My Double-Whammy Days and Nights

By Derek Diamant

Will young Gareth ever get his memory back? He’s lost in Paris, sleeps in parks and under bridges.

He wanders from church to church seeking comfort and solace. Will he eventually find his parents and who and where is this Mr Healer, the man everyone is looking for to cure mind and body?

Gareth meets Big Berthe of the night and other strange and wonderful characters, some of whom are just as down and out as he is. He is amazed to discover he has the gift of the double whammy and when he releases it, bodies fly. He also starts to paint and this is how he manages to eke out a living.

And then there’s this bird cawing away overhead and which sometimes comes too close for comfort.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jan 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398441477

Derek Diamant

Derek Diamant was born in Woking, England in 1942 and at an early age immigrated to Canada with his family. He now lives in France where he has worked for many years as a freelance technical translator. He also paints.

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About the Author

Derek Diamant was born in Woking, England in 1942 and at an early age immigrated to Canada with his family. He now lives in France where he has worked for many years as a freelance technical translator. He also paints.

Dedication

For my mother, Anna.

Wondering what she will think of this novel and why she didn’t

give me piano lessons.

Copyright Information ©

Derek Diamant 2023

The right of Derek Diamant to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398441460 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398441477 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

20230321

Acknowledgement

Grateful thanks to my dear friend, Bill Cipolla, for taking precious time out to proofread the manuscript. His valued comments and suggestions encouraged me to take a good last look at my story before turning the final page.

And thanks and great appreciation to Philipe Sicard who, with a watchful eye, helped me to pore over the original manuscript and proofs.

Thank you to team Austin Macauley, for all you have done.

1. Memory, What Memory?

I don’t know who I am.

I can’t remember anything.

My mind is cloudy, all clogged up, my memory in limbo.

I’m in the city of Paris, wondering how I got here in the first place and who the hell I am.

I touch my body. All the physical parts seem to be there.

Only my mind is elsewhere, but where?

I’m on the Pont des Arts, a pedestrian bridge made of metal. Lots of people cross it every day.

I’m one of them and I’m starving. Please, stomach, stop growling. People are staring.

A pigeon is pecking at my feet.

What looks like a three-eyed toad leaps up onto the embankment. Strollers seem indifferent to it, concentrating on strolling and nothing else. My eyes are riveted, although I don’t see it in a frying pan. My stomach is yearning for better days ahead.

Small and large bateaux-mouches ply their way up and down the river, almost non-stop. A few gulls seem to be tethered to them by invisible strings. These airborne prisoners are relentless.

I stare down at the water, now blue-hued, now off-grey.

Chop-chop go the waves.

My eyes are glued to the ongoing flow of water, the deep shadow of my head ceaselessly bobbing up and down. I glue my eyes down there so that I don’t have to think of anything else. Thinking makes me giddy. Thinking makes me sick.

The sky is immense with its clouds momentarily at a standstill as if waiting to have their picture taken.

I sit down at the side of the bridge, tired of clinging to the railing, wondering what to do next.

That’s what it’s there for, says a friendly drunk, reading my mind while I’m grasping the railing like a child on a seesaw.

I lean my back against it, dozing off for a while. When I awake, there are a few coins lying at my feet. I must look a mess, like a tramp. The drunk is no longer around.

I grab the coins before they roll away, get up slowly and head down to the embankment, descending one by one the concrete steps at the side of the bridge, feeling my stomach rumbling once again. Rumble, rumble.

Day by day the coins start adding up. I’ll be able to buy some soup and a baguette. One elderly woman brings me a homemade salad. Some people have a soft spot for homeless young people.

2. Life’s a Muddle

Standing on the edge of time.

Waiting for a nickel.

Begging for a dime.

Steering clear of slime.

So much of it.

Throw those coins to me.

And then we’ll see.

I’ll count and count.

And then some more.

Wondering what’s in store.

Time will tell.

Up there on that bridge.

Down here in hell.

Is there another way

To keep these fears at bay?

I shut my eyes.

Close them tight.

Mustn’t see,

What’s coming tonight.

Life’s a muddle.

Mind the puddle.

Where’s my bed?

Wish I were dead.

Forging ahead.

But still in dread.

Where do I go from here

On this pier?

Somebody please lead the way.

Do I go or do I stay?

A clump of dandelions seems to be in solitary confinement against the wall here on the Right Bank.

I must look for my bag. I hid the thing somewhere along here. I also have to pee something awful. I do what I have to do against a wall, waiting first for a pause in the flow of strollers and at the same time looking out for those policemen patrolling this part of the embankment. Must be careful not to get caught. I have no identity papers, don’t know what happened to them if I ever had them.

