Un Jour Dans La Vie

Part II

“Where did the time go,” I asked myself as Henry, Francis and I driving down side streets to avoid the traffic of the hour. It was a somber ride just as it was on the way out – if not even more so. No one wanted the tension that was surrounding us at the time but we were at a loss for words and sometimes it’s better to suffer through silence than say anything that we’d regret. There was always resentment on the end Francis, and myself to a lesser extent, but we had a sort of respect for each other at this time. We both knew we were volatile and we kept to ourselves to keep the other from exploding. Despite the resentment there was a love. No matter how deep you had to search for it. I saw the metropolis take a more suburban route and that told me that we weren’t far from Francis’ place. It was almost over.

I step out of the automobile shortly after Francis went inside to get a drink of water. Henry escorted him inside and there I was, isolated with my thoughts. What a potentially lethal combination. I stretched my legs while climbing the steps of the old porch taking deep inhales with every stretch. Afterward I walked inside headed straight for the guest room where my things were. I looked out the 2nd floor window of my room and stared across the pool watching as the lights shimmered across it like glitter. I saw Serena outside watering the garden she had in the backyard of her house – right next to where she was standing when we met again. She saw me and hung her head in what I assumed was shame and walked back inside the house. Before heading inside she looked back at me and gave me a half smile; something like that of the Mona Lisa. A smile that forever remained in the haze of the unknown – I never found the reason behind that smile and I never would.

I grabbed my bag and toss on a hat. No need to groom myself for a long trip on the open seas by myself with only the sea life among me. “Henry, I’m ready whenever you are,” I shouted from the end of the staircase. Down the hall I saw Francis sitting in the chair he was so fond of smoking a cigar and looking over blood red drapes he wanted to have hung in the room with Henry at his side. Henry acknowledged me but Francis failed to do so. After a few minutes of impatient waiting Henry grabbed his hat and walked my way.

“You ready,” he asked.

I looked back at Francis and looked back at henry. I slipped a cigarette in my mouth and in a half muffled voice “you betcha. Let’s go,” I said.

It wasn’t a long drive over to the trains but Henry fancied taking the side streets to prolong my wait and the time he would have with me. It irked me but I understood why he did it. Henry cared and he didn’t know when he’d see me again – if he’d see me again. I was treated to tragic sights in the streets, people eating out of dumpsters and wrapping each other together in a thin blanket to protect themselves from the cold. “Stop,” I shouted at Henry. He slammed on the brakes and the automobile came to a screeching halt. I jumped out of the car and ran to my suitcase about as fast as anyone could. In retrospect I wonder if our arrival was more terrifying to them than anything else. Two unknown people to these poor souls coming to a sudden halt and with me rushing to the back of the automobile. I digress. I got into my bag and gotten a few blankets and passed them around to the people in the alley that we were by. I regretted not having enough blankets for everyone but I did what I could. I got back into the autocar and asked Henry to go.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Henry told me, “but I’m glad you did. It would’ve made your father proud. I was wondering, why don’t you move back to New York? I know you have some recent issues here but that doesn’t mean that it’s not a nice place. It’d also be nice to have you back.” I looked at Henry with a dumbfounded look across my face.

“It’s not that I want to say goodbye to New York and everything in my past. It’s a chapter of my life that I don’t want to put behind me, but one that I must if I am to feel joy again,” I told him as I lit a cigarette and tossed the match out the window of the automobile.

“Sir,” henry said, “I just want to say that it’s been a wonderful experience having you back and I wish you’d stay more, I don’t want to be a pest and thus I won’t pry into your affairs, but that incident with Serena, back at the church, do you think you’ll be alright?”

I heard him talk but the words didn’t register. I was too busy staring out the window in a trance; I couldn’t break the focuses on the blur of the buildings zipping past them on 52nd and the lonely people in the streets.

“These lonely souls, where do they come from?” I used to ask myself. Not anymore. I am one of them now. There is nothing aside from how they got to where we are and simple cosmetic appearances that separate them from myself. They are now souls on a sinking ship in a sea of misery and disillusions, with their captain dead at the helm. “There is a time of sorrow, a time of remorse and a time to collect your thoughts, a time to wallow in your own depression and a time to do something.” I had that philosophy once. That however presented a problem at this time. Sure, the philosophy is sound – for those who have yet to go past the point of action. I, among the rest of the slipping have passed that mark. Now, as far as I could see, we were doomed.

