Alice (short story)

 

“You’re not Alice,” he said as they walked along the shore.

She looked up, surprised.
“No, I’m Katrine,” she replied, giving him a look that clearly said she found his behavior strange.

“Yes, of course I know. I didn’t mean it that way.”

After that, they said nothing for a while. Her body language shifted so swiftly he could almost feel it as a physical touch. Their brief liaison had contained nothing but the animalistic—only a hesitant intimacy, a prelude to something that might never come to pass. Now, as she shut him out with her posture, it was as unmistakable as a door slammed in his face.

The asphalt ribbon snaked along the beach: an urban equivalent of the coastal footpaths he had discovered as a young man in Devon. His mind slipped back to those days, so vividly imprinted. The dome of sky that enclosed both earth and sea. The promise of boundless expansion that never materialized. Halcyon days, he thought, with that familiar middle-aged sense of loss he had always known would come.

He listened to the waves and noticed that he welcomed the change. The erotic tension had been almost more than he could bear. Morning and the sea were still present, even here. A faint hint of exhaust fumes lingered despite the early hour. Not a cloud in the sky.

Shoreham Road like the waves. He had grown dependent on these solitary pre-work beach walks. He had taken it so far that during summer he would rise at five to satisfy this need. In the distance he caught sight of cream-colored houses where the beach curved away. The morning chill still hovered in the air, though the day would turn warm. Katrine pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt, as if to increase the distance between them. He sighed inwardly, studying her figure in black tights and a black hoodie walking quietly at his side.

A quarter hour of silence. He waited. Listened to the waves. Stole glances toward the sea. Tried to fully awaken. He had decided not to explain himself until she reacted. Had he misjudged her? The silence grew slightly uncomfortable.

“Who is Alice?”

There it was. His tired mind began to work. He weighed his words. Weighed the scenarios that might unfold depending on what he said and what he actually wanted from her. The sense of control created a calm warmth within him.

“Just a woman I once knew,” he said at last, watching for her response.

“Your ex?”

Yes, that was exactly what he expected her to say. One of his greatest pleasures lay in these subtle word-games in charged situations. To predict another’s reaction and savor the satisfaction when he guessed correctly.

“You could say that,” he replied guardedly.

She lowered her hood. Honest eyes searched his face. He glanced at her and once again saw how beautiful—and sincere—she was. Entirely without makeup, yet so lovely. All right, he thought, clenching his jaw. She was worth the trouble, after all.

“And it’s over?”

“Yes, you could say that,” he answered, his brain still in motion.

“What? What do you mean?” Her voice now suddenly agitated. Good heavens, what a temper. How did she manage that so early in the morning? But she was young. Young serpents have the deadliest venom, he thought. He himself was hungover—on wine and lovemaking, on too little sleep.

Wine and love. The thought was warm, life-giving. The feelings almost unsettled him. During this week, she had given him both. Wine and love. What did she mean to him? He tested the notion, the feelings he held for her. He weighed them on a mental scale against the entire middle-aged fatigue and satiety brought on by his stressful, well-paid, high-status job.

A tern cut across the brilliant sky. He inhaled, held the air in his lungs. Perhaps she wasn’t important enough, he thought, as the internal scales balanced. Perhaps it was best to offend her, let her end this short affair. He glanced at her face again. It reminded him of the Three Graces in Botticelli’s Primavera. It was not mere lust, he realized at once. It was her vitality he was drawn to, like a vampire. The thought of himself as an empty shell resonated with what he had felt in recent years. In the last week, she had brought him as much delight as Alice once had. He saw her watching him grimace in pain and wondered how she interpreted his expression.

How intoxicating it had been that evening a week ago when he’d first seen her, sitting in the bookstore with her chocolate cake, absorbed in a book she hadn’t purchased. He had made a swift calculation, then stood up. Now I roll the dice, he had thought, approaching her with his heart pounding.

The first satisfaction: how her wary posture transformed. He’d asked if he might sit down, since all other tables were taken. What was she reading? Oh, Flaubert. And one of Flaubert’s most maligned works at that. He himself had thought L’Éducation sentimentale profoundly underrated, all those years ago. Really, she thought so too? She had an accent; was she Irish? Oh, Swedish? He hadn’t noticed. Perfect English though, he’d said, while aware that each roll of the dice yielded high numbers—not sixes, but fours and fives—and his pulse had raced.

