Chapter One
One postcard then another
I first encountered the Cinema Sartre about two weeks after my partner disappeared. When I say disappeared I mean that we had breakfast together as usual before I left for work and that was the last time I ever saw her, but I know that I had killed her. I did not bludgeon her to death and leave her naked body in the bath until every drop of her blood had drained away then dismember her and dispose of her body parts by incineration or dissolving them in strong chemicals. No, it was a much slower meaner death but I was just as guilty as any murderer could be. We had very much become what I thought was a comfortable working couple who would eventually get married, buy a house, and probably have a couple of kids. We seemed to be getting on fine but each day was remarkably like the next and we seemed to have a little less time and a little less patience with each other. For some reason she thought I wanted her to have kids very soon and this soon became a taboo subject. When I arrived home the apartment was in darkness and unusually quiet rather than the usual blaze of lights and noise. I thought she had fallen asleep so I went straight to the kitchen to see if I could make something for us to eat. I found a postcard attached to the fridge, with my favourite Yoda fridge magnet, that simply said ‘Sorry, it’s less painful this way’. It took a few moments for the information to sink in.
We had lived a minimalist lifestyle and the postcard seemed to be an entirely appropriate means of conveying everything that she wanted to say. For some reason I said ‘wish you were here too’ out loud but I really didn’t wish I was with her at this moment as I was certain that she was holed up somewhere with her friend the electrician possibly enjoying the thrill and excitement that only run away lovers who give in to the impulse and head for the open road can feel. I didn’t really want to be here either now in what was our home. It was now just a collection of memories that jarred and cut at every turn. I visualised with some satisfaction smashing up the entire apartment with an ice axe. I have no idea why that thought came to me in that moment of what should have been some kind of appropriate emotional response such as crying or banging my head against the wall and shouting ‘no, no, no’ before sinking to my knees sobbing with jilted misery. However, ultimately I think it was her message that triggered this somewhat unusual response, not that she meant that had she stayed I would have caused her physical pain as it had been a relatively pain free relationship. She said sorry. I didn’t want to avoid the pain of splitting up but rather I wanted to face it directly and ask questions about where I’d gone wrong. But I knew at heart where I had gone wrong. But in any case how could she deny me this time of painful self-reflection? Was there no justice in the world? It is perhaps worth noting at this point that I did not in fact possess an ice axe or indeed one in what was my home, though I must admit I do know some people who have more than one stashed in their wardrobe for mountaineering purposes -or so they tell me. That was it though I decided that she had not really wanted the hassle of splitting up and in the process and the price of that was to give me no outlet for the emotions I now felt. Great what now?
I knew as soon as I read the postcard that it was over and to my surprise I felt no compulsion to attempt persuade her otherwise. It was over and I knew I could accept that. I knew she was not the kind of person who rings up a couple of weeks later in tears telling me that her new lover didn’t measure up. She would make him measure up. That was the problem really. I was no longer a challenge. She needed someone to rail against and bend into shape and I had been too easy. Needless to say all her things were gone, apart from a few things that might have reminded her of our shared existence. I could have been angry at her leaving these things, as it was me that was reminded, but I guess I now had the option to either keep them or dispose of them in whatever manner I saw fit. Why was I being so calm and reasonable? She was right though it was definitely less painful this way. Rather than enduring months of emotional angst arguing or, possibly worst of all, self indulging in those annoying and usually humiliating attempts at reconciliation and all the irksome malarkey that entails she simply opted out and went straight for the goal she had set herself. I found that instead of feeling upset I felt realtively calm and a bit detached and even a little relieved but also beginning to feel a bit cheated. I always find walking is a good way of dealing with feelings, not least because it gives you time to think about what you need to do. In this instance I just had questions that I knew would never now be answered.
My life with her had been very normal with very few surprises but that in itself had made smaller things more surprising. We had once been described by her sister as the Marks and Spencer couple which I found amusing and she had definitely not. ‘I hardly ever shop at M&S,’ she told me somewhat indignantly in the car on the way home whilst I tried hard to suppress a smile remembering how not so long ago she had commented that she needed to get some more undies and only M&S had the ones she liked. She had gone on to tell me that buying cheap underwear cost you more in the long run even though the cheap stuff might look good for a while and the only justification for buying it was as a short term disposable item. I had nodded in agreement. I wonder if that was the moment that she had decided that this was not the life for her. I also wonder whether she regarded me as cheap don’t care if it rips underwear or more durable duller but a longer term investment pair of panties.
