The Paris Syndrome by John Roman Baker

Author:John Roman Baker [Baker, John Roman]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781899713301
Publisher: Wilkinson House Ltd
Published: 2012-10-25T04:00:00+00:00

Part Three

The Return

The Eurostar arrived on time at St Pancras. I felt totally exhausted, and when I changed trains it was in a sort of stupor. It was very late when I opened the door of the house, and as soon as I entered I realised that now it was going to be unendurable to be alone. Dreading sleep and possible nightmares, I took the bedding off my bed and laid it on the living room floor. Without taking off my clothes I threw myself down on it and fell asleep almost at once. Mercifully there were no dreams, good or bad, and I awoke to the sound of letters falling on the mat in the hallway. When I went to get them there was nothing personal there, only a handful of bills, but who was left who would want to contact me? I could only think, this was how it was going to be for the rest of my life. When they were in the house I wanted to be alone, and now . they were out of the house I could not bear the thought. Those who wish for solitude when others are around find, when they get their wish, that it is hell. And the house was so quiet. It added stillness upon imposed stillness with a heavy, dull weight. To do something, anything, I cleaned the place, room after room. I did not notice objects, but just cleaned them. I had to make myself active, physically active. Above all I could not face sitting in my study and contemplating any work. My study was the one room I could not go into, that I could not clear out. Once in there, I told myself, it will be a prison.

After the housework I went for a long walk. I looked at other houses, going up to windows and peering into them. After the pounding rhythms of Paris the place seemed so remote and lifeless. Even the rooms I looked into had no one in them to stare back, to shout at me to go away. It was as if everyone had died. Even the park in the late afternoon, the park where I had tried to keep Francis from leaving, was quiet. I stood by the lake and there were no small ships, either sailing out into the water or making their way back. There were no children at all in the park, only a few people walking quickly through, as if showing by their purposeful step that this was the last place they wanted to be. The park was a shortcut for them, not a destination. I looked up at the sky and saw how grey it was, how there was no hope of an evening sun. Even the air was cold, but I was so wrapped up in my solitude I failed to feel it. I began to feel disorientated, so I lowered my head and zigzagged my way back to the house. I was in no way drunk, but my legs would not allow me to walk in a straight line.

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