L'amour jaillit dès que je m'abandonne
Et quand il m'a soûlée
De mots et de baisers
Et qu'il sourit, c'est drole
Je mords dans son épaule
C'est un gars qu'est entré dans ma vie
C'est un gars qui m'a dit des folies
Tu es jolie, tu es jolie
Veux-tu de moi pour la vie
Oui!”
Edith Piaf, from C'est Un Gars
You can’t imagine how much my heart sank when I saw Witold standing there in the street. I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was pretending hard that he hadn’t spotted me and poor boy, pretending he could carry off an aura of nonchalance, caught out, flat footed, spying on me. How did he even know I was here?
But his timing was terrible. Here I was with the contract in my hand, Franco waiting impatiently in his suite, right on the verge of the independence I’ve been craving ever since I’d let that pig Franco touch me for the first time.
How could Witold, stupid boy, interject himself now of all times? Why the devil was he here?
I too decided to pretend. I studied the contract, now a blur of words. Do you have any idea what I’ve gone through to get this contract? Those slimy hands of Franco, hours and hours, week after week in Franco’s company? Listening to him moan on and on about his wife, listening to his pathetic, raspy mewling for my attentions. I can’t even fathom the sacrifices I’ve gone through right now and my god, just as I’m finally nearing my goal of all of this, Witold is here. Witold is here somehow having found me.
Don’t get me wrong, I like him. I’ve grown quite attached to him and his letter writing. It’s wonderful to come home to those letters, I mean it. And he’s quite talented with his words. Sometimes, standing there in my flat reading his words I feel like melting. I feel like I could just be carried away
by his words, carried away out of all this bullshit, away from Franco, away from the road and all it’s filth and slime. All those dead, boring hours, all those moments trying to fend Franco off yet again.
I try to put Witold out of my mind. I’ve tried to do this over and over again and at first I was pretty successfully. He’s an interesting boy in some ways
yet predictable and boorish in others. I’ve got a bit of a drinking problem
of my own but Witold and his sidekick there, Albert, my god, I haven’t ever seen anything like it. They’re like animals when they’re around beer.
Original, chatty, witty all at first. And then as the beers get poured in they
digress, deeper and deeper in banalities, absurdisms, strange connections
and word play I can’t follow at all. I mean not only are they speaking English
but they’re speaking American English. It’s far too fast, far too much slang is
thrown around and sometimes, when I was in Utrecht with them, I thought I
was going to lose my mind. Really.
But whenever I manage to put Witold out of my mind, who pops in his place
but Franco. I’m really growing to hate him. And Witold is only a reminder
of how miserable I truly am.
Nearly a year now Franco has been stringing me along with these promises
about a recording deal, a touring contract, some real stability. Sure, sure,
he’s gotten me gigs, too many almost. I’ve been all over the place for months
with hardly a break. And every time I complain about the pace, suggest I
would like some time alone, away from touring, it is Franco who reminds
me with his little smirk that it is I who wanted this to begin with.
And it’s true enough. This is what I thought I wanted although I had
expected perhaps a little more glamour, less of a vagabond’s life, it was what
I’d craved, what I’d asked him for when he first crossed into my life.
But I can see right through him. I can tell he isn’t getting me these gigs
for my benefit or because he thinks I’m talented. He’s just getting them to
to make sure he has an excuse to be with me.
Oh sure, he comes on these tours with me. Nearly all of them. To his wife
he makes out like he’s some big shot record producer following a hot talent
but does he tell her that he’s sleeping with me? Of course not. Does she even know I’m a woman for that matter? Probably not. He’s probably got that poor
woman believing I’m some young male heart throb crooner he has to protect
from insidious groupies or something. Surely he hasn’t hinted that he chases me around like he’s in heat, staying on the road to have his excuse to be
with me, monitor me, make sure I don’t have a chance to meet anyone else.
Of course, I’d not want him to tell her anyway. If he did, then he’d be my headache, not hers. I mean he’s my headache enough already, suffocating me with his needs, his delicate almost feminine hands always touching me,
pawing at me while he coos promises of the moon in my ear.
And yet a year later, those promises are still unfulfilled.
I’ve done my bit. I’ve gone on these tours, I’ve sung in these horribly
indifferent nightclubs, places that are sometimes little more than strip clubs
with a brothel up the stairs. There have been some horrible places.
