The Making of Minty Malone. Isabel Wolff

we found its source. An old man in a shabby black coat was playing a honey-coloured violin. His hair was sparse and white. His hands were papery and thin, and the veins on them stood out like pale blue wires. He must have been in his late seventies, maybe more. He’d rigged up a portable cassette player to provide ad hoc accompaniment, and he was playing Schubert’s Ave Maria. We automatically slowed our steps. He drew to the end of the piece, lifted off the bow, paused for a second, then began to play an old, familiar song. And as we stopped to listen, the words ran through my mind.

       I see trees of green, red roses too …

      ‘How lovely,’ said Helen.

       I see them bloom, for me and you …

      ‘Lovely,’ she repeated.

       And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

      His violin case was open at his feet. A few coins shone brightly against the worn black felt.

      I see skies of blue, and clouds of white …

      I put my hands in my jacket pocket, and drew out a 50-centime piece. Not enough. Not nearly.

       The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night …

      I opened my bag for a note.

       And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

      Twenty francs? That would do. Or perhaps fifty. Or a hundred? It was only a tenner, after all.

      I see friends shakin’ hands, sayin’, ‘How do you do?’ They’re really sayin’, ‘I love you.’

      That’s what Dominic said to me, when he proposed. But it wasn’t true. I knew that now. I looked at my diamond ring, sparkling on my right hand. Its facets flashed like frost.

      I hear babies cry, I watch them grow,

       They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know …

      I hesitated for a second, then pulled it off, and placed it amongst the coins.

       And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

      ‘Merci, madame,’ I heard our busker say. ‘Merci, madame. Merci.’ He looked uncertain, so I smiled. Then we turned and walked away.

      ‘Are you sure?’ Helen said, handing me a tissue.

      ‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m sure.’

       And I think to myself …what a wonderful world.

      ‘What a wonderful place,’ said Helen half an hour later as we strolled through the Jardins du Luxembourg in the late afternoon sun. Middle-aged men played chess under the plane trees; people walked their dogs across the lawns, and children spun their yo-yos back and forth, flinging them out with theatrical flourish, then reeling them in again, fast. Lining the paths were flowerbeds filled with roses, and, in the distance, we could hear the soft ‘thwock!’ of tennis balls. Helen consulted the guide.

      ‘Isadora Duncan danced here,’ she said. ‘And Ernest Hemingway used to come and shoot the pigeons.’

      ‘That’s nice.’

      We passed the octagonal pond in front of the Palais, and walked down an avenue of chestnut trees. Joggers ran past us, working off their foie gras; sunbathers and bookworms lounged in park chairs. We could hear the yapping of small dogs, and the chattering of birds. This unhurried existence was a million miles from the fume-filled avenues of the centre. There was childish laughter from a playground. We stopped for a second and watched a group of children rise and fall on their swings.

      ‘Do you want kids?’ I asked Helen.

      She shrugged. ‘Maybe …Oh, I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘Only if I meet the right chap. But even then I wouldn’t want them for at least – ooh, three or four years. I’m much too busy,’ she added happily, as we turned out of the gardens. ‘And do you know, Mint, I really like being single.’

      ‘I wish I did,’ I said. Then I glanced at my watch. It was almost seven. We decided to get something to eat.

      ‘Chez Marc’, announced the bar in a narrow cobbled street off the Rue de Tournon. The tables outside were all taken, so we went inside. Waiters with white aprons whizzed round with trays on fingertips as though on invisible skates. A cirrus of cigarette smoke hung over the bar, and we could hear the chink of heavy crockery, and staccato bursts of male laughter. We could also hear the crack of plastic on cork. By the window a game of table football was in progress. Four young men were hunched over the rods, their knuckles white, as the ball banged and skittered around the pitch.

      ‘I used to love playing that,’ I said, as we sipped our beer. ‘On holiday, when we were little. I used to be quite good.’ The players were shouting encouragement, expostulating at penalties and screaming their heads off at every goal.

      ‘– hors-jeu!’

      ‘– c’est nul!’

      ‘– veux-tu?!’

      ‘French men are so good-looking, aren’t they?’ said Helen.

      ‘Aah! Putain!’

      ‘Espèce de con!’

      ‘Especially that one, there.’

      ‘That was a banana!’ he shouted, in a very un-Gallic way. ‘Bananas are not allowed. You’ve got to throw the ball in straight. Got that? !’

      ‘Bof!’ said his opponent. ‘Alors …’

      ‘And only five seconds to size up a shot! OK? Cinq secondes!’

      ‘D’accord, d’accord! Oh, le “Fair Play”,’ muttered his opponent crossly.

      A free kick was awarded. A quick flick of the wrist, and the ball shot into the net.

      ‘Goal!’ Helen clapped. She couldn’t help it. They all turned and smiled. I didn’t have the energy to smile back. Then the waiter appeared with our pasta. I had eaten what I could when two of the players put on their jackets, shook hands with their opponents and left. The Englishman remained at the table. I looked at him discreetly. Helen was right. He was rather nice-looking, in an unshowy sort of way. His hair was dark, and a bit too long. His face looked open and kind. He was wearing jeans and Timberlands, and a rather faded green polo shirt. To my surprise he turned and looked at us.

      ‘Vous voulez jouer?’

      ‘Sorry?’ I said.

      ‘Would you like to play?’

      ‘Oh, no thanks,’ I said with a bitter little smile. ‘I’ve had enough penalty kicks recently.’

      ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘It’s fun.’

      ‘No, thank you,’ I said.

      ‘Oh, but my friend and I need partners,’ he urged.

      I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to.’ I looked at Helen. She had a funny expression on her face.

      ‘You play with them,’ I said to her.

      ‘Not without you.’

      ‘Go on. I’ll watch.’

      ‘No, no – we’ll both play.’

      ‘No, we won’t,’ I said, ‘because I don’t want to.’

      ‘Well, I do, but I don’t want to play without you. Come on, Minty.’

      ‘What?’ Why on earth was she insisting?

      ‘Come on,’ she said again. And now she was on her feet. ‘We would like to play, actually,’ she announced to the