We owned the night

The tram meandered slowly down towards the city. It was dark outside even though the clock had just struck 4PM. The light from the shop windows hit the people on the sidewalk and gave them a cold glow. “Cold city lights glowing. The traffic of life is flowing”. The lyrics from Coles Corner flowed perfectly with the images along the tram route through the city; “I’m going downtown where there’s music, I’m going where voices fill the air, maybe there’s someone waiting for me, with a smile and a flower in her hair…“

This evening no one with a flower in their hair was waiting for me down in the city. I was on my way to meet three old friends for dinner. We were four middle-aged men who had lost the flowers in our hair a long time ago.

The conversation across the table pulsated between music someone had heard, new record releases, episodes from historical and new wars around the world, politics, an almost forgotten shipwreck off the coast of Canada where over a thousand people died – and everything in between. Paulie told a story about his father having been in a concentration camp for several years. I’ve known Paulie for many years and consider him a close friend, but this was not a story he had told before. Paulie had always been a private person, but this story came as a surprise. What do we really know about the told and untold stories that have shaped those we think of as close friends?

The discussions and exchanges continued while the waitress kept coming with more wine, gin & tonics and finally whiskey. The staff was wearing their jackets and ready to leave by the time we were considering leaving.

No one was quite ready to end the evening yet, so we strolled around a bit and looked for a not too noisy bar. We found one that looked promising and went inside. Inside, there were surprisingly many people in tuxedos with bow ties and white scarves. Several of the women wore long dresses. It turned out that we had crashed a closed party for people in the shipping industry. We went to the bar to order as if we belonged there.

A young woman tapped me on the shoulder, introduced herself and said; Hey; My name is Hedda and I just had to meet you! I knew the moment you walked in that I had to talk to you! When you came in, you may not have realised that this was a closed party, but you seemed so confident that no one stopped you. Your appearance made me wonder who you where? Are you someone famous? I did not understand exactly where all this came from, but I smiled and replied; not yet! Paulie did not quite manage to hold back. Or rather limit his sales pitch of me. She looked at me suspiciously as Paulie waved his arms and explained something to her. I did not hear what they said so I stood looking around at the people in the bar. The dress code in the shipping industry was obviously quite formal. The young men wore expensive watches and suits. The middle-aged and elderly were dressed in tuxedos. There were plenty of pearl necklaces and long dresses.

I noticed that Hedda was still looking at me puzzled. She leaned against me and said something I did not quite perceive. Paulie had obviously told her a cock-and-bull story about me, and she had some questions. Partly because I only heard bits and pieces of what she said and partly because I had no idea what Paulie had told her, this became almost a guessing contest for both of us. No one wants a stranger´s ear pressed up against their mouth and I don’t like having someone shout into my ear. So, in situations where the music and the sound level generally limit the value of small talk, I have learned to try to read the lips, listen as well as possible, smile and be a little ambiguous with my answers. Hedda did not look completely satisfied. You will not be less mysterious by never answering concretely, she said as she put in a snuff. It was never my intention to appear mysterious.

A young man with great hair kept going back and forth behind Hedda and she pushed herself against the bar to give him space to pass. Hedda told us that she had just started in this job, but her body language and the way she rolled her eyes indicated that this might not be the line of business for her. She had probably sought refuge with us to escape the one who kept stroking past her unnecessarily close.

So, what are you writing about? Is it fiction? A documentary? A biography? I said that it was early days and that I could not talk much about the project. She interpreted this as yet another evasive answer that she could dig deeper into. Her face lit up as if she had found the answer. You write about the politician! That’s why it’s so secret! Him and all his women! The womaniser! He who is married to… I had to stop her. Several people in the bar had heard the spectacle. No! I said so loudly that the attention on us was deflected. Not him! We talked a little more before Hedda left us to circulate the party.

When Paulie and I were on our way out, we passed Hedda. The guy who had been looking for her all night lined up between us. She seemed genuinely tired of the guy and stepped off her bar stool to say goodbye. According to her we were the most interesting people she had talked to all evening, and she thanked us for saving her from the pushy guy. I do not remember everything she said, but she spent so long saying it that the suitor realised the battle was lost and went away. 

It´s good to know that one’s fame and mystique sometimes can be put to use to help others out of a predicament. Paulie as a blues musician and me as a mysterious writer. And it´s always flattering to experience that we still can appear interesting and attract women with flowers in their hair, although our heydays are long gone and our fame at best lies ahead. Far ahead.