And worse still, I’ve had to play the role of his lover. How much more sacrifices do I have to make to get results?
Then he lets me know one night in Milano just how much sacrifice he
expects of me. He wants to leave his wife and kids behind he tells me.
As if I don’t feel bad enough already for being the mistress. Rotten to the
core for what I’m doing to his wife, whether she knows it or not. Sure, it
could be anyone, I try to convince myself to relieve my guilt. It’s not like
Franco would only cheat on his wife for me. For all I know he’s cheated on
his wife AND me. That’s the kind of man he is. But still, I’ve fought a lot
of guilt all these months, ever since I found out. Do you know Franco
wasn’t wearing a wedding band when I met him? He only puts it on when
he’s in Italy. Once he’s out, off it goes. Now he wants me to be the home
wrecker. No, I told him. Completely not. He wants to marry. Oh how he purrs, that little bastard, when he wants something, caressing my arm in the
club so the other musicians would see what a big man he was, whispering in
my ear meaningless words, love, love, love.
But I told him no. I didn’t waver at all. I mean, the mere thought of
spending a lifetime with this flagoneur, watching him grow a middle aged
belly and growing bald and become more disgusting and repetitive and
needy as the years went on. Can you imagine?
No. So that’s when I decided I needed a contract. I’d had enough. We were getting ready to start a tour of Central Europe. Prague, Krakow, Warsaw, Budapest and uncountable cities in between. A reasonably steady tour.
Every venue worse than the last.
And naturally when I thought of Prague I thought of all those letters Witold had been writing me from there. I thought about how I’d become terrified in Utrecht, that innocent visit, turning into a terrible, oppressive mire of
alcohol and pointless, meandering music. That’s why I left him with a letter
in Utrecht. Really, I figured that was it. I thought I would never hear from
him again. But I was ready to take that chance. That’s how desperate I’d
become.
One fool, this Franco character, buzzing in my ear all the time was enough.
Yes, there was some unknown quality in Witold that drew me to him. A
certain I don’t know, innocence, I suppose. He’d never been with another
girl before, can you imagine? I mean, he’d never had a girlfriend before.
So he said anyway. I don’t think I ever really believed that. I mean look
how he followed me that first evening in Paris. Stalked me. And he didn’t
even know me.
First I thought, yes, this is the action of a man who is used to chasing
women. Not a shy man incapable of even the simplest conversations to
start talking to a woman. Not a man who had never had a girlfriend before.
But then I thought well, maybe. The more he talked that night the more I
began to believe him a little. And then, in time, those days afterwards as
we both seemed to attach ourselves to each other, I became quite certain
he was telling the truth. He didn’t seem aware of the little psychological
games couples play, that people play with each other when they’re trying to
get something out of the other. He seemed almost naïve. It was charming.
So that’s why I let him stay with me in Paris. Yes, I suppose I was a little
lonely as well. Franco had difficulties at home to sort out so told me to
wait for him in Paris for three weeks while he went on a little holiday to
smooth things over. But I’d been lonely well before that. All the touring
with Franco meant his was the only company I kept. And as I said, his
company isn’t that great. I never have any meaningful conversations with
him. He doesn’t listen to anything I say. I’m a woman, why would he listen
to me? He’s too caught up in his self-important pseudo macho world to
bother listening to me. I’m just a pretty face he likes to be seen with, likes
to play with because he‘s bored with his wife or his ego needs another
boost.. Someone he might make a little money off of, promoting me. Something to distract from his miserable home life, an excuse to travel.
You name it but sincerity is not one of Franco’s strong suits. He used to be
a lawyer. Well, he still is. But apparently, he made enough money early on
to allow him to squander his time now going on the road with me. I can’t
believe his wife even lets it happen. If it were me and I were married to this
buffoon and he was gone several months out of the year to shepherd a bright
young jazz talent with a beautiful voice (don’t worry, those are his words,
not mine…) I wouldn’t believe him. Not knowing his character. For him
this is some little hobby he’s used to explore an affair, to get away from
home. Ok, yes, he says he’s an entertainment lawyer, has represented some
“big names” in Italy but there’s no real evidence of this. For a lawyer he’s
been awfully short of evidence. About everything.