Just when it had been long enough that their cakes were nearly gone and the conversation risked growing strained, he cast his final die. “It’s been a pleasure talking with you,” he had said. “It’s so rare to meet someone like-minded.” Aware that this last throw had to be a six to be meaningful, he gave his most winning smile, with a hint of sadness in his eyes while his lips curved upwards. She’d followed his movements as he gathered his things. With the tray in hand, he stood as if suddenly recalling something. “This might be silly, but it’s so rare…” His voice faltered, as if he knew he was about to make a mistake but willing to risk it. “It’s not often one meets a truly kindred spirit. You wouldn’t be interested in meeting for a coffee sometime, would you?” He’d written his name and number on a small slip of paper, knowing that if she contacted him she might find him on social media, and that he could do no more after that. He had both a private and a public account. The latter would seal the deal, showcasing the successful doctor among his friends and colleagues.

A gull screamed almost in his ear, and he jumped. What had the past week shown him? He’d heard that young Swedish women were attractive but impossible feminists. Perhaps that tedious side would soon surface.

“Could we turn up here? There’s a station that sells flapjacks,” he mumbled.

She gave him an exasperated glance. They turned away from the promenade toward a small kiosk.

“Eighty p, please,” said the old man, who looked about retirement age, handing him a strawberry flapjack.

“Sure you don’t want one?”

“If I had, I would’ve said so,” she snapped, irritated.

Yes, now the feminist emerges, he thought, taking a bite and struggling not to moan with pleasure as the taste filled his mouth. He had grown addicted to flapjacks and coffee at work, he explained, as they headed up the road.

“This is sometimes the only thing that keeps me going between surgeries when we’re short-staffed or when a major accident occurs and I must operate twelve hours straight. Flapjacks and coffee.”

She didn’t reply. He dug out the last crumbs from the plastic wrapper, wondering if his last comment had been banal. The last thing he wanted was to be banal. They ascended the side street leading to her school.

“Isn’t that where your Swedish school is located? What was it called?” he asked, though he knew perfectly well.

“Loxdale English Centre,” she said curtly.

They stopped by the sign bearing the school’s name. It looked like an expensive private school to him. Did she come from a wealthy family? She stood shifting her weight in her trainers.

The morning rush had begun. A few other students approached the entrance. Other Swedes, he thought. He noticed her anxious glance flick toward them, realized she feared a friend might wonder why she stood here with a middle-aged stranger, and again he felt that illicit undertone. How archetypal, he thought, weighing his options. I’m forty, but I feel more like sixty-five, he had told her that first night.

They had walked from his flat downtown, a trek of a good forty-five minutes. Initially, he’d wanted to drive her, but when she said she needed movement, fresh air, and to get to Portslade on foot, he had insisted on accompanying her.

A night of alcohol and lovemaking. Alcohol and lovemaking, he thought, with a jolt of tenderness. The scale within him tipped, and he made his decision.

“She’s dead,” he said dryly.

“What?” Her eyes widened.

“You asked what I meant by ‘you could say that’ when you wondered if Alice was my old girlfriend.”

“Oh,” she readeplied softly.

She took his hand.

“My God, I’m sorry,” she said. “I…I thought you were boasting about your love affairs.”

“Oh God, no.”

They both looked around. A twenty-something guy greeted her.

“Couldn’t you skip your first lesson?” he asked. “I can explain myself. It happened in Ukraine. We both worked for Doctors Without Borders.”

She nodded, and they began to walk along the brick wall that separated the school from the surrounding neighborhood. As he started talking about Alice—about his grief and the trauma of his life—she listened without interrupting. They left the school’s perimeter behind. Row upon row of terraced houses, cars parked along the streets. The morning chill had ceded to warmth. He had texted the hospital, informing them he would be late. As if he didn’t have all the accumulated leave in the world. The nurse in charge of scheduling had simply answered “okey."

© Anders Enochsson