First Words of Love

a woman with no clothes on

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First Words of Love//

Anna gets off the tram at the last stop. From this point on, people continue either by bus or on foot. Her fellow passengers cram into a bus shelter; she sets on a journey uphill. She walks fast; there is purpose in every step she makes. The long wide pavement, lined with old oak trees whose leaves are just beginning to sprout, stretches far ahead in front of her. There is no one in sight. The atmosphere of solitude and serenity fills her with painful pleasure.

The morning has not gone well, and Anna is happy to leave the bustle of the town behind. With every step her mood improves. She has so much to look forward to: an afternoon spent in conversation with the man she loves. As usual, she expects they will talk about things that matter to them: poetry, travel, love. Or she might say, smiling at him, ‘I have come per pedes apostolorum’. They both like the phrase: he used it as a title for one of his better known poems; she loves it because she learned it from him. Sometimes, Anna encourages him to tell her about music and his ‘cello playing in the city’s orchestra, although she cannot say much in response. Unlike him, she is tone deaf.

She visits once a week and in between their meetings, she talks to him in her head. His photograph is in a frame by her bedside; last night, she kissed it before she went to sleep. Anna does that every night, but yesterday, just before she switched off the light, the feeling of warmth surged through her body as she said ‘see you tomorrow.’ She imagined him smiling as he gave a quick twirl to his moustache and winked. Her heart missed a beat and she could not fall asleep for a while.

Anna loves hearing his views on politics and art; his work gives her a great deal of pleasure, and she admires his music – ‘cello is her favourite instrument - but she would not deny that his looks are important. She has always found him more attractive than any other man she knows. Although not unusually tall, he has a figure reminiscent of Picasso’s Don Quixote. It must be all those years he spent in Paris, living the life of a poor poet in some shabby garret, eating meagre rations in cafés. Anna knows all about it, from him and from what others have written. Over the years, his body has become slightly stooped and, as he walks, his eyes are mostly on the ground. She loves that look when she sees him alone: lost in thought, perhaps thinking of another sonnet to write. His face is gaunt with angular cheeks, as if his head had been chiselled by a sculptor. His hands are thin with fingers elongated from years of playing the ‘cello. But above all, she loves the passion and animation of his speech. And then there is his voice with its distinctive colour: Anna could always recognise it in a chorus of millions. She could not love a man whose voice she does not like.

She has been in love with him for almost a year now. And what a wonderful year it has been: full of meetings of mind. She is so lucky to have found a true soul mate. Not many of her friends could say that. It does not surprise her that she never argues with her lover: they have too much in common and share too many values and interests to be at odds with one another.

With the coming of April and the lengthening days, it should be much easier for her to make her weekly visits. She will no longer have to go up in the morning, or just after lunchtime, to avoid walking back in the dark, when the whole area acquires a threatening feel. Even during daytime, there are very few people around here. It is much busier on Sundays, when families come for their afternoon walks. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, the area used to be a private garden belonging to an aristocratic clan. Although the place has changed its function and has gained numerous new residents, it has retained its exclusivity. Partly, it is due to its solid architecture, sculptures and works of art in its parks, and partly to its magnificent, well-established greenery. Large cedar trees encircle the area and the views from its hillside location above the city are unforgettable. It is ironic that they are without a doubt the best in the area. Do they remain unappreciated by the residents?

She reaches the promontory, where the huts of flower sellers and candle stalls are set out in a semicircle. For the first time this year, they have daffodils and bluebells on display but she ignores them and chooses the same as every week: red roses, the symbols of love. Her poet lover has written sonnets in their name. She knows he is fond of them.

Anna wonders whether he used to give them to his fiancée. She has read about her: she was somewhat younger than him, rather prim looking, a school teacher. Olga. That is what she was called. Yes, it was Olga who had broken the engagement, a silly woman to abandon him just when he became seriously ill. He was losing his voice at the time and when friends visited him in hospital, he would write them notes on scraps of paper. Some of them were written to Olga. They are in a museum now. She must have been a woman with no heart to leave him just when he had most needed someone to love him and care for him.

Anna could not imagine doing something like that herself. If you loved someone and they fell ill, you would love them even more. Oh, things would have been so different had she been engaged to him instead of Olga.

She carries the red roses in her arms, closely pressed to her chest, their scent rising to her nostrils. She knows the way from the main gate to his place like the back of her hand. It is just straight down one more avenue and then there is a pathway on the right. Anna can see him in the distance and her heart beats faster. Aware of the heat rising through her body and the flush in her cheeks, she wonders whether her pupils have dilated. She has read somewhere that that is what happens at the moment of orgasm. She is happy to be a young woman in love.

As always, he is there, waiting for her. Although he does not say it, she knows that he welcomes her visit. Before anything else, Anna deals with the practicalities and throws out the old flowers, pours clean water in the vase and arranges the new bouquet. His housekeeping is less than thorough or perhaps he is old-fashioned in his attitude towards women. Anna is happy to oblige.

As soon as she puts the vase away, she notices that they are not alone. There is a man visiting her poet. She has never met him but instinctively recognises him from the pictures in the poet’s biographies. He looks stockier and shorter but the face is familiar. This old man in his late sixties is her lover’s nephew. Anna feels his eyes on her and when she glances in his direction, she is greeted with a look of admiration. He smiles and addresses her:

‘I’ve seen you here before. You are very young.’ She does not think so, but to a man of his age, a girl of thirteen is young. She cannot think of anything to say. The eyes of the man are still on her.

‘It pleases me to see that the youth of today like his work.’ He gives her a long look before adding, ‘I came to it rather late.’ She knows that as well. The nephew lived abroad with his mother, an international opera singer, and, as a child, would have known his uncle only briefly.

‘I was ten when he left.’ The man says.

Anna nods: the dates that matter are indelibly imprinted in her memory. She does not have to look at the inscriptions on the stone in front of her. Her poet lover was born on 13th of June 1873 and he died on 17th of March 1914, more than forty years before Anna was born.