Enter the financial heart of Europe – London – just before the financial crisis and meet Tristan: investment banker and celebrated playboy. Young, successful and devastatingly handsome, Tristan, one of the greatest seducers of our time, sets out to become King of the City.
Paul Sandmann is a confirmed traveller, dreamer, and lover of classical music and the fine arts. He has been writing since he was twelve years old and in recent months has been reading his tales to his girlfriend. He has been working on this novel for six years.
Paul Sandmann is all of thirty-three years old.
www.twitter.com/paulsandmann
Imprint
Narcissus: A modern love story
Paul Sandmann
Translated by Gordon C. Wells
Cover Design: Paul Sandmann
ISBN 978-3-7375-2716-3
“Tristan is successful, young, beautiful and in search of the perfect - in search of the one true love. After the first few sentences I was already enthralled by Paul Sandmann’s writing style. I think I have never read a more beautiful description of a kiss than in this novel. … You cannot read this book without being deeply moved by it - as I was, even if I did not fully understand Tristan: on the one hand hopelessly romantic and on the other cold as steel. But maybe that is what lends this man his attraction … he is fascinating and abhorrent at the same time.
It is a book of extremes. It is a very emotional book and it is a book full of suspense. Paul Sandmann enchanted me with the poetry of his words. It lingers over this novel like the breeze of a wonderful scent.”
- Martina Meyen, Eselöhrchen
“Tristan, a modern Dorian Gray? … The description of Tristan, especially his inner conflict and his relationship with others, is thrilling and beautiful. … This is a remarkable novel by a talented indieauthor.”
- Harald Faisst, Bücher und eBooks
“The narrative style is passionate, the characters well developed, the atmosphere and setting wonderful. Particularly interesting are the changes of narrative tone when the story shifts from Tristan’s private life to his uncompromising business life. In scenes of Tristan’s private life, the reader can’t help but notice the protagonist’s thirst for love. … I was deeply impressed by this modern Greek tragedy.”
- Elsa Rieger, ebook salon
“This is something different - a love story in which the focus is not on the female character, but on the male protagonist.”
- Monica Heidt, Leseleidenschaft
Next morning he awoke with a thick head. The light of the breaking day was already flooding into his bedroom, casting shadows on the white sheets of his bed. Outside the window London was just waking up to a crisp Saturday morning. There was scarcely a cloud in the sky.
Beside him, under the white of his duvet, the shape of a woman was clearly discernible. Locks of auburn hair peeped out from beneath the covers. Then he saw an arm, at the end of which a hand gently moved, as its owner awoke. For Tristan, the aroma that wafted up from the sheets was testimony to a champagne-drenched night of pleasure. He got up without waiting until she was fully awake. The hand grabbed his ankle, but he gently prised the fingers apart and descended the stairs of his penthouse. Then he took a clean towel from the shelf, hung it next to the door of the cubicle, and began to shower. Below the window of his bathroom flowed the Thames. As he shampooed his hair he watched the ships travelling along the river and the seagulls following them. Then the sliding door behind him opened, and Sam stepped in. She brushed one of her heavy red locks out of her face and gave him a cheeky look: “Not so fast, my friend,” she said and took his hand in hers. Then she gave him some of his body wash and intimated that she would like him to use it on her.
The ship that he had just been watching was already out of sight when they emerged from the bathroom. She bent over a little to dry herself. He, though, picked up a dressing gown and went out on to the balcony, oblivious of the pools of water he left behind on the marble floor. Outside, in the fresh spring air, he grabbed the hood and used it to dry his face and ears.
Tristan could feel the icy breeze off the river blowing into his sleeves and around his ears. He shivered. Yet, strangely enough, he enjoyed the cold, which enveloped him and cooled his body, still warm from the shower. How he would have loved to swim out into the swirling currents of the Thames. Just him and the water, face to face. He could practically feel the waves embracing him and himself becoming one with them. Once again he took a deep breath, then he turned back to the door of the terrace. Sam was standing there, with his mobile phone in her hand.
“It’s ringing,” she said with an ironic expression on her face.
“Thanks,” he said, distractedly, kissed her casually on the cheek and took the mobile from her hand. He walked past her and then turned round to her.
“It’ll be Marcus, we’re meeting for brunch. Would you like to come with me?”
“Where are you going?”
He named a restaurant specializing in typical German fare. Everyone in the city knew that this place served very fatty food and was therefore the ideal choice for the morning after a night of binge drinking. He already knew what her answer would be, but he still looked expectantly in her direction.
“Sorry, I can’t come with you. I’ve already got a lunch date.”
