|We'll always have Paris.
||[Apr. 4th, 2009|01:59 am]
Welcome to Berlin
Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome...
Fremde, etranger, stranger...
I knew a woman in London once. She was tall, blonde, a stage actress. She was also a star, but she didn't know it yet, and denied it when I told her that she was indeed something bright and beautiful.
I met her after a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. She played an exquisite Helena, owning the stage with skill and riveting preciseness that I have rarely seen in performers of such youth. But she was natural, so very natural. As natural as if she were naked and completely oblivious to the fact.
Gluklich zu sehen, je suis enchante,
Happy to see you, bleibe, reste, stay...
She had an extraordinary gift of perception. Perhaps that was what drew me to her -- she could see right through to my core quite better than I could see through to hers, but she never exploited the advantage she had over me. Well, unless I did something foolish.
...What? I had my moments. For instance, tucking a pack of cigarettes in a bouquet of flowers that I left at her dressing room door. Twice. She accused me of being in love with her. I didn't speak to her for a week.
But the sex that week was fantastic.
Where are your troubles now?
I told you so!
She was as gracious as a princess, and had a laugh like a peasant. People stared at us wherever we went because I'm sure they could hardly believe a creature like myself was keeping company with such a regal being. Until she laughed. And until she strung certain words together that even sailors hadn't thought about stringing together. And then I knew that we were two of a kind. She knew this, too. She didn't deny that.
We took a trip to Paris, where we got drunk and high and forgot about the rest of the world.
I wanted to bring her back to Berlin with me, but London was calling her home. I suppose our time together had run its course. Neither of us regretted it, though -- we knew it was bound to end sooner or later, so we might as well get it over with.
So we parted ways. Occasionally I would receive a postcard from her, saying what play she was in now, or somesuch thing like that. Never once did she claim she was a star. She only ever said that she was lucky.
...Stars are lucky, are they not?
We have no - troubles - here!
Here, life is beautiful...
The postcards stopped coming a long time ago. But today I received a note from an anonymous sender in London. It read, simply, that she had passed away. No whys or wherefores. Just that she was gone.
I know that stars burn out in time...but I could not have expected this one to vanish so suddenly. And the world that we once tried to forget about together is just a bit dimmer for it.