After relieving myself agreeably and at length, I see where the bag is but there’s a man stretched out nearby, completely immobile. He appears to be so far gone that he might even be dead or on the verge of the hereafter. Looks like a severe case of rigor mortis if you ask me. People passing by avoid him like the plague. Why don’t the police come and cart him away?

His nose finally twitches, thank God!

I look up at the Pont des Arts.

The old footbridge seems to be heaving, it’s that windy. It must be sighing, looking back to the time when it was a sleek young thing, full of enthusiasm, not a dent in its structure from the many feet treading upon it and always getting an eyeful from its low vantage point peeking up the skirts and dresses of a million lasses.

I pick up my shoddy bag, a personal embarrassment. It contains nothing but a small cake of soap and a few toiletries. It was almost new when I found it, left behind in the Tuileries métro station by some tourist. Inside it was a map of Paris, a sketchbook, some pencils and crayons, no money.

I walk along the Right Bank of the Seine in the direction of Pont Neuf. The sun is going down in a big way. The colours of the sky take over, changing hues almost on cue.

I spot a half-eaten sandwich of ham, egg & tomatoes on the quay, looks almost recent! I grab it fast, smell it just to make sure, brush off all the ants and other insects, then wolf it down. The pleasure of it going down my rumbling stomach is indescribable, like an edible heaven.

While sitting on the edge of the embankment, my head starts to spin from looking down at the waters churning below.

The sun settles in for the night, while clouds above make overtures to the moon.

The stars hide themselves while making plans for an appearance later on.

Hovering overhead is a strange-looking bird with a wingspan as wide as that of an eagle. It seems to be closing in on something. I can’t see what it is because of the dying light in my eyes.

A fat rat is clawing its way through thick, grey tissue. First a mere approaching bulge, now a dark reality upon me. Its pink eyes are flashing something awful. The bristles above its eyes are moving. Its snout is so close I can see the rodent’s dark nares. The tissue is floating aimlessly in the air and the animal is scurrying now.

I’m frozen with fear, wondering what I’m doing here and why I can’t get away. The tissue descends on my face, covering my eyes, nose and mouth like a shroud. The only noise I hear is the rat trying to find its way out of the room. Swish-swish goes its tail.

3. Giddy Steps

I’m still moving slowly along the Right Bank. More children than usual are to be seen here and there, the younger ones clutching their mothers’ dresses tightly. It must be their day off from school.

The tawdriness of the dress a little girl is wearing does not deter the polka dots on it from dancing a giddy reel. Those polka dots are swimming before my eyes, I’m that hungry.

She is being reprimanded by her mother who says, Repeat after me, I will be a more obedient girl.

Little Bo Peep

Has lost her sheep

And is in deep shit

I look down at the paving stones, now noticing their surprisingly perfect symmetry. I also watch where I’m going.

No railing here, so one wrong step and it’s into the grey waters of the river for an unexpected dip.

Perhaps a chance of crossing the path of a mermaid with fishy eyes.

The laughter of the children is infectious, bringing a sudden gaiety to the place. Lovers, oblivious to all that is going on around them, are entwined on the bank, their legs dangling over the edge. You could be drowning, shouting for help between gulps when coming up for air and they wouldn’t even hear you. You could be mugged, carried away kicking or attacked with a blunt instrument, their kisses would drown out these unspeakable events. Yet you envy them, their carefree ways, their passion. Just to see them lying there brings on a loneliness, now swelling.

It’s a sultry summer’s day, what’s left of it. The sun is now making way for the shadows to creep in if ever so meekly.

Now, I won’t have to shade my eyes and blink.

4. No Inkling

I see, I flee, I’m me.

I search, I seek, I’m weak.

I laugh, I sigh, I cry.

I come, I go, I’m slow.

I listen, I hear, I fear.

I sleep, I dream.

I’m not what I seem.

Here I sit and there I sat.

Wondering where it’s all at.

First one moment passes, then another.

Where’s my father, who’s my mother?

Here I come and there I go.

No inkling of tomorrow.

I turn left, I turn right.

The day is ripe.

And soon the night.

Here I come and there I go.

Moving along with the flow.

Endless minutes become endless days.

Which contribute to my present phase.

Step by step I walk each street.

Shuffling along with these tired feet.

I have to find a place to sleep tonight. Not under the bridge this time, the sickening stench of piss and shit is too much for me, that and the sound of drunks throwing up dregs sunny side up. The place is dangerous to boot. I can’t rid myself of the foul stink of my days and nights as a lost soul in Paris. The vermin of it all.