He was quite sure she had no such thing. Women like her were reluctant to eat out like that – their little secret could be in danger of being discovered. All the same, he gave a sigh, as though disappointed, patted her on the bottom and said:
“That’s a pity. Wait a minute, I’ll just get changed, then we can take a taxi to the city centre together.”
She raised her head like a child and he gave her a kiss on the forehead. Then Tristan went to his wardrobe and selected a turquoise shirt, a beige sweater, jeans and leather shoes. After dressing, he dried his hair. As he did this he saw Sam standing behind him in the mirror. Her wide brown eyes were following every one of his movements with curiosity. Before he started shaving, he reached for the phone, picked out Marcus’s number and called him.
“I thought you’d be otherwise engaged. Are you still okay to meet up?”
Tristan glanced at Sam and replied: “Of course. Where are you now?”
“I was just having breakfast with my wife and the kids. But don’t worry, I’ve hardly eaten a thing.”
“Can you manage to be there for one?”
“Yes, no problem. See you soon then.”
“See you soon,” said Tristan and ended the conversation. He picked up the shaving foam dispenser and sprayed the foam over his face and neck. As he applied the razor to his skin, to remove his two day beard, he recalled what Marcus had said. Could he really have been home to see his wife and children so early? What time management!
Tristan had never been able to work out how the marriage between Marcus and his wife could have ended up in such a crisis. They had known each other since they were at school and had started going out in year 10. He was captain of the First Fifteen and she was a girl from a well-to-do family; she was the object of the affections of many of her fellow-students but she only had eyes for him. She was so pretty. When Tristan was recruited by the bank and he and Marcus had become friends, they were still together. Amy had just given birth to her second child, a lively little boy. They were both overjoyed and proud to introduce their little family to Tristan when they invited him to dinner one day. On that occasion Tristan had taken with him a girl he’d met the day before in a cafe. His companion had been enchanted with the happily married couple, their little house and the chubby-cheeked offspring.
“You can tell they’ve known each other for decades. They’re like a single unit, like two trees that have grown into each other over the years.”
Both of them did indeed radiate such a degree of mutual trust and serenity that Tristan had felt particularly happy for his friend at that time. He had enjoyed the Sunday evenings they spent together, but couldn’t help noticing that Amy was not particularly enamoured of the continually changing names of his female companions. He felt sorry about this and was disappointed when on one occasion Marcus told him that he and Amy would unfortunately not have time to have dinner with them the following Sunday. Tristan had shrugged his shoulders and pulled a face, at which Marcus had apologized and revealed the real reason.
This was why in the following four months Marcus and Tristan had not been able to see each other so often. Of course, they worked together in the same office and still went out for lunch together. But Amy succeeded in keeping her husband well away from Tristan in the evenings and at weekends. In the office Marcus talked about more frequent trips to the country with the children, and also the fact that Amy had made contact with old schoolfriends who had also started a family and who they regularly visited. At first Marcus gave the impression of being happy with this, and Tristan was quite willing to concede that his friend had every right to this way of life, although he himself had no desire to change anything about his own easy come, easy go approach to life. He continued to see many different women, none of whom, however, had the slightest chance of forming a more serious relationship with him. He enjoyed London’s glittering nightlife to the full and had meanwhile acquired new fun-loving friends to take the place of Marcus as they partied in the clubs and bars of the city. They were also bank colleagues, but they were by nature coarse and totally incapable of the sort of friendship that would even come close to the relationship of trust that had so quickly formed between Tristan and Marcus.
They would fit the bill as drinking companions, however, and served as a springboard for his encounters with the fair sex. About six months passed, during which time the two colleagues kept company with Marcus and Tristan over lunch, slapped Tristan on the back and chatted with him about what they’d been up to the previous night. Of course, they also asked Marcus about his weekend, but they soon changed the subject when they got tired of his stories about the joys of family life. It was beginning to become clear that the worlds of the two men were out of sync and drifting apart from each other. At first this was scarcely perceptible, but after a time it became impossible to ignore, so much so that now and again they seemed to detect a glimmer of sadness in the other’s eyes when they met each other’s gaze. Marcus in particular was no longer the man he was when Tristan first met him. He had lost the ability to perform the balancing act that had enabled him to fulfil his family commitments at such a young age and still remain stable and contented through all the ups and downs of his professional life in the City. He was now more quiet when they ate out together, and at his workplace too he seemed less at ease with himself and the world. On one occasion, Tristan recalled, after a telephone conversation, he had banged on the table, glared at Tristan, quivering with rage, and stormed out of the room. This was decidedly unusual and was not in the least like the Marcus of old. A few weeks later Tristan happened to hear Marcus saying goodbye to his wife on the telephone. Tristan had pricked up his ears as his friend’s voice sounded strangely tetchy and as dark as the hammering of a piece of rusty metal. Three months later Marcus finally asked Tristan if just the two of them could go for a meal. Tristan agreed – he wanted to hear what was so oppressing his friend and had given him those dark rings under his eyes.