Anyway, yes, I was feeling lonely when touring and even when I was home I felt alone. Usually I don’t mind being alone, I rather prefer it. But in those few weeks or perhaps even months before Witold started stalking me that night I guess I was secretly longing for precisely the sort of encounter Witold presented to me.
So it was no problem to let him stay with me, to share Paris with him, to try and keep him entertained. I tried not to lead him on too much. I didn’t sleep with him. I barely kissed him. I did like him though. It was just a little fun. Plus I knew I’d be leaving to go back and on tour and I thought, why not? Why not have a little fun, entertain this lost boy, allow myself a little fun
while I waited to go back on tour?
His dedication afterwards, all those letters waiting for me when I’d returned home during a break in the tour, my god, it was overwhelming. I couldn’t put those letters down once I started reading them. And in a funny way, reading them all, I felt even closer to him than I did when we’d been together.
That’s why I’d decided to go to Utrecht. I’d only planned on a short visit, just to try and see more, find out if the person behind all those letters, if his words, were real.
Then it started getting out of hand. I started feeling like it was almost expected that I would stay and that I sing with them. I didn’t mind singing with them, mind. They weren’t very good musically but they were weird. They played in a strange manner I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It was, as they tried to explain it, experimentational. And they weren’t vain about it at all. They were easy to work with, compliant. They did anything I asked. But I suppose I should have been more straightforward about my intentions. I should have been but time slipped away and before I knew it I was scheduling a gig for them. I had no business doing that. I had to go back on tour. Sure, I could have done it the once but the more I thought about it the more I realised I was only leading them on. Yeah, it was too late but there was still time to cut it off.
And yes, writing a letter and leaving was a pretty cowardly way of going about it, I admit. I expected that was the last I’d ever hear from Witold. But then when I came back to Paris off the tour, there were the letters again. Not as though nothing had happened at all, there was of course a resentment I could read through his words but he didn’t pressurise me and after several letters he stopped referring to it at all and just kept writing about life in Prague. And again, those letters endeared me to him, made him real. Allowed me to feel as though I could trust him.
Anyway, when I thought of Prague and I thought of Witold I decided this was where I was going to make a big melodramatic scene with Franco. I’d break it off right there in Prague and tell him I wasn’t going to another city with him. I wouldn’t sing another song, I wouldn’t let him ever ever touch me again if he
didn’t get a contract for me. A real contract with a real touring schedule. In
Good places, not horrible, seedy nightclubs. I’m good enough, after all. I’ve
gotten my foot in the door thanks to Franco but if I stayed with him, that was
going to be as far as I got. A foot. He was never truly interested in furthering
my career. He was interested in furthering himself. Making me his.
But that got his attention alright. Two shows missed in Krakow and one in Warsaw. Then he was listening to my every word. I can get you a contract he said, that’s certain. I can always draw up a contract. But if you cancel this tour, if you stop now right when we’re in the middle of making it, he promised, that would be it. My name would be ruined. Diva. Temperamental. Too hard to work with.
So, I gave him another month. I continued the tour and he made noises about the contract. And here we were in Bratislava now. He’d finally produced the contract. Only, get this, he said he’d worked incredibly hard to get this contract for me and if I didn’t sign it that day, he couldn’t guarantee it would still be available. Nice little trick, wasn’t it?
So there I was sitting at this café, reading through the contract and I just happen to glance up and there he is, pretending he didn’t see me. Witold. Silly boy. And all those words, all those letters, all that naïve love spilling out of him like a faucet.
Such incredibly bad timing. Why couldn’t he have just waited? No, I can’t say for sure that once this contract was signed and I could tell Franco to get lost, that I’d want him replaced by Witold. I liked Witold, yes. I was quite
fond of him as I said. Those letters were like long distance caresses. Not demanding, just steady, reassuring. And his idea of me, this romanticised notion of me, god, that was going to be too much. I would never live up to it and I knew, I just knew it, I could see it clearly, there’d be some point where reality met dream and disillusion would set in and there’d be this little wrecked man, pointing and accusing me. I know, it’s happened to me too many times before.
I couldn’t help but smile when I saw him there out of the corner of my eye.
Maybe my heart did a little dance thinking he was here, trying to rescue me,
poor boy, when he’s the one who needed to be rescued. And there he was,
pretending he hadn’t seen me, trying to decide what to do next….
And all the while, I had no idea myself, what to do next.
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