Paris Den of Torture
Back in Paris, the German and I shared the floor of Chantille´s small apartment in the 20th arrondissement, near Place Gambetta. He had hurt his back in her bathtub before my arrival, so that he walked at a 60-degree angle. There is no shower curtain, so you have to squat in the tub. The bottom of the tub is uneven as well, with two perches for your feet. He was trying to wash his hair when it happened.
That got him the mattress against one wall. I slept perpendicular to him on my bedroll, my feet around the level of his waist. At my head was Chantille, perpendicular to me. Imagine the capital letter I, with me the cross-beam. I was still jet-lagged and sleep-deprived, but every time I fell asleep I would snore. The German would squeeze my toes as if they were the nose of a clown. I would roll onto my side but invariably roll back onto my back, the snoring position. Another squeeze. I marveled at the efficiency of this torture device, as if German-engineered. At my head a beautiful woman, untouchable. At my feet an enigmatic force that would startle me awake every time I finally fell back to sleep.
In the morning, Chantille gone to work, I tried to ignore the German. He was catching a flight back to Cologne, so I thought the goodbye would be more effortless if I feigned sleep. But there was so much of the plastic-bag sound that my curiosity drove me to sit up. What could possibly take an hour to wrap in plastic bags? My lenses were out, I couldn´t see a thing, except for his mischievous smile: "I tortured you," he said.
Soon he was by the front door, stooped forward in his backpack. I said goodbye but noticed he was still standing there. He was giving me a hand signal. I crawled forward to read it. It was a Star Trek greeting, the words for which he delivered in German. I had no idea what to do.
Watching him hobble around with that pathetic bathtub back injury for two days filled me with one certainty: the same thing would happen to me. Sure enough, I was standing on the uneven tub bottom, reaching down to dry a foot after a shower and PING, there went a muscle in the lower back.
This was just before I was set to recommence my pilgrimage along Le Chemin de Saint-Jacques Compostelle (El Camino de Santiago Compostela), so the timing was poor. I spent the next five days lying on the floor, on the mattress where the German had been. I felt no pain when I was lying still. After awhile, I would think, "What the hell am I doing just lying here like a lazy ass?" I would try to get up, scream, lie back down. This happened too many times to admit.
That got him the mattress against one wall. I slept perpendicular to him on my bedroll, my feet around the level of his waist. At my head was Chantille, perpendicular to me. Imagine the capital letter I, with me the cross-beam. I was still jet-lagged and sleep-deprived, but every time I fell asleep I would snore. The German would squeeze my toes as if they were the nose of a clown. I would roll onto my side but invariably roll back onto my back, the snoring position. Another squeeze. I marveled at the efficiency of this torture device, as if German-engineered. At my head a beautiful woman, untouchable. At my feet an enigmatic force that would startle me awake every time I finally fell back to sleep.
In the morning, Chantille gone to work, I tried to ignore the German. He was catching a flight back to Cologne, so I thought the goodbye would be more effortless if I feigned sleep. But there was so much of the plastic-bag sound that my curiosity drove me to sit up. What could possibly take an hour to wrap in plastic bags? My lenses were out, I couldn´t see a thing, except for his mischievous smile: "I tortured you," he said.
Soon he was by the front door, stooped forward in his backpack. I said goodbye but noticed he was still standing there. He was giving me a hand signal. I crawled forward to read it. It was a Star Trek greeting, the words for which he delivered in German. I had no idea what to do.
Watching him hobble around with that pathetic bathtub back injury for two days filled me with one certainty: the same thing would happen to me. Sure enough, I was standing on the uneven tub bottom, reaching down to dry a foot after a shower and PING, there went a muscle in the lower back.
This was just before I was set to recommence my pilgrimage along Le Chemin de Saint-Jacques Compostelle (El Camino de Santiago Compostela), so the timing was poor. I spent the next five days lying on the floor, on the mattress where the German had been. I felt no pain when I was lying still. After awhile, I would think, "What the hell am I doing just lying here like a lazy ass?" I would try to get up, scream, lie back down. This happened too many times to admit.
posted by Thon at 9:03 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home