“It’s over,” said Marcus after a period of silence. “Amy and I are taking some time out, but I don’t think we shall ever get back together again.”
Tristan was shocked and profoundly shaken by this unhappy turn that his friend’s life had taken.
“She’s changed so much, Tristan. At one time our love was marked by freedom and mutual trust, but now I can’t do a thing without Amy trying to control me. It’s finished."
Tristan had said that he was sorry. That he couldn’t believe that this was really the end, but could see that they both needed some distance.
“Yes, we do. Let’s go out together this evening, Tristan, just the two of us. That’s what I need most right now. I love you, man!"
With these words he had thrown his arms around Tristan.
Tristan looked at himself in the mirror. The memories echoed in his head. He had finished shaving. He applied a little eau de toilette and looked round at Sam. She stood there with her arms crossed, gazing at him with a dreamy look on her face.
“Let’s make tracks,” he said, threw his jacket over his shoulders and grabbed the keys.
“Tristan!” Marcus stood up and took a few steps towards him.
Tristan went up to him and greeted him with a warm handshake.
“What happened to the pretty redhead,” Marcus asked him with a brief smile.
“I dropped her off at home; she wasn’t hungry.”
They sat down. Marcus beamed.
“You know, Cirrus wasn’t too happy you pinched that girl off him. She was the one that caught his eye, and she was the reason why we invited the three young ladies to join us in the first place.”
“I’m sorry about that. Is he furious?” Tristan laid his jacket over the chair.
“I don’t know, but he can’t really be furious; he’s too crazy about the idea of drawing you.”
“Come on,” Tristan made a dismissive gesture and sat down, “don’t start that again.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me something about her?” asked Marcus, “What’s she like? For a moment I thought you’d make a fine couple.”
“Oh, Marcus,” sighed Tristan, brushing his hand across his right eye, “there’s nothing to tell. What do you expect me to say? She’s pretty, that’s all. I could hardly manage three minutes conversation with her without getting bored.”
“So you had to kiss her.” Marcus laughed. “You had to kiss her so that she’d stop boring you. That’s what I so love about you!”
Marcus raised his arms and stretched, with an expression of visible amusement in his eyes. Then he yawned and continued in his dark gravelly voice: “Tristan, the woman who can win your heart has yet to be born!”
Involuntarily, Tristan yawned as well, then picked up the menu and said: “Anyway, I think I’ll have a large salad and a Jägerschnitzel. How about you?”
They ordered, and Marcus began to talk about his meeting with his wife. He had not taken the girl from the night before home with him – the only one of them not to. He had risen early and driven out in his four-by-four to see his family, who lived in the suburbs. He and Amy continued to let the children think that Daddy had only moved out temporarily. But it was becoming more and more obvious that this was just an illusion that was likely to be shattered at any moment. Amy had bitterly reproached her husband in the kitchen, when she found out that he’d gone out the night before. She herself had not got involved in London’s nightlife again after the separation, preferring to devote herself to her children. She reproached herself for letting her children suffer the same fate as the majority of their schoolmates, and consequently appeared even more self-sacrificing. And yet she could not, on her own, offer her children the home life that an intact family could provide. The more she understood this and read the unspoken question about their father in the wide eyes of her children, the more embittered she became. The idea that Marcus was going out again as if nothing had happened was driving her mad. At the breakfast table it was only with difficulty that she was able to conceal her anger from her children. At this point Tristan noticed the shadows of anxiety in Marcus’s face, and instantly changed the subject.
“The woman I met before I came back to your table – did you see her?”
“Yes,” Marcus seemed grateful to Tristan for banishing the demons from his life, “she was charming.”
“She was, wasn’t she?” Tristan raised his hands to add weight to his words. “I was under her spell from the first moment I saw her. It was as if sirens were calling me to her. There was no escape from their voices. Then I spoke with her, and everything she said was so absolutely right. Every word seemed to fit and...” Tristan motioned Marcus to lean towards him, “I felt as if she could read every one of my thoughts.”
“Tristan!” Marcus clapped his hands, “Now you’re singing a different tune! What made you come back at all?”
“Her companion suddenly turned up. But I shall see her again. I left her my card, and she gave it back to me with her number on it just before she left the bar.”
“Well, if that isn’t the beginning of a fairytale love affair...” murmured Marcus ironically and moved back slightly to enable the waiter to serve him his knuckle of pork and mashed potatoes.
“Just you wait. Some day I’ll find the right woman. You’ll all be amazed.”
Silently, Marcus cut into his knuckle of pork and enjoyed the aroma of the hot meat that wafted up.
