Plus Ça Change…

The late summer/early autumn activities calendar is in full swing in Strasbourg.  Mouth-watering mental and sensory stimuli abounds (on paper at least).

I attend a couple of events at Bibliothèques Idéales (or Ideal Libraries: tag line “Only the Living Create the World”) in the centre of town. For nearly two weeks one of the main dance and music venues in the City is commandeered for lectures on politics, economics, literature and the arts. I sit in on a thought-provoking discussion between Senegalese philosopher Souleymane Bachir Diagne and French-Jewish anthropologist Jean-Loup Amselle about finding common ground in a post-colonial world. The following day I attend a seminar with vibrant UK-based leftist French academic Prof. Chantal Mouffe on Left Populism. She receives thumbs up for making some favourable comments about a certain leader of the British Labour Party. 

Back at work I keep bumping into my not-so-former infatuation. His good humour in the face of my sullenness is making it increasingly difficult to play it cool about his lack of contact. One Friday morning, he takes me unawares just as I thought the coast was clear. God has a sense of humour. The night before, I pray that we won’t see each other for a good while. It’s otherwise wreaking havoc with my recovery. Famous last words. The next day I have an overwhelming presentiment that our paths will cross. Walking into work, I see his graceful, instantly recognisable stride coming towards me on the horizon. The profanity can’t fall from my lips fast enough. I’d normally self-remonstrate but I’m too busy smarting at Heaven’s wink-n’-nudge at my expense. Reconciliation is clearly a bigger priority than my short-term ease.

He’s too close for me to hide or avoid him. 

My French is all over the place that morning. He asks me about my part-time hours. I suspect it’s his way of working out why he hasn’t heard from me. He says something about being poorly. My response is an abrupt Bonne Journée. We part ways. I hover in the lobby, wondering whether to find him and explain myself. I head to my office, greet my colleagues, change my mind and return to the basement where I know he’s holed up. He’s speaking to a colleague. I interrupt unceremoniously, demanding if he's free. He beams a big smile at me as he usually does these days, despite my ornery behaviour.

You want to ask a question?

No, a conversation.

He turns his violet eyes skyward for succour; a look that is both apologetic and exasperated.  He remains silent. His customary gentleness prevails over any annoyance. In that moment, I believe I love him more. Thus my subsequent response is a mystery even to me.

Never mind. You’re busy. Obviously.

I storm off. He tries to interject. I couldn’t tell you why my behaviour and tone is so stroppy. I’m on some cantankerous autopilot.

I feel instantly mortified and remorseful. Neither of them deserved that. I return later to apologise to his poor, unsuspecting colleague. She accepts more graciously than I deserve.

 Later that lunchtime, I’m returning from a very pleasant meet-up with lovely new Lusophone acquaintance, Christina. As we enter our building, 6 foot 3 inches of bitter-sweet torment is heading in the opposite direction. This is ridiculous. We never usually run into each other this often. It’s no longer practical to keep up with the cool-reception lark. I wave, just so he knows that this morning was out of character.

At an opportune moment back at my desk, I start working again on a bilingual email I’ve been musing over for a while. I add an apology for my earlier stroppiness. I acknowledge his consistent kindness. I ask about his family, give a little back story and then come clean about my frustration at what feels like a unilateral interest in our continued interaction. I switch between French and English depending on the sentiment I am trying to express. 

The following week he shoots me a sympathetic response. He explains he was taken ill suddenly over summer. I’m overcome with regret. I couldn't have known from his spritely demeanour. I would have visited him in hospital. He explains his poor track record with staying in touch. It’s nothing personal, he adds. He can go years without communicating with old friends. He apologises. I accept without reservation and offer to resume where we left off. No time this week and probably not the next, he replies. His team is short-staffed. Same ol’, bloody same ol’. I know his good intentions are often scuppered by unexpected changes to his already hectic schedule...Yet...

And so returns my ambiguity about our…whatever we have. I’m glad we’ve resolved our issues but I’m back to caring too much. At least the impasse gave me some respite; a sense of being liberated. Romantic affection aside, we have made a connection I have with very few others in Strasbourg. I’d like to make the most of it but it’s no use if we hardly spend any quality time together. Speaking infrequently with old friends is one thing. Even I understand that. Besides, the ground work has already been done. New friendships however need more careful cultivation. Somehow this one always seems to leave me feeling more upset and alone.