Life with her had probably been a tad too uneventful and conventional, her underwear being the exception, but now after months of being bored something had happened that was like one extreme to the other. I would have settled for some more interesting underwear rather than being disposed of so abruptly. But that’s the point really she had decided not to settle for me for anything and go foer Mr Raw. So, now logic dictated that I needed to try to work out where I had gone wrong and to learn from my mistakes so as to avoid them in future. Sod logic.
There has always been a little part of me that craves change and new experiences and rebels against the mundane routines of every day living – thank goodness. A little spark of resistance. I realised that my attempts to provide stability and routine had backfired because what she had probably liked about me most was the chaotic excitement and energy I used to generate. She was happy to take a ride on this rollercoaster. Suddenly though I had stopped generating excitement and settled down mainly because I thought that was what she wanted me to do and what I probably ought to be doing after all the unpredictable madness of previous years.
So here I was ironically dumped because I had finally become, like most people my age, less chaotic, boring, predictable and somewhat more sensible – though I was always, and probably always will be, reckless with money. However, I can confirm that it is in fact extremely easy to reverse a stable sensible lifestyle purely by acting on some of the impulses I had mostly managed to suppress and to abuse credit to fund them. I could feel a little tingle as if the old electricity had started to flow again and I found the thought of single life was not such an unpalatable prospect as it had been only a few months previously. The world would open up again and I would be Mr Stable no more.
However, first things first. Food. I decided to go out for a walk and get a bite to eat. The cupboards in the house had become far too depressing to contemplate and in any case it’s amazing what a stomach full of real food will do to lift your mood and get the creative possibilities flowing. I made my way to an old style café that I had eaten in a few times during the day but had never visited in the evening. I loved this café because every table looked as if it had been someone’s kitchen table and many wore scars that, if the tables could speak, would certainly tell a story or two. The tables and chairs were all unpainted, wooden and light to mid brown in colour and that was the only unifying characteristic; there wasn’t a bit of plastic or chrome in sight. I imagined the owner ‘John’ scouring the local second hand shops or country auctions looking for just the right old pine table to put in the corner. ‘What about this one John?’ his wife might have said, ‘No I told you is got to be brown like the floor and able to take my weight’, ‘Oh OK love brown it is and built like a brick wotsit’. I felt instantly at home and seemed to draw strength from my surroundings only to be jolted back by the earth trembling looming throat clearing presence of John waiting to take my order in his usual busily cheerful way. He always held his pencil daintily between his huge fingers as if it was a delicate thing that needed a lot of care lest it be snapped or driven right through the notepad. It always seemed to me that he would be far happier taking a large cleaver and hacking manfully at large frozen carcases with mighty flexes of his huge corded muscles, in the absence of a battle where axes are the weapon of choice for combatants, than scribbling customer orders down on a little pad with a pencil stub. I was surprised to find that in the evening the cafe was very popular and I was soon settled at a small table in the corner with a huge home cooked cottage pie and a large mug of hot tea. Bliss.
The portions here were never small but no less skilfully prepared and tasty for it. This food was the result of generations of cooks improving and honing recipes. I could taste a hint of bacon in the cabbage and that the carrots had been prepared then simmered in salted butter with a hint of white pepper whilst retaining just the right resistance to bite.
If you are ever lucky enough to eat real ‘honest to goodness’ English food, and believe you me the genuine article is fast becoming a rare treat, then it is an experience you will never forget for all the right reasons. Unfortunately most of what passes, or rather is passed to you, purporting to be the genuine article is probably cooked by those who haven’t actually tasted the real thing and wouldn’t know what the real thing is or can’t cook anything without opening a tin or reaching for some ready mixed ingredients of the shelf. Fortunately, the cooks in this café were vastly experienced old style cooks and there wasn’t ever an over boiled or salted vegetable or a pie without the perfect balance of ingredients on the menu and everything was cooked freshly. I often watched them preparing food without any wasted energy. Everything was to hand and they had been cooking together so long they appeared to operate as one body. Vegetable water was always recycled as a base for gravy or stock and not one oz. of fat was thrown away. They never got an order wrong and they took obvious pride in each meal served personally checking that everything was to your satisfaction by calling to you through the serving hatch. The only condiments on the table were salt and pepper and the food was so full of flavour you rarely thought to add them. If they served lamb there was some freshly made mint sauce, pork with apple sauce, and if they served beef there was some horseradish sauce, the latter should have come with a warning as it would blow your head off. The people who came to this café weren’t fussy as a rule but appreciated good plain tasty food cooked well. The cafe was packed.