“What’s happening on Monday, isn’t someone coming to see us?” he asked after a short pause.
Tristan thought for a moment as he chewed, then he remembered: “Oh yes, we’re having a visit from some pension fund managers. They want to discuss a few investments with us and have some fun in the evening.”
Marcus raised his eyebrows, then with the hand that was holding the knife he began to draw little circles in the air, asking: “No, really?” He laughed out loud. “Oh, how I love this; it’s the same old routine every time! They come in their pristine white shirts, trembling with anticipation of their one big day. We run round after them because we know they’ve got millions of pensioners in their pockets – and they’re proud of it. Naturally, it’s all charged up to our bank: business lunch, nightclub and prostitutes. If the dear old pensioners only knew that we include the cost of these nights of sin in our fee.” He paused for effect, then grimaced and shouted: “Give it all you’ve got, baby, grandad’s footing the bill!”
“Hmm, you’re right.” Tristan concurred pensively, “How we like to fool ourselves when someone else is paying!”
“Oh please. These gentlemen know how the land lies, believe me. But they repress the knowledge so they can keep a clear conscience. And we make it easy for them; after all, the individual items of the evening’s expenses never appear in the invoice issued by the bank. All you find there is the consultancy fee. – Who’s escorting the gentlemen this time?” asked Marcus.
“George and me,” replied Tristan.
“It’s good that George is going with you,” said Marcus as he chewed. “No one could be better suited. You’ll never succeed in business if you take ethics too seriously. I went with them once and it had a disastrous effect on our business. We’ve never been given such a small order. One man’s pangs of conscience blight the general mood straight away. It’s as though there’s a pact in which everyone lets themselves go completely, with no limits. Anyone with limits is a spoilsport and ruins everything.”
“What did you do?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to cheat on Amy, even though things were going quite badly for us at that time. I stayed with two girls at the bar, while the others went upstairs with their ladies. The two of them were terribly disappointed. I bought the two birds all the drinks they wanted and told them about my problems at home. They were really sympathetic and one of them gave me advice that was better than I’d had from my psychotherapist. So if you should have any problems, don’t go and see a psychotherapist – go to a whore. Only to talk, of course, otherwise you might as well put a bullet in your head straight away. Never sleep with your psychotherapist."
Marcus paused to load some sauerkraut on to his fork with his knife. Between mouthfuls, he went on: “When the others came back I was so drunk that the boss gave me a dressing-down the next morning.” Marcus gave him a rather acidic smile. “He informed me that my behaviour had been unacceptable!”
They burst out laughing and motioned the waiter to bring them another two beers. The restaurant was now filling up, as more and more Londoners came in for lunch.
“And how about you? You often go with them, don’t you? The first time was soon after we’d both started at the bank.”
“Yes, the boss asked me to accompany an older colleague, so as to add the youthful touch that you need for everyone in the group to feel young.”
Tristan picked up the glass of beer that the waiter had set down in front of him, and took a deep gulp. Marcus examined him attentively, until Tristan finally continued: “I was aware, of course, that as a young analyst I couldn’t afford to break faith with the older generation. So I first put a ludo game in my pocket and produced it when I was with the prostitute in her room. I promised her that my firm would pay her for an hour and a half of her time with all the extras, but said that instead of actually indulging in the activity we should have a game of ludo. She laughed like a little girl and ordered room service to bring the champagne and fruit that we were going to play for. Then as we played she told me about herself. She was a social science student and was doing this work to finance her studies. When we’d finished, we went downstairs. The old man studied my bill with a great show of astonishment, and the others slapped me heartily on the back. It really is a pathetic spectacle, you’re quite right, but it’s part of our job, there’s no getting away from it, and so I regularly go with them,” concluded Tristan and reached for his beer again, while Marcus quietly chuckled to himself. As he did so his face, starting from the corners of his eyes, displayed a multiplicity of tiny wrinkles, some of which went up to his light-brown eyebrows, while others ran in a small curve across the top of his cheekbones. The sight of this radiant smile from the moon-shaped open mouth was infectious, and Tristan, too, soon had a smile all over his face.
“Ludo? Good grief, Tristan, I’ll never understand you!” And at last he burst into laughter; Tristan joined in and they could be heard all over the restaurant and even in the kitchen, where the two stout German cooks started to wonder what on earth was causing all the noise.
