Finding Rene

"So I tried to read it, it was really tough going, but at one point, in Dublin, one of the characters ducked into a pub and had a gorgonzola sandwich and a glass of burgundy for lunch and I thought, oh man! That sounds tasty."

Her eyes were wide.

"Except it's Danish Blue and a Bordeaux, which I think still qualifies as burgundy. Oh, and there's arugula in it, too. That wasn't in James Joyce."

I handed her half the sandwich. "Nice bread," she said, biting into the sandwich, "mmm"

I cracked off the screw-cap. "I have to hand it to the French and the Belgians; they sure do know how to eat." I handed the open half-bottle to her. She took a swig. Her face lit up as she ate.

"And the Irish! James Joyce was a genius," she said after swallowing.

I bit into my half, too, then swigged from the little bottle. I concurred completely.

It was a wonderful lunch. I recognized that I loved the Irish, especially if they really did save civilization.

I had her finish the little bottle of Bordeaux. I had to drive.

Eventually we got to the other stop in that kooky subway. England.

What was different and what I was dreading was driving on UK roads in a lefthand drive vehicle. Immediately upon exiting the train I was faced with precisely that challenge. Another frikkin' Rene situation.

Laura guided me as we followed the M20 motorway. That was okay because it was a multi-lane highway. I just happened to be driving in the oncoming lanes along with everyone else.

"Have you not driven on British roads then?"

"I have once," I answered, "in St. Kitts in the Caribbean. It freaked me out, but at least I was in a car with the steering wheel on the wrong side."

"You mean the right side."

I rolled my eyes at her.

"Would you like me to drive?"

"No, I'll be okay as long as you tell me where to go. Besides, you're not registered as a driver. You know how they are."

The M20 turned into the A20 and that was it for highway driving.

"Right," she said pointing straight ahead, "go straight through the roundabout."

"What the hell?" I was starting to panic, "I've got to go around the roundabout." All of a sudden I was merging left and joining cars that were driving clockwise. "Did you want me to go right or straight or what?"

She started laughing.

"What the fuck?" I was just about to complete one lap. "Which way do you want me to go?"

"That way," she said pointing while laughing.

Too late. It took me another lap, but I made it. I didn't find it funny at all. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

"And how exactly do you plan on driving to Heathrow tomorrow? You'll have to drive right across London. It's a big city with lots of roundabouts." Another roundabout was coming up. "Keep going straight," she added.

"I've been thinking about that. It doesn't seem such a good idea anymore." I took the second exit. I went 'through the roundabout.'

"Who did you rent the motor from?"

I looked at her.

"The car, who did you rent it from?"

As I told her she said, "Right, go down the High Street."

"What? Speak English you crazy woman." I turned right.

"I am speaking English you colonial. Why did you just turn right?"

"You told me to!"

"You're on the wrong side of the road!"

"Ahhhh!" A truck slammed his brakes on straight in front of me. He was leaning on the horn as he and I both came to a screeching full stop with about three feet between our front bumpers.

I quickly pulled off to the right and stopped the car. It was facing the wrong way.

The turbaned truck driver was flashing me the back of his hand and two fingers in a V signal. He wasn't happy.

We were both red and hyperventilating.

"Okay, let's calm down," she said taking a deep breath, "it would probably be a better solution to find the local rental outlet, return the car now and you take either a cab or London Rail to Heathrow tomorrow. I'm sorry, I can't go with you."

"Sounds like a plan." I took a deep breath.

She was Googling on her cell phone. "Hang on a minute," she smiled at me, "right, we're going to Greenwich. It will be a short cab back. Do you want me to drive?"

"No, I'll be fine, but please, clear concise directions. In Canadian."

"Fine, turn the car around and turn right." Then she added, "into the left lane."

After a few more minutes of white knuckle driving, Laura directed me where to park the car. It was returned successfully and the invoice was settled without too much difficulty.

"Taxi!" Laura shouted stepping from the curb as a black London cab approached.

Within a few minutes we entered Blackheath village, a neighborhood in south-east London. Within a few turns we pulled up in front of her house.

"We're home," she proclaimed with a smile on her face and a little apprehension. I could tell. Her chin twitched a bit. She paid the fare.

