There was a picture on that wall. At least I thought there was. It was a photograph of a silent movie star. I’m sure it was there, above the fireplace. Clara Bow?
Or was it an art print? A Dutch still life?
Do you think Rembrandt will be remembered in five hundred years? Or Shakespeare in a thousand?
I haven’t been in this room for years. The sofa was there, the bookshelves along that wall.
You could hear the cathedral bells. And on summer mornings voices from the cafe, newpapers folded against the breeze.
It was a big city: Paris, or Berlin, maybe Brussels.
I can’t remember. I get so many places, voices, names muddled up. Not that they matter now.
I bought this jacket then, I still wear it. I’ve never had it cleaned. It’s stained with the juice of a prawn that exploded as I pulled it apart. Ten, fifteen years ago?
That prawn left its mark.