“Sir, Are you alright?” asked Henry.

“What? Oh. Yes, I’m fine Henry; I was just… fantasizing on the past,” I told him.
With a look of remorse he informs me that we have reached the train station and that he wants to bid me farewell. I opened the door and step outside the car, stretching his legs which for some reason always cramp when sitting for too long.

“I know you’re looking to a long trip back home but I just want to tell you that you are not just my friend, you’re my family, master Branden, and I can’t help but feel that I am losing you, not just physically in the here and now, but somewhere else. That somewhere, however, is a little elusive.”

I took one last drag from my cigarette and put it out in the ashtray above the trash can we were standing by.

“Yeah, the trip… it’s going to be a long one” I announced in a hasty tone.
I looked up from the ashes of the cigarette, or my life depending on how you want to look at it, and observe henry with a crushed look on his face.

“He was expecting me to share the same feelings, which I do, mind you, but how am I to show them now?” I thought.

After a few moments I extended my arms and gave him a hug.

“Henry, I can only say the same about you. You’re a wonderful friend and I’m glad to call you my family, but do not worry about me, tend to Francis, as much as we butt heads I still love and respect him. He needs you more so than I ever could, now go. He’s probably waiting for you for a return home.” I said to him.

Henry’s eyes water and he was quick to dry them, sniffling he chuckles and says “I doubt that sir, he’s probably home listening to the radio or having a drink with some friends but I know I must let you go, thank you, Branden.”

Walking up the stairs to catch my train I saw that religious bible preacher I spoke to a couple days ago standing there and calling out the sins of American life. I stood there, apathetic look on his face, and stared at him to see if he remembers, or even acknowledges me. After a few moments of his relentlessly nonsensical ramblings of a madman he made eye contact and he made his way over to me.

“You… you again. You’re not looking to well. What’s bothering you, sir?” he asked me, cynically.

“What ails me is of little concern to you, but if I must indulge your desire to know, I am heading back to France today after my father’s funeral. Is that what you wanted to hear?” I asked.

“Well, sir, I am very sorry to hear about your father’s passing” –

“Thank you” I said to him after cutting him off in the middle of his sentence.

“But, like I was saying,” he said with a tone much more hasty than his prior, “this would’ve never happened, nothing bad would happen, if you just have the power of religious belief. All your miseries would be short-lived or non-existent” he told me.

I grabbed him by his tie and shove him against the station’s pillar. “Look here you little weasel, he was in poor health and no matter how many prayers were recited for him, he was doomed to this fate, if not at that time, then sometime soon, he couldn’t keep going. And don’t even try and pin the blame on me for lack of religion! I already am being riddled with the guilt of not being there for him; instead I left for Paris and made a life for myself, one I couldn’t find here in this city of death and despair. Now, if you don’t mind I have a train to catch, and I hope I never come back here, or at the very least see your face in my sight again. Now get lost you disease ridden piece of filth.” I said to him. Afterwards I shoved him aside and walked to my train.

I bought a newspaper to read on the ride and stepped upon the train after a while of waiting and have a seat. After I had gotten situated I lit a cigarette. My hands were shaking from the altercation earlier. That was the most violent I’ve gotten in years and the guilt of my father’s death didn’t help it either. The feeling of needing to puke came to me shortly after my second inhale, but I got over that feeling rather quickly. The train was rather empty, again, which is surprising seeing as how it’s midday in Manhattan. It’s never empty at this time. Maybe this was a testament to my life and the emptiness that seemed to fill it. I see a cart strolling down the middle of the aisle out of the corner of my eye. I look slightly past the papers to see if it was who I suspected and it was – the stewardess from the ride out here. She looked just the same as she did the last time if not for a little more makeup than she had on the last time. Which was disappointing, I always enjoyed a small bit of makeup. Bring out the natural beauty; enhance it, without fabricating it. Of course I didn’t mention this to her. Before I was able to try and get her attention a passenger a few seats behind me on the right side of the train car hollered for her and like a good attendant was quick to address the patron. For a few seconds I stood there with my arm in the air until it occurred to me that she had gotten called by someone else and I pulled my arm back to the mahogany armrest with gold pivots in the seats.

After she had returned to get the patron what he asked for she saw me and gave me a flirty wink. I smiled at her, slipped over the window seat for her to take the aisle for a seat when she came back through and went back to reading my newspaper. “I’m surprised to see you again,” she exclaimed.
“Oh? And why is that darling?” I inquired.