She had a nicely finished semi. Over a hundred years old for sure. Two floors up and a third halfway down. Much like a Manhattan brownstone. Very neat and tidy, with no room for parking.

"Yours? Very nice."

"All mine," she answered grinning, "I am a solicitor in the business."

The place wasn't huge and there were certainly a lot of stairs inside, but it was nicely finished and furnished. A modern kitchen, tan coloured leather furniture, big flat screen TV. All feminine, yet professional. Yeah, Laura did all right for herself.

I took our bags up to her bedroom. The bed was a big four poster. The sheets were a mess.

"Sorry," she said meekly.

I just shrugged.

Her face brightened as she asked, "Cup of tea?"

Laura the Brit. "Sure," I answered. We headed down to the kitchen.

"I'm sorry I got a little flustered on the drive over."

"That's all right," she said and gave me a peck on the cheek before plugging in the kettle.

The plan was set. We would take the underground into town. Walk to the Tate (or me hobble), do the whole museum thing, pub dinner and then back to Laura's.

We worked out that I would have to leave no later than six AM to catch my flight from Heathrow. She apologized again for not being able to accompany me in the morning. She called the cab company and arranged for my morning pick-up.

She paused for a second, not letting her fingers lift off of her cordless phone as she replaced it into its cradle. Sad grey eyes looked up into mine. It couldn't be avoided. Now there was a count-down clock. We had just less than sixteen hours left.

I set my cell phone for five thirty AM wake-up.

I simply followed as Laura held my hand and led me through the maze that is London's rail and underground system. We got on at Blackheath and got off at London Bridge.

The south side of the Thames was packed with tourists enjoying the fine day. Just like them, we strolled along. We both had a bit of a limp.

Even though admission to the Tate Modern was free, the art gallery wasn't that busy.

It was mind boggling, at least for me. Being a lover of modern art and having studied the works in books and on-line, to actually see the works by Giorgio de Chirico, Max Ernst and Joan Miro was breathtaking. The Picasso's alone, absolutely fantastic. Piet Modrian, Wassily Kandinsky, Joseph Beuys, Josef Albers, Jackson Pollock, my eyes watered. A whole room of Rothkos simply blew me and Laura away. In real life, those big stripes of his create a 3-D effect. There was just so much to feast the eyes, on and on it went, and so did we. We were mesmerized.

And of course, Rene Magritte. Two were on display, the rest in storage.

The Annunciation (L'Annonciation, 1930) was typical Magritte. Incongruous elements thrown together. The completed grouping was somber, yet somehow profound. It held its own majesty.

The second painting was one of my favorites: Man with Newspaper (L'Homme au Journal, 1928). It was a well known painting. Magritte presents four panels. The viewer is expecting something to happen in the other three but nothing happens, jarring the viewer a bit.

As much as we wished to, we couldn't stay in the gallery forever. A shame really, we thought, too much too quickly. One doesn't have the chance to really study the works. It's more of a quick tour.

With sore feet (and probably busted toe) we trundled out of the gallery and out into the crowds milling about Southwark. We passed Shakespeare's restored Globe Theater, now a tourist attraction.

Laura led us to a pub she knew. It was one of many almost indistinguishable places, all very comfy and welcoming. Laura ordered two pints of Smithwick's bitter as I returned from the ATM machine from across the street, armed with a fistful of Pounds Sterling. Dinner was on me. That was the deal.

A chubby little waitress with spiky black hair, tattoos, too much face metal and a strong accent took our orders. I ordered a steak and mushroom pie, it came with chips and a small salad. Laura ordered a chicken curry, also with chips and a small salad. Typical pub food. It was all we wanted.

"I swear," I said to Laura as we waited for the food, "in the frozen food section of one of the big grocery stores back home, I saw a box of frozen curry marked 'Traditional British Curry.'"

"Oh my, how was it?" she wondered, twisting her pint glass and the little cardboard mat that read Fullers London Pride on the wooden table top. All I got was a little square paper napkin.

"I don't know, I didn't buy any."

"So it may have been false advertising?"

"I hadn't thought of that, but you are quite correct. It may not have been 'traditional' at all."

"When you think about all the modern art painting and sculpture that we saw today," I said, "we didn't see any Andy Warhol. There were no Marilyn Monroes or Elvises or Campbell's soup cans."

Laura sipped her pint.

