I can stop over before or after Marseilles. I will miss the funeral regardless of my decision, so I go to Rome first, planning Madrid, with free time, afterwards.
Our loving is erotic, comfortable; mostly uninhibited, albeit always within the constraints imposed by an affair. We have been lovers for fifteen years, intermittent, opportunistic, international by circumstance.
I get the email – from the Janitor downstairs – Emmanuel, always such a happy man, ever cheery as we rendezvous, as our schedules provide for loving and togetherness. I am in no doubt he put two and two together long ago; the small overnight bags arrive, mostly singularly. Our agreement was that Emmanuel would be our emergency contact, should ever the need arise.
I am here in Sebastian’s bathroom, rarely ventured before, the mirror fogs as the water steams over my hands. His razor, tissues, toothbrush, band-aids, his blood pressure tablets and a new packet, Nitroglycerin 5mg, made up the benchtop detritus. The steamed glass carries the message “Maybe if… but no! Steph, I love you. Until we embrace again.”
My legs tremble, and buckle – the toilet catches me, wounded, bereft as the tears fall. My chest is heaving, breath forging through intermittent hiccupping, the past tense’s omnipotent being, imposing on my ineffectual attempts to stay in the present!
We share the cost of this flat, two ensuited bedrooms, lounge, laundry and kitchenette, a stone’s throw from the Plaza Mayor, the old city, a cobbled square, cooling orange trees, benches underneath. The flamenco guitarists stroll, spruiking, wistful expressions ever ready for the wayward visitors, long ago identifying us as unlikely prospects.
He knew but chose not to share the knowledge –never wanting to burden me, the condition perceived as something not to sully whatever linear time we have left. God, he could be – I correct myself: he had been a stubborn prick, at times. He has alerted Emmanuel of impending doom and left instructions.
It takes me a week to get to Madrid. The funeral is done, but Emmanuel gets me the details of the cemetery. I have sunflowers, our favourite statement of happiness, and intend to stay a while to share reflections; say goodbye.
I recognise her from photos; the widow weeds, yellow scarf pushed back off her forehead, and lilies, walking towards the freshly mounded soil. We speak briefly, me explaining that I worked with Sebastian several years earlier in the London office. I brought condolences from several of the longer-serving staff. We part.
I am back at our bower. Emmanuel shares tears as I pass his door, and he agrees to arrange for a local charity to take furniture and other resaleables. I collect stuff: my anniversary cashmere wrap and Channel, underwear, make-up, a few bits of dressy evening gear, and jeans. I close the door on a wonderful chapter.
I momentarily lean back against the door. We were good with each other. The walks, theatre, books, dinners, conversations, the loving. A sniffle.
I give Emmanuel the keys, and a hug.