Charlene complained about the tall wired fence that circled the ledge. I told her what had been told to me; the fence kept people from jumping. More suicides happened at this spot than in any other place in Europe. We had climbed 328 dust covered steps up the narrow and winding confines of the Cathedral’s spire and out on to its roof. Any regrets we had about the climb disappeared
when we walked out onto the roof and viewed the sun slowly setting over the countryside. Pigeons cooed and circled in front of us. "I thought that maybe the fence was for all the pigeons." She said.
“Silly, Pigeons can fly, why would they try to commit suicide by jumping?" I asked. She looked up at me,“No, I meant to keep them from pooing on the.." She saw my smirk and punched my shoulder. The copper colored roof tops of Strasbourg village shined below in the sun's setting reflection. I wondered about the people who came here and jumped, hundreds, maybe thousands over the centuries. What thoughts raced through the jumper's mind when he climbed the final 300 steps of his life. "I don't understand how they are able to walk onto this roof and through this last scene of beauty and still think the World is ugly enough to leap over the ledge. Look at this place; it's like we are in a Monet painting. Morons, they all must be crazy or drunk or both." She reached out and touched my arm.
"And what about the couples that jump together? Do they stop and have sex one last time? Can the man even get erect knowing it’s his last?” She said. I thought about it a bit, leave it to her to equate sex and suicide. “Maybe he gets the best erection ever.” I said. "Maybe they gaze out at the beauty here, and watch God's sun setting and falling into the arms of Man's City one last time. Maybe they stand on the ledge and look down, and maybe, just maybe the turmoil in their heads is finally quiet in their heart is calm. I heard once that people who commit suicide are most happy right before."
I opened a small bottle I took out from my pocket, and I unfolded a red cloth that held some cheese and grapes we’d purchased in a shop across from the Cathedral. We ate in a loud silence; the pigeons watched our every move. And I liked to watch her. She had a small reddish blue birth mark on her face that added to her looks instead of the opposite. She caught me looking at her and reached her hand into my coat pocket. I kissed her hard. She explored my pocket a little more and found another bottle and took it out, opened the metal top and took a drink and passed it to me. We looked out at the Vanilla sky and she rested her head on my shoulder.
It ended for us about a year later, far away from the Cathedral, fighting in my old apartment. She called me selfish and told me I’d become pathetic. She tried to hurt me and told me about other men who she had been interested in. She told me she had wasted too much of her life with me. I made no argument; I had no argument to make.
2012: I found a Postcard with Monet's painting of the Strasbourg Cathedral on the front. The Postcard was stuck in between the pages of my paperback copy of “A Moveable Feast.” Andie MacDowell had given this book to me as a present at the end of long week we’d spent working together for Filene’s; she had promoted a new perfume, and I had chauffeured her from store to store and to various radio and TV stations. She had just made the movie “Green Card around that time,” and I believe was in pre-production for “Groundhog day.” I remember she was the first person I met who owned a cellphone. She would spend a lot of the time on the phone talking to her husband, also a model, who was on location in France. I told her I had just returned from a trip from there. The book is one of my favorites and I return to its dog eared pages often.
On page 12, Hemingway writes about his struggle with writer’s block, "All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know." I looked at the post card picture of the Cathedral. On its back there was an old and familiar signature. Another person’s signature is like a photograph of that person. This particular signature embodied an entire photo album. Twenty years is a long time indeed. "Write the truest sentence you know.”
Maybe after climbing all the stairs to the top of the Cathedral, a jumper thinks, “Well, at least, I don't have to walk all the way back down.
“Silly, Pigeons can fly, why would they try to commit suicide by jumping?" I asked. She looked up at me,“No, I meant to keep them from pooing on the.." She saw my smirk and punched my shoulder. The copper colored roof tops of Strasbourg village shined below in the sun's setting reflection. I wondered about the people who came here and jumped, hundreds, maybe thousands over the centuries. What thoughts raced through the jumper's mind when he climbed the final 300 steps of his life. "I don't understand how they are able to walk onto this roof and through this last scene of beauty and still think the World is ugly enough to leap over the ledge. Look at this place; it's like we are in a Monet painting. Morons, they all must be crazy or drunk or both." She reached out and touched my arm.
"And what about the couples that jump together? Do they stop and have sex one last time? Can the man even get erect knowing it’s his last?” She said. I thought about it a bit, leave it to her to equate sex and suicide. “Maybe he gets the best erection ever.” I said. "Maybe they gaze out at the beauty here, and watch God's sun setting and falling into the arms of Man's City one last time. Maybe they stand on the ledge and look down, and maybe, just maybe the turmoil in their heads is finally quiet in their heart is calm. I heard once that people who commit suicide are most happy right before."
I opened a small bottle I took out from my pocket, and I unfolded a red cloth that held some cheese and grapes we’d purchased in a shop across from the Cathedral. We ate in a loud silence; the pigeons watched our every move. And I liked to watch her. She had a small reddish blue birth mark on her face that added to her looks instead of the opposite. She caught me looking at her and reached her hand into my coat pocket. I kissed her hard. She explored my pocket a little more and found another bottle and took it out, opened the metal top and took a drink and passed it to me. We looked out at the Vanilla sky and she rested her head on my shoulder.
It ended for us about a year later, far away from the Cathedral, fighting in my old apartment. She called me selfish and told me I’d become pathetic. She tried to hurt me and told me about other men who she had been interested in. She told me she had wasted too much of her life with me. I made no argument; I had no argument to make.
2012: I found a Postcard with Monet's painting of the Strasbourg Cathedral on the front. The Postcard was stuck in between the pages of my paperback copy of “A Moveable Feast.” Andie MacDowell had given this book to me as a present at the end of long week we’d spent working together for Filene’s; she had promoted a new perfume, and I had chauffeured her from store to store and to various radio and TV stations. She had just made the movie “Green Card around that time,” and I believe was in pre-production for “Groundhog day.” I remember she was the first person I met who owned a cellphone. She would spend a lot of the time on the phone talking to her husband, also a model, who was on location in France. I told her I had just returned from a trip from there. The book is one of my favorites and I return to its dog eared pages often.
On page 12, Hemingway writes about his struggle with writer’s block, "All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know." I looked at the post card picture of the Cathedral. On its back there was an old and familiar signature. Another person’s signature is like a photograph of that person. This particular signature embodied an entire photo album. Twenty years is a long time indeed. "Write the truest sentence you know.”
Maybe after climbing all the stairs to the top of the Cathedral, a jumper thinks, “Well, at least, I don't have to walk all the way back down.
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