"I didn't see any impressionist painting either," I continued, "no Manet, Monet, Degas, Van Gogh, but they probably don't belong in a 'modern' collection."

"No, probably not," she answered.

Her grey eyes bore into mine. After a few moments she asked me what I thought about the two Magrittes.

I took a sip of my pint, pausing to contemplate my answer.

"When you consider The Annunciation, it's a weird painting. As it was intended to be, I'm sure. Normally reference to 'the annunciation' is the angel Gabriel's proclamation that Jesus is about to be borne, yet Magritte chose, or allowed that title to be added to a painting that he claimed 'has no meaning?' I don't think so. With The Annunciation, the seemingly random elements are grouped together, yet we, as viewers, we have a foreboding feeling that something profound is going to happen. Like the birth of Jesus. Or maybe the painting was acting on us directly."

Laura's eyebrows were raised as she considered what I had said.

"What did you make of it?" I asked.

"Sadly, there weren't any nipples for me to enjoy," she said with an innocent face.

I threw my beer condensate-soaked paper napkin at her, "You're crazy."

She flattened my napkin out on the table, handed it back to me, smiled and said, "All right, what about the other painting?"

I contemplated for a moment before answering, "On the other hand, we have Man With Newspaper. The man is there in the first frame. Then he's gone. We want him back, but he's gone. All the other frames are just slightly off kilter. You could see it in the angle of the table top and the stove pipe in relation to the frame. At first the viewer isn't quite sure what's happening. They just understand that something is not quite right. The story of the painting, just kind of... withers away. What do you think?"

"I think that both you and Magritte are strange men."

I wasn't sure if that was meant as a compliment.

"Nevertheless," she continued, "I'm still going to fuck your brains out tonight." She grinned at me, almost as afterthought.

The food came to the table. I was pretty sure the spike haired waitress heard Laura's last comment because she was grinning from ear to ear. I was laughing as the plates were set on the table. Laura's chin was twitching and her face took on a slight red colour.

"Thanks." "Thank you," we said simultaneously.

"Can I git you anyfink else?" the waitress asked in her Cockney accent.

I asked for ketchup for the 'chips' and Laura asked for brown sauce. The waitress looked at me funny and asked, "Toma-ah sowse?"

"Yes, red sauce as opposed to brown sauce." She bounced off towards the kitchen.

Laura was smirking.

"What? They've never had a tourist in here before?"

She was scooping up some curry as she said, "But when in Rome..."

"But this isn't Rome," I interjected, while busting the top crust off my pie. We watched the steam rise, "this is Londinium, a cosmopolitan city. One would think the mention of ketchup to a waitress wouldn't come as a complete shock." I wondered if I was about to get spaghetti sauce or passata instead of ketchup. "How's the curry?"

"I make better myself."

I wondered if I'd ever have the chance to taste a curry that Laura made. "I make a pretty mean curry myself," I said. "I hope one day I can cook for you."

Ketchup, thankfully, and HP brown sauce arrived. We both said, "Thanks," to Spike.

Laura was kind of staring off into space as we ate. I could see her chin twitch occasionally, then she stopped and smiled at me before picking up some more food.

"What'ch ya thinking about, Laura?"

She stopped eating for a moment and put down her fork. With her right hand she cupped my left on the table and smiled at me before saying, "My mother was correct; I can see now how unhappy I had become. I recognized elements of it before, but now I fully understand."

I smiled and twisted my fingers onto hers, then lifted her slim hand to my lips and gave it a kiss before releasing it to allow her to continue eating.

She smiled sweetly as she picked up her fork.

"How's the steak and mush?"

"Eh... a bit greasy and a bit more like snake and mush, but it's all right."

"I want to thank you, Bill, sincerely. I recognize that I'd been in the doldrums for some time." She picked up some curry. "You've pulled me out." She took the mouthful.

"Your mum did."

"No. You did," she answered, with too much food in her mouth. "It's been a struggle for me for years," she continued after swallowing.

"What's been a struggle?" I asked then proceeded to burn my tongue on a piece of steak.

She sighed, looking down, "Depression," she paused to scoop up her food, grey eyes focused into me, "I'm acutely aware that it stems back to the abuse I received as a child. It's something that I've had to fight all my life."

"I'm so sorry."