On the morning of the following Sunday Tristan awoke with a strange feeling. He lay stretched out in his bed and was alone. In pensive mood, he let his eyes wander over the ceiling of his bedroom for a moment. He could see the picture on the wall, an abstract oil painting in which a red circle was sharply profiled against a blue background. The background conveyed a very lifelike effect, just as if it was the sea, on the surface of which the red outline of the sun could be made out. Along the lower left border of the picture yellowy-green algae spread out before the observer in the direction of the sun. Tristan had liked this picture from the very first time he had seen it in Cirrus’s studio. When you studied it more closely, the blue background became even more lifelike. Then it disintegrated to form a cloud of semen. The algae could be recognized as the yellowish explosion of a seminal emission, whereas the red circle at the top left border was clearly identifiable as the ovum.
Tristan smiled. What a fine thing it was to have an artistic gift and to be able to make money from it! Sometimes he couldn’t help envying Cirrus the life he was able to lead. He could spend all day, from morn till night, gathering impressions, like a sponge soaking up water. He would walk in the park, sit in cafes or meet one of his many muses. His art consisted principally of making his impressions visible to others. They were mixed like paints in his head before he caught them on his brush and transferred them to canvas in the form of coagulated oil. What amazed Tristan even more was that Cirrus could combine his impressions in new ways, extract the best from everything and stylize it in images of ideal beauty. How wonderful to be a creator of art!
Tristan had to laugh when he recalled what Marcus had once told him about the time when Cirrus was still an impoverished and struggling young artist. On one occasion a raven-haired Iranian, a real beauty – with flashing eyes and ample bosom – met Cirrus in a cafe. She was a student and had spent the entire afternoon complaining about the English girls. Their uninhibited ways. Their willingness to get into bed with anyone. Cirrus had listened to her attentively, nodded frequently and continued sipping his Earl Grey.
When she had finally finished, she noticed Cirrus’s sketchpad and expressed an interest in his work. His passionate outpourings about art, their purity and truthfulness, had sent shivers down the girl’s spine. She herself loved art, went to every exhibition that came to town and was full of curiosity to see Cirrus’s pictures.
He finished drinking his tea and took her with him into the little studio where he used to live in those days. There he showed her his larger-than-life explosions of paint, some of his smaller still lifes and the few landscapes that he had painted that summer in the countryside. As he started to get busy – he had made an association between the Thames and a Persian poem that she had reminded him of – her gaze fell on a stack of his nude portraits. Without him noticing it – he was just gathering together the paints for his latest picture – she started to leaf through his studies of the female body one by one.
Finally – Cirrus had already begun to apply the ground for his picture – she lay down on his couch and asked him straight out why he was being so shy with her. Didn’t he like her? Cirrus put his paintbrush to one side and took a closer look at her. But she insisted: Didn’t he think she was beautiful?
Surprised by the unmistakable note of reproach in her voice, he asked her what it was that she wanted.
“I want you to paint me, you idiot!” she shouted, hardly able to contain herself.
Cirrus let her outburst of anger wash over him, thought for a moment and finally replied: “Fine, if you’ll pay for the paint!”
This picture was Cirrus’s breakthrough in London. He had captured the fury of the girl who lay naked before him astonishingly well. Her Persian ardour, which mingled with her maidenly modesty in such a remarkable way in the passepartout, helped him to achieve this breakthrough.
From that time on, Cirrus had nothing but love as his subject matter. Tristan smiled as he contemplated the picture, which Cirrus had sold him at a reduced price as a favour to a friend. The picture on the wall above him represented one of his muses, one who had wanted above all else to have his child. Cirrus had painted the picture after they had separated. He had wanted to get it off his hands and Tristan had really liked it.
Tristan had a good stretch and thought about the previous evening. As the memories slowly revived within him, waking up in bed and finding himself alone became less hard to bear. He saw Isabella’s smile, smelled again the fragrance exuded by the bustier she was wearing and felt the shy kiss on his cheek with which she had left him in the taxi. Then he was again amazed at the feeling that crept over him at this memory. Was he rediscovering that sensation of being in love that he thought he had lost?
Forget it! Isabella was playing hard to get. That was all! She was playing with him. She knew how to twist a man around her little finger. But how long would he be prepared to play along? Tristan thought for a moment, trying to get a sense of how deeply he desired her. Would he disregard others on account of her? He hesitated for a moment, and asked himself why he had not gone to join the others after the opera. Was Isabella leading him back along the path of his original ideals of love? Was it no longer necessary to be distracted by ordinary girls, as he had found the right one?
He went to clean his teeth. It was only nine o’clock. How shocking! None of his friends would be awake at this time of the morning. But she would undoubtedly be up and about every bit as early as him. After all, yesterday had been an early night. For a moment or two he considered phoning her and inviting her over for breakfast.
No, that might not be appropriate. But she surely couldn’t say no to a morning walk! It was months since he last went for a stroll by the Thames. And the day promised to be sunny.
