that balustrade was instant and irresistible. There was no opportunity to explain how their misfortune was all their own making, that I could not be held responsible for the utter mess they made of their lives. I was entirely innocent. I had always been open and honest about my intentions, my desires.
Before I died, I believe I heard four voices, though I couldn’t be sure. They say that your sense of hearing is the last thing to go, but I may have been mistaken. They were joined in a toast I believe, to correcting past mistakes.
I presume some people would consider I deserved such a finale, but honestly, did I? I do hope Jasper, when he comes of age, and if he possesses a fraction of my charms, chooses his liaisons more wisely than I did.n on pause.