"That and low self-esteem," she added.

"Low self-esteem?" I was shocked, "why?"

She was chewing her food, "Look at me," she managed.

"Laura, we've had this conversation before," I said while stabbing a big piece of mushroom. "What I see is a beautiful woman."

She smiled but shook her head. Her mouth was full.

"What I didn't see," I popped the mushroom into my mouth, "oh damn that's hot." I guzzled a little beer for relief. "What I didn't fully see, but I do now, is that this woman is intelligent, witty, charming, absolutely crazy funny, kind hearted, loving, sexy as hell and a great fuck."

"Is everyfink allright?" asked the Spike the waitress, grinning again.

Where the hell did she come from? "Everything's fine," I answered. My face was flushing.

Laura was laughing. Spike walked away.

"What the hell?" I asked rhetorically as I stabbed at my salad.

"Bil,l seriously," she said, reaching with her fork for some salad, too, "I've had such a wonderful time with you; it's all been a dream."

"A midsummer night's dream?" I broke up the pie crust to let out some more steam.

"Well, it certainly has been a bit of a comedy, that's for sure, and if I recall in Shakespeare's play there was a magic potion that was applied to the eyes when asleep. And when you wake up you fall in love with the first person you see."

"You must have put some of that on me," I smiled to her.

She pursed her lips. Her chin flexed. Her eyes went glassy as she reached out her hand to mine again.

"Don't get all soapy on me," I said.

"I'm sorry," she pulled her hand away and picked up her fork and stabbed a few chips. "I'm not looking forward to tomorrow."

"We still have tonight," I said while fishing in my pie.

Her chin twitched again.

We ate for a few moments in silence.

"Bill, I can't help it."

I looked into her eyes wondering where she was going. I scooped up some steak and mushroom pie.

"One part of me," she continued, "just wants to throw in the towel and walk out of here right now.

Huh? My mouth was full.

"Because with every minute that I spend with you," her chin trembled as she spoke, "I'm just getting more emotionally entangled. It's as if I'm climbing higher and higher up a cliff that I know I will have to jump off."

I swallowed. "We've had this conversation before, too, Laura."

"I know."

"I still have to go back to your place, at least to get my laptop."

"No. No. I didn't mean that."

"I know you didn't," I tried to smile at her, "and believe me, I feel the same way."

"Do you?"

"Oh, hell yeah."

She took a swig of her beer then resumed eating.

"Seriously, Bill, what are we going to do about it?"

"I don't know, Laura. I don't know how you are going to feel about me come Wednesday morning, or how my brain will be working. You may land up meeting Mister or Miss Right tomorrow afternoon. Maybe I will, too, although I think I may have left my opportunity for Mister Right at the beach shop in Cock Side."

At least she smiled a little; I was trying to lighten things up.

"But there's a couple of things, Laura, of which I am absolutely certain."

I could see the wonder in her eyes.

"Number one, I will never forget you, ever." I picked up a few fries and scooped them through a puddle of ketchup before popping them into my mouth. After partially swallowing and watching as Laura was eating yet hanging on to every word, I continued, "Number two, the emotions that I feel for you right now are never going to go away. They may be eclipsed by something else or buried under the huge emotional rock that I will have to conjure up, but the memory of what has transpired between us will never be lost."

She stopped chewing. Her chin was out of control. Her eyes were glassy. Bravely, she tried to continue eating.

"And I have to say," I continued, "at the very, very least, the next time I'm flying to Dubai, my connecting flight will NOT be in Berlin."

She blew her nose in her paper napkin.

"As long as you will have me," I added. "But as I said, Mister or Miss Right could show up tomorrow and then you won't want to see me."

Her chin was twitching, "Mister Right is sitting in front of me right now." She picked the napkin up again. "You can't just fly away from me."

I reached out to pick up her right hand, "You know I have to. I have a business to run. Employees rely on me. I've projects to run, a family, parents to look after and an incontinent dog."

"I know."

"That notion is just as stupid as me saying to you drop everything, quit your business, your career, say bye to your family and friends and come and be my haus frau. I wouldn't even dare to ask."

She blew her nose again and looked me straight into my eyes with her grey eyes.

"What? You would do that?" I asked.

With her eyes downcast to her plate she answered simply, "Of course not."