A Room at the Grand Hotel des Roches Noires, 1971
Madame likes to air the double she takes for eight weeks
on the sea-facing east wing.
She has written twelve postcards to Brussels in a month.
Her tone – La mer est jolie – is light and blasé though
she counts six instances of the word
ténèbres.
Arthritis has touched her best hand. Outside the sea
glances her way with distance
where once everything in the world was a man
asking her to dance.
On one shelf in ribbons, her empty hatbox deepens
into deeper hatboxes that collapse slowly
into the green pinochle halls
of the pinochle men she knew.
Madame dreams in the window chair
and sees her postcards
from the Roches Noires
fly lightly down
over the swathe of sea
from the undercarriage
of an albatross.
The ocean bird migrating but so everything seems
at this point
the cad with a tall white grin
throwing double sixes at midnight
fresh oysters with their slight cologne
in the backseats of young France
The concierge is calling her
– Madame. Madame?
An old albatross the scuffed white of lobby magazines.
An old albatross, but content as she wanders off the edge
of the continent.
A Room in Paris, 1855
An alchemist’s gas lamp
reaches shakily into one corner,
some paintings nobody
has a particular opinion on
are nailed over
rose ballroom wallpaper.
And on the long bed
the middle-aged poet,
Gérard de Nerval.
He would appear restful
if it wasn’t for his eyebrows
meeting
like two dark horses
in the middle of his forehead.
He is dreaming
of the beautiful apple
he palmed only a few days before
on Ile Saint-Louis
and the grief of a wormhole
in the thing perfected.
He wakes all of a sudden.
He takes his collection
Les Chimères
down from its cramped shelf
and cuts it in half at the spine
with a knife.
He will clean
every sentence.
Send Letters To:
The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN
letters@lrb.co.uk
Please include name, address, and a telephone number.