They had met in Sydney – a glassware trade fair – both wholesale agents. A morning coffee break, pleasantries, small talk, stolen glances, private assessments, later compared. ‘Coincidental’ shared lunchtime seating and a little gentle parrying from both parties. He inquired about her evening’s plans.
She broke a dinner engagement, he flicked the pub, and they enjoyed a little bistro just off George Street, in the Rocks. The Assas Chardonnay bubble was a wonderful start, and later, the half-bottle of Brown Brother’s Merlot richly matched their interest to learn more of each other.
Their responsibilities offered periodic opportunities, loosely fitting around the glass-trade circuits. They supplemented the interludes with letters and stolen nights in European capitals, at the annual Australian fair, the US circuit, throughout Asia.
The relaxed friendship, sparking intense electrical intimacy at a touch, anticipated, a total focus as his plane landed. He was heading towards her apartment in Fritzgasse. Three days to the start of the Fair. He needed a gift. A florist shop spied, the taxi waited and a 600mm, small, potted Ficus Benjamina was bundled in. He had been told that he often gave odd gifts but possibly proprietarily, Benji came from Australia. There was a beautiful turquoise pot to round off the planting.
They both loved galleries and rarely missed a visit to the exhibition featuring in whatever city they were in. The Impressionists were shared favourites and one springtime, in Paris, they stole two days and went down to the riotous colours of Giverny. There was a weekend in St Petersburg, with the Hermitage at their disposal.
They travelled incessantly, a trade fair network that meant they shared each other’s company in Rio, London, Beijing, Shanghai, New York, Paris, even the occasional escapades – Machu Picchu, Angkor Wat, Honk Kong, the bleakness of East Berlin.
Over the decades he saw Benji grow, reaching for the ceiling, revelling in an easterly facing aspect. There were new, larger pots, branches starting to fill in the window and one year, he was advised that the Janitor had fielded complaints from the tenants below, reporting a sagging ceiling!
He bought a pruning saw and secateurs, and over several evenings, their pruning works were disposed, surreptitiously into rubbish bins along Fritzgasse and Erdbergstrasse. Benji didn’t mind the haircut and the tenants, from below, had moved out.
He’d had a cancer scare, a month or so at a hospice, incommunicado. While emails now largely replaced their letters, his Inbox for several months had only delivered utility bills and offers for Drone X, fit bits and holiday specials.
It was a sleety, cold, grey afternoon as he made his way to Fritzgasse. He climber the familiar stairs, the three flights seemed steeper these days. He knocked. A young woman answered the door. “Bitte? Nein, nein. Entschuldigung. Die alten dame ist gestorben”.
He could see over her shoulder towards the window; Benji had gone too!
He shared a coffee with his memories in their little corner café. Tears tumbled, the coffee undrunk, cold, his balance disordered, unravelling. They had not planned this ending.