Tristan breakfasted in front of the television. The news channel was just broadcasting an item about the financial industry. When Tristan recognized the head of the American Central Bank, he turned up the volume. With his typically large, black horn-rimmed spectacles on his nose and with his gimlet eyes focused on the reporter, he was saying: “Today’s ever more complex financial instruments have enabled us to have a more robust, efficient and flexible financial system than we had a few decades ago. Credit derivatives, in particular, help the large, systemically important banks to assess and manage their credit risks more effectively.” At the same time, Friday’s share prices were running along the bottom edge of the screen. Next to the shares of Fensec, the insurance company, the analysis of which had made Tom the subject of much ridicule, was a red -0.49%. Poor Tom. Tristan ate the last spoonful of muesli and poured himself another glass of milk. Then he picked up his mobile and phoned Isabella. She answered.
“Hello Isabella, Tristan here. Sleep well?”
“Oh yes. Thank you for the lovely evening yesterday. I’m still reliving the opera.”
“It’s my pleasure. Thank you for coming. Have you looked out of the window this morning?”
“Yes, isn’t it incredible! We’re in London and the sun’s shining!”
Tristan laughed.
“I was wondering whether you’d care to take a walk along by the Thames. It’s not every day we get such fantastic weather. We ought to make the most of it!”
“You’re right. What sort of time were you thinking of?”
“How about now?”
Isabella was silent for a moment. Then she replied: “Shall we say in an hour’s time? I have one or two things to deal with first.”
“Perfect. So I’ll see you at eleven at Westminster Bridge?”
“I shall be there.”
Tristan loved the start of the warm season of the year. When the summer made its appearance and the first fine days arrived, something extraordinary happened in London. Since the English weather was so often damp and gloomy, the first warm rays of sunshine had a magical effect on the city-dwellers. Their normally tight-lipped appearance, their crouching gait under the cloudy skies, the cool, serious look in their eyes, under their hats – all this vanished. As soon as the first breath of warmth caressed their faces and crept under their jackets and coats, it seemed to Tristan that a vague hope began to germinate in people, driving them into the streets and out to the riverside, the very same places that they had been avoiding throughout the long, cold and wet winter months.
Then all the way between Westminster Bridge and Tower Bridge an excited buzz filled the air. Lured out by the sun, the banks of the Thames teemed with day trippers. Everyone walking there looked contented. Young women tried out their new dresses and cast flirtatious glances at elegantly-dressed men, making their hearts beat faster. Children ran around shouting, while the old people observed the scene from wooden benches with a knowing smile.
Tristan now stood among the shifting crowd, enjoying the moment to the full, and looked out for Isabella. It was not easy to distinguish between all these faces, especially since he didn’t know which direction she would be coming from. So his gaze ranged from this woman to that, now and again squinting because his imagination played a trick on him and he thought he could recognize her.
At last he caught sight of her. She was clasping her small bag in front of her lap and looking down with a shy smile. She walked as lightly and gracefully as a ballet dancer. Calmly she approached him, again avoiding his smiling glance, and at last stood before him. Finally her wide trusting eyes were looking at him. They were light brown, and shone, full of life. She seemed rather pale. One hour from when the arrangement was made to the meeting itself was not long. She had had to hurry. Gently, Tristan took her by the hand, greeted her and breathed a kiss on her cheek. Thereupon she blushed, as though she regretted the closeness that she had allowed him with their kiss in the opera house yesterday. But Tristan never gave a thought to this. As though in a dream, he said a few words, pointed to the path along the Thames and set off on the walk.
In the gentle light of the sun the gnarled trees at their side cast shadows on the pavement, which looked like walkers frozen in time: passers-by with fat legs, and arms that either swung freely in the air or held the hand of the person ahead of them. Tristan pointed this out to Isabella, and she smiled, as she had made the same association. She too saw a line of dancing tree shadows that held each other’s hands.
They started their conversation with trivial remarks about the previous evening, and talked about common interests they had discovered in the short time they had known each other. Then they joked about Tristan’s parsimony in the opera house. Suddenly Isabella said: “I haven’t the faintest idea what you do for a living. Are you an artist?”
Tristan shook his head. “If only! No, quite the opposite, I’m afraid: I work over there,” he said, pointing to the City.
“An investment banker,” murmured Isabella. He nodded.
Tristan was rather puzzled. Hitherto in his life women had always responded with curiosity and interest when they learned of his profession. Usually, their eyes had lit up and their lips had formed a smile when he told them what he did for a living. But Isabella reacted quite differently. Her beautiful face showed a touch of disappointment. She remained silent and then, after pondering this for the next few metres, she said: “I should never have guessed.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, we know them. Especially here in London. But you’re quite different.” She paused and then asked: “Have you always wanted to be an investment banker?”
