He was only visiting for a short time but it was always a dangerous junction where the car accident occurred.
People crossed there all the time, under the Brentford overpass, at the cross walk; even though you were hidden in the shade behind the thick grey concrete supporting pillars of the freeway.
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Pedestrians were not supposed to cross there.
He was visiting from France and we were going to a party when the accident happened; when he was run over and killed.
I went on to the house, where the party was being hosted, where he had a friend in Michael M, and his friends were mourning his loss.
A woman was talking in French, explaining how Michael’s friend was ‘un journaliste’, but she used the diminutive form of the word. And I understood what she said, even though my French was rusty, even though she explained it for my benefit anyway.
She sat opposite us on a stiff backed chair and held out a magazine in which he’d written some articles. She showed us the front cover. It was white. And on it was large black cursive lettering.
Then we lay in a huddle on the floor of her apartment though I wasn’t sure of her relationship to Michael or his friend.
We lay, the four of us more or less on top of each other, by the side of a 50s style coffee table, angular pine varnished top, with smooth curved edges and 3 tilted legs. And I held out my hand and stroked her cheek in sympathy; or was it the other way round, did she stroke mine?
But I wanted to be out of there, really. I felt uncomfortable as a bystander to her friend’s tragic death.
Photo of Victor Noir‘s tomb by Neil Howard via Flickr
