London
Yesterday morning we awoke in our new apartment and stood, like livestock, but now we have three chairs, two of them bought very early this morning at the Bermondsey Market. It was mainly outdoors and most of the merchandise was small—the sort of stuff you pass but don’t really remember. I think I saw some chandeliers, possibly a saddle.
The security office for our apartment complex is located in the basement and we went in the afternoon to introduce ourselves to Mr. Berry, the man in charge. According to our complex’s newsletter, he has nine fingers and worked as a police detective, a DCI, until his retirement a few years back. “We’re here twenty-four hours a day,” he said. “The door is always open so feel free to drop in and have a moan at us.”
I should pick a newspaper and start following it, but I can’t seem to decide which one to go with. Steve suggests the Guardian, but I’m partial to the Sun, which yesterday carried a twenty-picture photo spread on Michael Jackson’s evolving face. The Sun is like the National Enquirer, but every day. Hard news amounts to stories of people who almost died. Cars almost ran them down. Things almost fell on them. I listen to the BBC, but that’s not enough. I need a paper.
November 23, 2002
Paris
On Six Feet Under, Claire and her friend took mushrooms. Most movies and TV shows get drugs wrong. Someone takes a bong hit and spends the next few hours laughing uncontrollably. Someone takes acid and steps into the Sergeant Pepper cover. Six Feet Under gets drugs right, so after taking the mushrooms, Claire and her friend hole up in the bedroom, using the sewing machine and wishing they lived in the nineteenth century. “Wouldn’t it be cool if you had to make everything, and everything you did was art?” She wound up concocting a hideous pair of pants, quilted and hemmed with bells. She gave them to her mother and was mortified the next morning when she saw her actually wearing them.
December 6, 2002
London
Before The Quiet American we saw a funny Smirnoff commercial. It opens on a couple standing at the window, the woman softly crying and the man looking helpless and slightly guilty. We see him run down the stairs and pick something up off the street. I imagined it was a ring, but as he hands it over she smiles broadly, and we see that it’s her missing front tooth. He’d knocked it out during an argument and the fact that he retrieved it causes her to fall in love all over again.
December 14, 2002
Paris
This morning two men rang the buzzer. “Yes,” one said. “We’re looking for English-speaking people who can answer a few questions. Is Mr. Hamrick at home?” I said he wasn’t and they asked if they might speak to me.
“About what?”
“About the future. About the way you feel.”
I let them in because I have no backbone. One of the men was in his thirties and the other a granddad. Both were well dressed and carried strapless briefcases. “My colleague has a problem on the stairs,” the younger man said. “Sometimes his leg is not so good.” It seemed I should offer them a seat, but that would have made it all the harder to get rid of them, so we stood.
“So how do you feel about the future?” the younger man asked.
It was a goofy question. A setup. I said I felt fine about it and we all stood around and looked at our feet. “I mean, yeah,” I said. “It’ll be different from the past, but, you know.”
The younger man asked if I had a Bible in the house. I said no and he asked if he could share some scripture with me.
“I’d really rather you didn’t.”
“Well, can I leave you with something?” he asked.
It turned out they were a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses. This is better than being a pair of thieves, but still.
December 21, 2002
London
The BBC reports that terrorists are planning to halt the Christmas shopping season, most likely with some sort of bomb. They don’t know where or when, but the public is warned to be vigilant. My reaction isn’t fear so much as confusion. Don’t they know the Christmas shopping season is essentially over? The time to strike was last weekend, not this one. Should they plant a bomb today, the only person they’d get is Maw Hamrick, who has bought nothing. “I’m thinking of getting Hugh a book or a CD,” she said. “Or maybe some stationery or maybe something for the apartment. Do you think he’d like that?” I almost had her talked into a pair of slippers, but Fortnum and Mason was out of his size. “This picture frame is nice,” she said, “but he probably doesn’t want that.”
I was going to stop at Harrods on the way home from Piccadilly Circus and she asked if she could come with me. “Maybe I could find something for Hugh but, of course, I want to get him something he’ll like. Otherwise there’s no point.”
We took the number 9 bus, and on disembarking in Knightsbridge we passed a beggar sitting on the ground with a newborn baby. “Now, that’s just too depressing for words,” Maw Hamrick said. “Did you see her? Did you see that baby?” I tried to explain that the woman was a gypsy. “That’s what those people do,” I said, but it was too late, as the image was already burned into her mind. On entering Harrods, she was exhausted and depressed. “This is just ridiculous,” she said. “I’ll just get Hugh’s slippers in France. Or maybe I’ll get him a shirt.”
We return to Paris Monday, and I’m sure she’ll spend the afternoon looking at churches. She’ll do the same on Tuesday and wind up giving Hugh a check for $50.