“No,” he replied. Absolute honesty shone out of his dark eyes, in which the whites shimmered with a tinge of blue and emphasized his gentle expression even more strongly. Isabella looked at him with a shy smile.
“Actually, I always wanted to be a king.”
“A king!” The clouds cleared from Isabella’s features to reveal one of those happy, girlish faces that are the stuff of men’s dreams and the envy of women.
“Yes, a king,” he said with mock dignity. “When I was four years old our nursery school teacher put us in a row and asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. The other children all answered, one after another, ‘policeman’, ‘fireman’ or ‘builder’. Then it was my turn and I simply said: ‘a king!’”
“But how did the little boy end up as an investment banker?”
Tristan hesitated. In the sky above them seagulls screeched; they flew past with their white wings beating, wheeled round in the blue sky, went away and returned in circular flight over the people as they ambled along, as if they were eavesdropping on them. Tristan took a deep breath and stared at the path ahead of him, which was full of other walkers and tourists.
Finally he answered: “As I grew older I changed my mind about what I wanted to be. At primary school, it was a doctor, then at secondary school it was first a writer, then an artist. Before I went to university I remembered my original dream. These days there are hardly any kings left, and anyway they are not particularly wealthy or powerful. I could see that today power does not lie in politics but in the economy. The kings of today are the financial institutions. This is where the power and wealth of society is concentrated. That’s why I went into them.”
On the benches to their right women in their Sunday best sat and watched the passers-by. Tristan’s attention was focused exclusively on Isabella, who was strolling along the riverside path beside him at a leisurely pace, lost in thought.
“And are you happy in your dream?” she asked.
“The life of a king only looks enviable from the outside,” he replied. “Power and wealth demand sacrifice, from yourself and from others. I certainly imagined that a king’s life would be happier. But I’m confident that it’s within my power to find happiness in the end.”
“It looks as if we’ve found where you differ from them,” said Isabella, smiling, happy to have discovered his secret. “The conviction that happiness is neither money nor power.”
They were passing the Royal Festival Hall. The restaurants had put tables and chairs out in the open, and some families had sat down and were sipping lemonade in the midday sun. There was a holiday atmosphere and squeals of laughter drifted over to them.
Tristan and Isabella had discovered that they shared a common passion: a passion for travel. Isabella revealed to Tristan her desire to fly to the ends of the earth. She dreamed of going to Africa and South America. The wide expanse of the savannah and the depths of the rain forest had a powerful attraction for her, and sometimes the sheer yearning to be in these places kept her awake at night.
She complained that in Europe they didn’t even stamp passports any more. “How sad that is!” she cried. She loved looking at her passport and studying the few stamps she had collected on her travels. But that was now no longer possible in Europe. “It’s almost as if you’re travelling within your own country. And yet countries are all so different.”
Tristan had the feeling that the closer their hearts became, the more their eyes smiled at each other. It was as if a hitherto unknown feeling of empathy had awoken in him, a shared feeling for things that had not previously interested him. This feeling of sympathy slowly spread through his whole being and began to create a bond with Isabella, the significance of which he needed to ponder further.
Now it was Tristan’s turn to talk about his travels. He was a much travelled man, who had used school and university to visit every country under the sun. “Yes, you’re missing something if you travel on your own. You want to share the impressions you gain with someone else. You’re probably never going to see the people you meet on your travels again. You ought to have at least one travelling companion on your journey to foreign parts.”
Deep in thought, Isabella whispered: “Oh yes, that’s true. But there are also times when I like to be alone, so that I can daydream.”
Here Tristan ventured to differ: “You can dream together.”
Isabella shut her eyes. She said nothing, but shyly held her little handbag in front of her as her words gradually came to the surface. Her cheeks reddened slightly and she sucked in several deep draughts of the tangy air. Then they continued along by the Thames for a further quarter of an hour, as their conversation rippled and splashed so pleasantly and calmly that it was an absolute delight.
Eventually they came to a cafe that was one of Tristan’s favourites, and he slackened his pace. Isabella also came to a halt and gave him an inquiring look. “Would you fancy a bite to eat?” he asked.
She raised her eyebrows, as though shocked at the realization that she would have to disappoint him, and said: “Oh, I’m sorry, but I’ve already made arrangements for lunch.” And looked down in a rather crestfallen way.
Tristan forced himself to smile. “Well that’s fine. When exactly are you meeting for lunch?”
“I’ve got another quarter of an hour.”
“Fine. So we’ll walk on for a bit and then I’ll call a taxi for you.”
She smiled, embarrassed. He had the feeling that she was troubled. He therefore swallowed his disappointment at her early departure. He had hoped that they would have lunch together and then continue their walk. He enjoyed being with her and regretted that their time together was limited on this occasion. Did he have other plans? No. What would he do with the remainder of the day if she left straight away? Tristan found himself in a peculiar situation that was confusing for him.