After eating and drinking a fine meal I felt a lot better both physically and mentally. Too many meals like this though and I knew I’d be piling on the pounds and would soon be Mr Lardy. However, I had a deep sense that I was in the right place here amongst my folk and it increased my confidence no end. I drew strength from the sounds of cooking and the practiced professionalism of the cooks in the kitchen with their down to earth good natured banter that had a kind of nostalgic timeless quality to it.
I was just going out the door when I saw a postcard on the notice board that simply said ‘Bedsit for rent enquire at the Cinema Sartre’. I had nothing else to do so I thought I would check it out. The Cinema Sartre was a small independent cinema that put on an interesting selection of films from around the world and also had a very reasonable café that served a small number of set meals at OK prices. I was on their mailing list and had been pleasantly surprised to see how thoughtfully they put their programmes together. The first film I saw there was Red Sorghum (1987) a Chinese film directed by Zhang Yimou and was the acting debut of Gong Li. There was quite a long write up about the director and the film in the news letter and most of the films I had seen had been recommended by the newsletter as particularly worth seeing. The reviews had always been spot on in my opinion and I had often thought the reviewer could read my mind as they seemed to observe everything that I thought was important to mention.
It didn’t take me 5 minutes to walk to the Cinema Sartre. They were not what you might call overstaffed and I recognised one of the women in the little café, as the same one who often sold the tickets from a tiny ticket counter by the door. She had appeared in a couple of films. She was small but perfectly proportioned and had a pleasant bubbly personality. I last saw her in the local supermarket and had rushed to help her reach a jar of pickled gherkins. She found the whole thing hilariously funny and nearly wet herself when I asked her if she wanted a big or a small one. The whole thing was lost on me until I was on the way home and realised the joke was on me – slow or what? She was wearing a miniskirt and a figure hugging top and for the first time I noticed she had a very shapely figure. She looked up and when she saw it was me smiled.
‘Did you want a big one or will a small one do you?’
‘Is that what I said?’
‘That’s what you said’
‘In that case I think I’ll settle for whatever you’re offering as long as you can help me.’
‘What can I do you for then?’
‘Is the bedsit still available?’
‘Oh and there I was thinking you were following me around because you find me irresistible.’
‘I’m just here about the bedsit. Honestly. I saw the postcard at the café.’
‘Yes, it’s still vacant. You’re the first to ask about it.’
‘That’s good can I have a look.’
‘Patience my dear. I’ll just see if Helga can cover for me.’
A few moments later she was back al smiles.
‘Come on then and stop scowling.’
‘Was I?’
‘Yes you were. Had a bad day?’
‘You could say that.’
‘C’est la vie. By the way I’m usually called Patch and let me guess your name is Jack.’
‘Wow, how did you know my name?’
‘Never underestimate the magic powers of us little people. Didn’t you know that we know everything about you big folk?’
‘No I didn’t know that.’
‘Don’t look so serious. After you helped me in the supermarket I thought you looked familiar so I had a quick look through the membership list and there you were. I was meaning to slip something in with your newsletter but I saw that there were two persons listed at your address and thought better of it. You do remember we take a digital photo for your membership card?’
‘I forgot about that.’
It was along time since I’d lived in a bedsit but the idea was somewhat appealing right now. I just wanted a place to myself that hadn’t been shared with anyone and some peace and quiet.
‘How many bedsits are there?’
She looked me up and down as if sizing me up then smiled a cute sideways smile biting her top lip in a very provocative way. I couldn’t help looking at her and wondering.
‘There are two bed-sits and an apartment’
‘Sounds good, do you live here too?’ I said more than a little hopefully.
‘Yes I live in the apartment and Chika has the other bed-sit. Don’t worry we’ll break you in slowly.’ She laughed mischievously.
Actually the prospect of living in the same building with her wasn’t too bad at all.
I allowed myself to be led through a door at the back of the café and up a narrow wooden staircase and then through another door into a hallway where we took off our shoes stowing these in a Japanese style shoe cupboard then up another flight of carpeted stairs to a landing with five doors.
‘Are you ready?’ she said with a flourish and opened the first door this led into a large room. In the corner was a neat kitchen area and beyond that a small shower/bathroom. There was lots of light due to a large window on one side and two narrow French doors leading to a very large balcony that ran the length of the building with two other doors leading on to it at the rear. It had three little tables complete with a couple of chairs and lots of potted plants and trees.
‘It’s like a small apartment.’
‘Take your time and have a good look around. The next room is mine and the one next to that is Chikas. At the end there is a bathroom and the other room is a storeroom for cleaning equipment and things like that.’
‘I think it is really nice.’
I soon agreed to move in at the weekend.
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Cinema Sartre is very loosely based on the Sakurazaka Theater in Naha Okinawa
