On the Bridge

By Tejas Yadav

She wiped away silent tears. A coral-peach sun swam in the double waters: a stream of salt trickling down her cheek and the older, wider river slithering under her feet. A chill autumn breeze struck up, ushering the cold of nostalgia with even greater intensity. She had forgotten her scarf in the hotel room. Now standing on the pont, she faced a lattice of bridges that stretched into the smouldering horizon, like jaws of stone straddling the scarlet, serpentine Seine. A new deluge of tears was imminent.

Behind her, she sensed heavy footfall: comers and go-ers bustling on that old bridge. Not daring to turn around, she held on tightly to the balustrade. Her face fixed on the brightly massacred sun. Far away where orange and purple met to form hues of early dusk, beyond the silhouette of the Louvre on the right bank and the Eiffel Tower on the left, she observed a clump of skyscrapers. Rising like a sore, sickly hand with shrivelled, dark fingers at the horizon. La Défense. How lonely must it be for the sun to die, every day, in such a monstrous scene?

A sudden noise made her jump. Without fully intending to, she turned on the spot. A chaotic electric scooter skirted past her and was already whizzing away, bullet-like, reckless, through the flow of pedestrians on the bridge. She despised those motorised nuisances: a symbol of modern slovenliness at its height. Her eyes scanned the milling passersby but only briefly. Seeing her flushed sorrow, her evaporating tear-rivulets reflected in indifferent, or worse — happy — faces would crush her.

She convinced herself she did not care. It was better to be alone anyway.

Why care about them, any of them — or their easy, palpable happiness?

No, not their happiness. It was their contentment, that repulsive satisfaction on display.

How did people manage to exude that confidence, that carefree lightness so easily?

While here she was: wanting, searching, lost.

And alone.

She turned her back to the scene. Presently, the river was drinking up the last light of day. She noticed — as if they had suddenly come into focus thanks to tears correcting some undiagnosed vision-defect — merrymaking, picnicking revellers on the two banks, down by the river. They multiplied in number as seconds emptied into minutes. A speedboat bumped along the river, catching the light on its metal sides, before being swallowed by an arch of the bridge and vanishing under her feet.

In the distance, she heard Notre Dame tolling mournfully. The bells reminded her of Victor Hugo’s eponymous novel. Hers had been a childhood full of imagination, spent reading others’ words, conjuring escapes from her own simple life. And now here she was and childhood was dead. And along with it, joy and innocence too.

She wore a long, fitting navy-blue dress with vibrant flowers. A cheerful yellow belt circled her narrow waist. A white canvas backpack on her small back. Her dark hair was partly concealed by a wide, felt-green hat. Parisienne enough? She wondered and then decided, once again, she did not care.

The cold air stung again, mottling bare arms with gooseflesh. At some point, she would have to return to the hotel to fetch her scarf, and a jacket perhaps. For now, the sepulchral sun ritual held her captive. Surroundings faded and her mind slowed down to match the imperceptible languor of the Seine. She wondered if those down on the banks cried quietly too and looked away when strangers caught their eyes in the street.

She heard humming close behind her. She waited a few moments for the hummer to pass before turning to peer. A young man stepped down from the bridge at her end. He looked sweaty in his sportswear: grey shorts, blue t-shirt, sneakers. His face she could only invent, for his back was to her as he became a tiny moving dot on the distant bank. Something in his voice — skipping, lilting— had caught her attention. The alacrity was unmistakable. It made her smile, a private moment of respite. And then, suddenly but predictably, she felt worse. Much worse. Like a green shoot trying to bloom in arid land, the smile withered away as soon as it surfaced.

She’d always found happiness unattainable. A wandering thought strayed in from some bleak ether, telling her if she just tasted the cool, fresh waters of the Seine, she would be alright. Jump! Standing on tiptoes, she heaved, hoisting her upper half across the parapet. The breeze had turned into a volley. A gust of wind hit her smack in the face with the stench of ammonia. Somewhere under the bridge, ancient flagstones had been desecrated with urine. Instantly she withdrew, heels back on the ground, nausea rising. Hugging herself in the chilly breeze, she rued how little she had managed to enjoy Paris — the city everyone loves and so they convince you that you shall love it too.