“I don’t know. It’s just a surprise, but a pleasant one to be certain. Are you going back home? How was your trip here,” she blasted me with questions.

“Yes, I’m going back home. I’m on my way to the dockyard right now where I have a boat that I traveled out here on. How are you, my dear?” I asked while intentionally avoiding the other questions. She never caught on to the fact that I avoided them. She answered me and we went on for about an hour of small talk – no matter how much I despite it I felt I owed her it after the last trip and my coldness. Odd how I am warmer to her when I am cold than I was before everything when went to hell. “I wish I skipped on Serena and just had sex with this pretty little number,” I found myself thinking to myself.

After suffering through the monotonous drudging of small talk we finally make it to the boatyard. “It’s been a pleasure sweetheart but I must go.” I told her followed by a kiss on the lips. She was blushing. I grabbed my bags and stepped off the train and walked down to the docks. I hated the ocean and I loved it. I hated the smell of fish littering the docks and I was quick to take every precaution to keep the smell out, but it rarely helped. I hated the rough tides and just about everything else everyone hates about the ocean. Despite its follies there was a stark beauty to it – the expansive open seas made for great travel, if you are okay with being alone for long periods of time. Luckily for me that was somewhat of a forte for me. I found my boat – The Blue Siren – and loosened the ropes from the port. I climbed aboard and load my luggage on board. I looked upon the setting sun on the skyline of New York and become increasingly energized and excited about the idea of leaving and never coming back. I got at least a little bit of happiness out of this horrible day. I pulled the ropes on board and sailed out of the harbor. And like that I was leaving my past behind to return to a much more prosperous life ahead of me back home in Paris.

The ocean air was intoxicating. The salty water was just as appetizing. For a while, the first two days or so the time was flying by as I would fish on the side of the boat or read a book while tanning on the deck of my small sailboat. I felt on top of the world – away from the stresses of the world. The sea was calm and the rocking of the ship was soothing. It was like I was a child and the ocean was a rocking chair. The warm sunlight bathed my skin in the most delectable rays. A warm day in the Atlantic ocean in the middle of winter? How absurd, some would say but that was most certainly the case. These couple of days reminded me of when I was young and when I was king.
Those feelings weren’t about the last long.

“I could’ve done something more… but I didn’t. What the hell is wrong with me?” I kept thinking to myself. My eyes were watering and my heart felt heavy, riddled with guilt. My lungs, they felt deprived of oxygen and I found myself struggling to breathe. After a few moments I was able to gather my composure and I was back to feeling better, health wise at least. I retreated back to my cabin later that night to get some much needed rest.

For the next 3 days is was a constant back and forth struggle of joy and depression. It wasn’t until that I had seen a bunch of marine life on the side of my boat that snapped me out of what was a current bout of depression. I sat on a chair and rested my shoulders on the side of the boat’s railing. It was a parade of the majestic. It was all a ballet with the dolphins being the dancers the ocean being the theatre. I reached over the railing, possibly going against my better instincts, and ran my hands across the skin of the dolphins. The skin was slimy and smooth, a peculiar feeling to be sure. They were so cute in the majestic, free flowing dance with me across the Atlantic. I recalled a story of my mother, when we were on the ocean in a boat like mine, and she rubbed the belly of one of them and she was terrified. Never since did she forget it – possibly due to my interventions of making sure she never did. A quirky smile came and a short chuckle as I watched the dolphins do their thing in the water. After about fifteen minutes or so they start to swim south and I decide that it’s time for me to go make myself a drink and then possibly a nap.

I made myself a white Russian and sat down on the deck on a stretched out wooden chair, time to drift off into a sleep. I knew I wasn’t far from the mainland but I also knew that I had enough time to get one or two good naps in before I was home. I relaxed and stared at the clouds above I with the sun shining through them, noticing a small storm front out to the north but I wasn’t concerned. Shortly after my drinks I dozed off into a sleep.

“Branden, get me the tree trimmers would you?” he asked me.

“Right away,” I said as I rushed in to get the tree trimmers and handed them to my father. He was standing on the ladder reaching high into the tree to cut some excess branches that was hanging low that if left uncut would make the walkway cluttered. Oh how my father hated clutter. He seemed like a demi-god reaching up to the stars – that’s how I saw it. I always had such admiration for him regardless if I always expressed it or not.

