Louis

Stephina Clarke

It was the 12th February 2008. Having recently finished my dissertation, and feeling the burden lifted (and because it was actually hot in February) I took Never Let Me Go and walked to the meadows, looking for a bench.

My eyes flirted with the sun, fluttering at the light as I caught sight of someone sitting next to me. We caught eyes several times before the stranger said hello.

Louis told me he was Italian, that he had recently commissioned a painting of Dorian Gray and presented it to Oscar Wilde's grandson at some ceremony in Edinburgh. If I'm honest I can't picture his face now, but it was worn in a kindly way. He was about 76 years old and lived alone.

Smooth Louis asked if I was Italian. I am not. He recited a Wilde poem, 'La Belle Donna Mia Mente', and asked if he could inscribe it into my Ishiguro. After this I asked for his book and wrote something like 'From your new friend Stephina', but I don't remember exactly. So we reached the point where strangers should perhaps part. But instead he asked if I fancied a coffee.

We started walking past the play area and tennis courts, up to South Clerk Street. At the crossing he turned and said his local pub was actually across the road and did I fancy a glass of wine instead. On our way we popped into the post office for Louis to buy stamps and take out ten pounds. I did reflect that this was his pension.

The strangest thing was his local was my local. Same bench, same bar, I laughed. He had a Guinness and I drank wine, and we talked. My broken heart craved to hear this older person's old love woes, to know that I would be okay one day. He told me about his life; he had never married and longed for a family, and at one point even suggested that there was still time for him to meet a young, fertile woman, about my age, and have children. This come-on I quickly quashed and he laughed and said fair enough.

As soon as I stood up I realised, as usual far too late, that I was more than just merry. And Louis realised he had missed his bus and forgotten to buy milk and eggs. So I swaggered to the corner shop and bought him some bits, called my ex who lived nearby and asked if he could drive Louis home. We drove him home, and said goodbye.

Valentine's day arrived and with it my ceremonial handmade anonymous card, which Hollie from home has sent every year since 1995. But this year I received another, with a squashed red rose inside, addressed to La Belle Donna...

On February 13th I had been nursing my hangover and didn't get around to buying, writing and sending something to Louis, and somehow the scrap of paper with his number and address disappeared in my cluttered room. So I didn't get to thank him. But whenever it's warm I look for him in the meadows, on our bench. And I worry that he may think my recollection of that day is anything other than extraordinarily warm and happily memorable.