Last Girl

Chapter One I smoked the cigarette down to the very nub, until it almost scorched my lips. Through the blue veins of smoke I glimpsed her as she walked down the narrow alley. In her arms she held a child. My insides wrenched, suddenly, sharply. She held the child so tight against her breast. It was that, perhaps, that caught a ladder in my heart. The cafeacute; was called Markus and Ko. I had been reading the poems of Marcinkevicius. I love you with hands black from crying, I love you with darkness and death forgetfulness and light with the low grass on a sunken grave I love- I stubbed the cigarette out in the saucer of my coffee cup and struggled up, pushing my arms clumsily into my jacket, which tore as my fingers caught the thread of the lining. I hurried out into the cobbled alleyway, glancing down the street after her. The tops of the buildings were washed with brilliant sunlight, but at street level it was gloomy. She had not gone far. Behind me, from the bar where he had been standing, the waiter called out. I had not paid. I paused a second, snagged by the authoritative tone of his voice, but the young woman was walking fast. I followed her, my heart racing. She had reached the corner by the time I caught up with her. In the door of the cafeacute; the waiter stood calling after me. Hearing the commotion, the woman turned, her dark hair sweeping across her shoulder as she flicked her head. The baby lay quiet in her arms. I have an old Russian camera, a Triplet 69.3, presented to me by the university twenty-odd years ago on my fiftieth birthday. This morning I had picked it up as I left, struck by the quality of the light which nestled in the tips of the waking trees and caught in the tangle of church spires above the city. I stood on the corner, foolishly, with the shout of the waiter echoing from the stone walls, and the woman looking at me as if I was a madman. 'Can I take your photo?' I asked. 'My photo?' she said in Russian, a frown creasing her brow. dI put the camera to my eye and took one hastily, before she had a chance to refuse. I managed to get the baby in the frame too. It slept on completely unaware. My finger trembled as it pressed the shutter. She turned then and walked off at a smart pace. The waiter caught my arm. I had not heard the sound of his approach as I stood watching her figure recede, my mind skimming back across the years, my chest heaving as I struggled to catch my breath. 'You didn't pay,' the waiter said abruptly. 'I haven't finished,' I said, turning to him. 'You have now.' His hand thrust out for the money. 'For kopecks you want to be so rude?' I asked. 'Just pay.' I live in a small apartment not far from the cafeacute; Originally the apartment had been bigger, with three rooms, but I live on my own and what do I want with so many rooms? I sold one to the family in the next apartment. As soon as the money was on the table the young man was around with two friends, knocking a hole in the wall and sealing off my doorway with some crude brickwork. I'm not complaining, God knows I need the money badly enough. Often I sit by the window of my apartment and look out over the courtyard. In the summer the trees canopy the whole area, and in the autumn they turn a beautiful bronze. On the benches beneath the trees I see my neighbours gossiping or knitting, or staring vacantly out into the world that has changed so much they no longer recognise it. Sometimes I go and talk with them but more often than not I just sit and watch from the window. When I arrived home that day, my head was pounding and I found it hard to breathe. The excitement had been too much. I felt unaccountably distressed and a little bewildered by what had happened at the cafeacute;. I sat down in a chair by the table for a while and had anotherCollishaw, Stephan is the author of 'Last Girl', published 2003 under ISBN 9780312312985 and ISBN 0312312989.