“After we get done here how about we go to the fair down at Coney Island and then we’ll go for a swim in the beach?” He offered.

“Yes, dad can we please? And can we bring Serena along with us?” I begged.

“You two are inseparable. I know the two of you will spend the rest of your lives together,” He said with a short chuckle and a huge smile.

“Together forever,” I asked, “Dad, that’s gross. Don’t say that!”
He laughed and told me to go get ready we were leaving in 15 minutes. When we arrived the place was full of people and the smell of corn dogs and other concession stand foods. I saw a Ferris wheel and was so excited to go for a ride. When I first saw it with the smoke stacks looming ominously in the distance spewing smoke and the occasional burst of fire it looked as if the Ferris wheel was on fire. We boarded the Ferris wheel and we went all the way up. We saw the whole place from the sky and felt like giants. The Ferris wheel started to rock back and forth, shaking violently. I told my dad to stop it but it wasn’t him doing it. The cart snapped off the hinges and we went crashing toward the ground.

That’s when I was woken up the violent shaking of the boat. I rushed to the wheel and got her to stabilize. France was just beyond the horizon. If I could power through the storm then I knew I’d be okay and make it in one piece. It was a rough 40 minutes of sea waves crashing around me and a couple close calls but a tow boat came and attached themselves to me for the extra support. We made it to the docks and there I was, back home in lovely Paris.

After a few minutes of collecting my possessions I step off of my boat and greeted with a beautiful, sprawling and bright city. Vibrant and full of life, sun shining through the gaps of the buildings and people; strolling casually down the streets. A far cry of the hustle of New York, more specifically Manhattan, yes, this is a place of beauty and majesty. A place I knew and loved; a place where I belonged. I walked to the closest phone booth and gave my friend Jean-Pierre a call to let him know that I had come back and that I needed a ride home. After a short conversation on the telephone I had took a small walk around the cobblestone sidewalk and admired the simplistic architecture and antiquity of Paris storefronts. After looking in the windows I noticed the lights that the sun was shining down to disappear, replaced with a gloomy overtone and a light trickle of sprinkles. That storm I was in had made its way inland with me. So doing the logical thing I headed for the door to a tailor shop when I heard a voice shout my last name -“Renoir!”

I looked behind me to see Jean in his motorcar waving his hand, motioning me to get in.
“Come now, Renoir we haven’t all day! Get out of the Rain!” Pierre shouted. I wasn’t looking forward to standing in the light trickle of rain so I rushed over with my luggage and threw them in the rumble seat and hoped into the car.

“Branden Renoir! It’s good to see you again my friend!” Jean-Pierre said to me.

“Oh it’s grand to see you again, old friend! How goes the paintings?” I inquired.

“They are selling rather well… when I can find buyers who appreciate Post-Impressionism over Classical Impressionism, such as your style.” Jean told me.

After a heated discussion about the attributes that distinguish post from classical impressionism and which was the better movement, Jean and I arrived at my home. Jean-Pierre told me that he was to have dinner at this little café with a fellow impressionist painter and would love if I would join them. After reflecting on the last dinner fiasco I was a part of and taking into account that I hadn’t any romantic ties to these people; thus eliminating the fear of a repeat incident I politefully agreed. We had set a 5:00 pm time, 3 hours from now.

“Well Branden, it was great to see you again and I am overjoyed to have you along with us for the dinner. And thank you for that intelligent art debate; even if you were wrong,” Pierre chuckled, “see you tonight. Au Revoir.”

I opened my door, set my bags down and closed the door petting my orange cat who was sitting on the banister. I sat on the bed and stares at myself in the mirror. I got up shortly after checking myself over and get undressed. After I changed into his business wear I walked over to a box of mine full of old memories and happier times. I found an old photograph of my family: my father and my mother before she abandoned us. I also found a photograph of Serena and I while we were playing in the woods behind our house. I stared at these photographs with hands shaking while I started to break down and cry.

“I go to New York to say goodbye to someone. Someone who took the biggest part of my life with them when they passed, never did I expect to lose the other part when Serena left me as well, how am I to go on when everything I love is fleeting at an exponential rate?” I thought to myself.