You must. Enjoy it.

But what if the monotone, endless beige did not speak to her?

Haussmann’s harmony — edifying, deifying — to her it all seemed an artifice.

The lack of chaos unsettled her.

She thought of how petite she looked, how incongruent, standing there on the bridge. Alone, uncertain, ridiculous. How she tried and failed to love herself. It always came back to that.

Eventually, the whipping wind settled down as the sun was finally gobbled up into its after-life. Was it happier now, wherever it had gone? Looking out, she liked the amber buzz around lamps coming on at sundown. Yet that glow was imbued with loss too; without the Sun’s daily death there would be no City of Lights.

A stringed instrument was plucked somewhere on the bridge. She didn’t mind street artists and performers. They seemed to be made of the same unutterable loneliness, shared by her and other lost souls. She craned her neck to look at the musician: a tall, long-haired man wearing flannel trousers, a loose shirt and a blazer. He set up a wooden box and placed an upturned beret hat on it. His microphone carried his voice from the opposite side of the bridge to her. A young couple stopped to watch: two women, holding hands and smiling at each other, waiting for the song to begin.

When the musician sang, his voice reminded her of melting butter on pancakes at breakfast. He might have been Spanish. In the chorus, she caught a few lyrics in several languages.

Te quiero.

Je t’aime.

I love you.

She saw the two women sway, kiss.

The City of Love, another epithet.

At her end of the bridge, darkness felt oppressive. She wanted to go back to the hotel.

With one hand against the capricious breeze, she held her hat in place and walked back, eyes down. Like an autumn leaf adrift, she weaved in and out of flâneurs, trying to block their French conversations. Instead, she attempted to hold on to that Spanish melted-butter voice, the wordless guitar, the motor-less swans she’d spotted earlier on the river. But it did not work. Her mind was reeling. Under the streetlamps of that floating island, she stopped on the pavement outside her hotel. As she listened to her own breath and closed her eyes an instant, new tears came to her.

In a hazy memory, a little girl read her book in the sun.

Sprawled on a grassy lawn, the girl felt summer’s warmth on her neck.

Somewhere a dog barked with glee and flowers bobbed all around her, teeming with multi-coloured butterflies.

She smiled.

When she opened her eyes, a few evening walkers glanced at her with concern, some with derision. She hurried into the hotel lobby. Scarf, jacket and then out again for dinner, she told herself. Back in her room, she felt less certain. She ordered something up to her room. Meanwhile, she jumped into the shower. Hot water. Hot like the hot sun on her neck. Hot like a tight, warm hug. She stayed under the comforting water for a long time. When she stepped out to dry herself, a knock announced the food trolley. A feeble sandwich, yogurt, and a diet coke.

Later that night, she struggled with insomnia. After tossing and turning in vain, she dressed up in layers and stepped out into the night again. The crowds had gone to bed. Eerie silence lay heavy over the Seine.

Avoiding the pont, she walked in the direction of the left bank.

A haunting voice reached her ears.

Like an echo of her own past, a little girl began singing along with the voice.

It took her a moment to locate its origin.

There was really a man singing — the same Spanish musician but the little girl was in her head.

A few feet ahead, walking with his box and microphone tied to a bicycle, the man had the beret on his head this time. She followed him from a distance. The soul in the musician’s voice had not altered for lack of an audience. The girl in her head was smiling.

Te quiero.

Je t’aime.

I love you.

Long after the musician wheeled away into the night, she continued to hear his song. And the little girl’s voice in her head. She thought of a melting butter sun on a summer afternoon. A childhood that once was golden.

Her footsteps had led her back to the bridge under ghostly lights.

She smiled as she walked the silent streets of Paris.

One last time.

By Tejas Yadav