For a time they continued walking alongside one another. He put a brave face on it and told her a funny story about the Thames, but then overcame his inhibitions and asked her: “What are you doing this evening – I mean, after your lunch appointment?”
Without hesitation she replied, politely: “I’m going to church.”
“May I come with you?”
“Of course,” she beamed, “I’m going to St. Peter’s Church at seven o’clock. It’s an Italian church, so you should find it interesting!”
He smiled, flagged down a taxi and said, with a smile: “See you this evening then, seven o’clock. We’ll meet at the church door!”
She nodded eagerly, gave him a kiss on the cheek and got in. He shut the door behind her, waved to her and, as the taxi drove away, wondered what could be happening to him. To church – hmm? It was years since he had been to Mass of his own free will. And now, to cap it all, he was attending one that was going to be held in Italian! How could he be sure that he wouldn’t be struck down dead at the church door? Shaking his head, he turned around and strode back to the Thames. He would need a long walk to collect his thoughts.
At a quarter to seven his taxi pulled up in Clerkenwell Road. Wedged between two houses was St. Peter’s, its gable projecting up into the gathering dusk of the evening. Over the two freshly cleaned arches of the church three alcoves were let into the façade. In the middle one a statue of Jesus Christ met the eye, with his hand raised in a calm and loving gesture.
Isabella was standing in front of the entrance to the church. Beaming with pleasure she came up to Tristan: “How lovely that you’re really here!”
“I’m happy ... to see you again.”
“You’re in luck: for once, the Mass is being celebrated in English today! We must hurry if we want to get a seat.” They turned towards the church entrance.
“How was your lunch?”
Embarrassed, Isabella evaded his gaze.
“Good ... I had gnocchi. And what did you do?”
“I carried on walking, until just now. Will you promise me you won’t leave so soon next time?”
She smiled and nodded in reply. Then finally they entered through the massive wooden door of St. Peter’s Italian Church. Tristan found the interior of the building lighter and more welcoming than other churches he remembered. The walls were radiant with white stucco. Between the highly polished pews rose up two lines of gleaming gold marble columns, supporting a ceiling decorated with clear geometric patterns. Flashing chandeliers were suspended above the heads of the numerous worshippers, whose Italian temperament found release in joyful embraces, kisses and whispered conversation accompanied by extravagant gesturing.
High above these lively and God-fearing goings-on in the pews, Tristan could see the peaceful faces of two angels, floating in the celestial blue of an almost cloudless firmament and seeming to watch over the exuberant flock below. Beside these murals, curved Romanesque windows let in the light, which – scarcely broken by the pastel shades of the stained glass – flooded into the interior and on to the dark-haired heads of the assembled congregation.
“This way!” whispered Isabella and squeezed through the throng of the faithful.
Tristan saw her hold out her hand to him behind her back, and wanted to take it, but was prevented by a small boy, who stumbled against him awkwardly, lost his balance and clung to his leg to stop himself from falling. After a few moments Isabella had found a seat on one of the wooden benches at the back. She gleefully beckoned Tristan to come over, then exchanged a few words with her neighbours, who amid some well-meaning murmuring moved up to make room for Tristan. Isabella felt cold here in the church, so Tristan placed his scarf round her shoulders.
Scarcely had he done this than a little bell rang out from the sacristy – and the music began. It was an organ, whose mighty metal pipes spread out like angels’ wings at its back. A sacred, polyphonic melody rose up, which quietened the faithful and accompanied the priest to the altar. He and his three chubby-faced altar boys knelt down there, remained briefly in an attitude of reverence, then proceeded to the back of the altar where they stood in a group.
Scarcely had the introductory organ music ended when the congregation reached for their hymn books and a small group of violins began to play. Isabella’s neighbour, a stocky man of about sixty, noticed that she didn’t have a book and handed her his. Isabella gave Tristan a broad smile, quickly found the place and began hesitantly to sing. He noticed that she was too shy to sing without him. And since, as a boy, he used to enjoy singing, he overcame his inhibitions and joined in with the chorus of voices.
He was surprised how much singing there was in this church. The priest hardly spoke at all and appeared quite happy to accept this. Eventually it was time for his sermon, which was on the subject of love. He began by holding up a book by the German psychologist Erich Fromm, a book that he had evidently been reading recently. In his resonant voice he began: “Brothers and sisters! Humans are thirsty for love – today more than ever. And yet there has never been a time on earth when so many people were as lonely as they are today. How many people do you know that have divorced after years of marriage? How many young people do you know that are quite obviously incapable of finding the love of their life, even though the choice today is so much greater than ever before?