After about twenty-five minutes of reminiscing I got up and walked to the shower to clean myself up.
I noticed that I still had an hour and a half until was to meet up with Jean so I went into my backyard and went up to my easel and painted some scenery; a favorite thing to paint for me, always preferred it to painting people - so much ever changing beauty.
I spent some time outside enjoying the nice crisp Paris air; and once again I couldn’t help but think on the contrasts of New York to Paris. “The air in New York always left such a scum riddled feeling on your skin, out here, the air is pure. The landscape is nicer and it’s just better than anything you could find out in America.” I thought to myself.
I looked at my pocket watch and noticed that it is almost time to be meeting up so I ran outside, throws on my red tie and black coat. I got in my motorcar and drove to the café ‘Les Deux Magots.’ There I saw Jean Pierre waiting for me and the other painter. I walked up to him and shook his hand. Pierre asked me to have a seat and I obliged.

“It just occurred to me that, outside of me, obviously, you haven’t much communication with other artists outside of the classical impressionist movement. This artist is a revolutionary, or so I think, of a new movement; one of which he hasn’t named. His name is Charles Hemmingway. He served time in the war in France, pre-world war one. He served with Bazille before he was gunned down on the battlefield. He’s a strange fellow, a heart of gold, but so very unorthodox. It shows in his art but he just I something I can’t explain. He is however highly pretentious, so don’t showcase your work to him, for he will probably detest in in honor of his own works and how they will surpass yours.” Pierre told me.

“I will have to keep that in mind then,” I said, “Waiter, A glass of absinthe please?”

After a few minutes of conversing about off-topics and such, someone walk inside the café sporting a pure white suit top hat and gold cane.

“Ah, Hemmingway,” Pierre announced.

“Pierre! It’s been a while! How goes the art dealings? I know you’re stuck in the post-impressionist movement, one I don’t see much progress being made; at least not any in a monetary sense.” Hemmingway inquired.

“Oh Hemmingway, tell me, what good is ones art if it’s only made to please others; not the artist and made to make money and the value of art is relevant to the amount of zeros they earn in the total amount? Tell me, what has art become if that’s all it is!” Pierre shouted in a very heated tone.

“It has become something more than what it once was. In the best of ways, of course. What’s so wrong about the artist making a profit off of their works?” Hemmingway asked.

All this time while Pierre and Hemmingway were bickering over the state of art as a whole, I was sitting back at the table drinking my absinthe and smoking a cigarette that I had lighted while they were arguing. After a few minutes of nonstop going at it Pierre looks at me and notices that I am there.

My God! How could I be so rude!? Charles, this is my colleague, fellow impressionist painter, and most of all, my good friend Branden Renoir.” Pierre told Hemmingway. I extended my hand and he does the same. We shook hands and greeted each other. We then quickly sat down and conversed about small things for about fifteen seconds before the waiter arrives to take our orders. Hemmingway ordered lobster and a glass of red wine, Pierre ordered a glass of white wine and I ordered stroganoff and red wine.
“Oh, the joys of being able to order liqueurs openly, I forgotten it in that very short time away; America has a prohibition going on which prohibits the purchase and distribution of alcohol.” I said and we all laughed about it - stupid America and their dumb laws.
“So Pierre tells me you’re an artist; an impressionist.” asked Hemmingway.

“Yes, I am a classical impressionist. I studied under the guidance of Claude Monet in Giverny, France before coming to Paris.” I told Hemmingway.

The waiter brought us our food and we ate our dinner. We all discussed each other’s past and I told Pierre about how the funeral went and the altercations between Serena and I. Hemmingway stayed out of the conversation, albeit unwillingly due to Pierre and I unintentionally cutting him off at any chance to bring him into the conversation. After talking about all that, Hemmingway, getting annoyed by the fact that Pierre and I spent so much time talking to each other and not him, he decided to inquire about my artwork.
“So… I have an exhibit coming up next week, I can bring in one new artist since I lost one of the showcasing artists, and I am looking for someone to replace him. I haven’t seen your work obviously but I would love to indulge in the delicacies of your work and if it meets up to my expectations, or demands, then I shall give you a spot in the showcase and we can make you some extra cash… or are you with Pierre on that “I despise money!” mentality?” Hemmingway asked.

“Hey Hemmingway, I never said I was against making money! I was against the notion that art is all about money. There is a difference, no matter how small of one,” Pierre chimed in before I could answer.
“Hemmingway,” I said “yes, I will accept your offer. How about we set up a meeting tomorrow afternoon?”