I count the coins in my possession. With a little bit of luck, they’ll take me to some fleabag hotel room for the night. Must find that rundown place near passage Gatbois, just behind the Gare de Lyon. They don’t make a fuss about who you are and ask no questions. The only problem is sometimes cockroaches run rife and spiders come to get you from the ceiling.

Here comes a flock of girls with their teacher, their frilly dresses seeming to frolic with the wind.

It is then that I see a man sitting on the edge of the bank, staring into space. He has a forlorn look about him. Perhaps he doesn’t know who he is either. He’s got pock marks all over his face and big buckets under his eyes perhaps filled with remorse. He seems to be waiting for something to happen, as if he had all the time in the world. There is something oddly familiar about him, also the woman with the children running around her in circles. She seems unable to cope.

The man now rolls a pebble toward the edge of the bank. He looks and waits for the force of things to sweep it over the edge. There is barely a sound of it entering the water and all that is left of this action is the watchful eye of the thrower, hardly expecting the pebble to jump back but still gazing as the object rolls toward the edge in slow motion.

I see this head bobbing up in the water like a life-buoy, looking as if it were coming up for air each time one of those tourist boats goes chugging by. Nobody else seems to notice it, no one pointing at it dramatically, while shouting. There’s a bottle floating beside it. Probably Help! written inside. The bloated head is still bobbing up and down. The next day, same head, still there, the bottle gone.

In that hotel room near passage Gatbois, I hear all the world’s sighs through the thinnest walls ever built. Then, I fall asleep between the crinkly sheets.

Now.

I abandon sleep.

Without a peep.

Here comes Morphine.

Open your arms.

To welcome her.

She with hair so long.

Down to the waist.

And oversleep, sometimes rudely reminded by the slovenly housekeeper that I have to be out of my room by noon. Back it is then to the streets for me, leaving the ill-lighted, narrow, bleach-scented corridors behind me. When I have no other place to go or not much money, I still go back, putting the underbelly stench of bridges and fleabag tenement building entrances behind me, if only for one night.

5. I Start Drawing

One day, walking aimlessly somewhere along the Left Bank, near rue du Bac, I stop in front of an art gallery. A wild array of colours has made an impression on me as I gaze through the window. They are vivid, these colours coming together with a touch of turmoil, hues giving way to other hues, revealing a strange landscape from which emerges the face of a woman, her long, fair hair entwined in the branches of a tree at the forefront of the canvas. She appears to be coming out of a deep sleep and is staring at me. I have caught her eye. I begin an imaginary dialogue with her to which she does not reply.

This is when I start drawing.

I remember the sketchbook in my bag. I must try to bring back the face of that woman as soon as possible. That way I won’t have to return to this art gallery to see her. Soon she’ll be gone, perhaps sold to some American tourist.

I’m sitting in the doorway of a building with a matt grey façade in the old Marais quarter, watching the world go by. Legs, feet and wheels move along in unrehearsed fashion, waiting for a choreographer. Toddlers are the ones that stop in their tracks to look at me, perhaps mistaking me for some doll fallen from their pram. I smile at them and they smile back, then parents or nannies pull them away fearfully. I wonder what I look like to make them act that way.

In a recurrent dream, a woman is speaking each time, calling out.

Son, where are you? Come play hide-and-seek wherever you are!

Are you sulking again? Don’t be afraid, I won’t give you your cod liver oil!

Because the bottle’s empty!

We’ll drive down to the park so you can play with your friends, Hans and Gretel.

The weather’s good and I want to stretch my legs.

Wake up! So many things to do! The day’s waiting for you, so it can get started! Open those teeny-weeny eyes, move those legs, wiggle those toes, shake a leg, move that body of yours!

I’ll make ham sandwiches with relish, bring some radishes and soda, too.

Strange, no name comes up in the dream. I start calling myself Gareth, the name I saw and liked, on a book jacket in a quaint bookshop on the Left Bank.

I often go to bookshops to keep out of the rain. I like the way people look at books so religiously and I also enter churches, for the calm atmosphere, the way people speak softly to one another, as if in fear of waking up the dead with a jolt. The thing about bookshops is that people sometimes leave their umbrellas behind. In churches, nobody leaves anything behind other than the day-old newspapers they have sat on.

I think of Mummy.

When I was in her tummy.

And she was playing gin rummy.

Drop the rummy, that leaves gin.

And Mummy loved gin.

But that’s no sin.

After all, I’m her next of kin.

I remember her nipples.

Sending joyous ripples.

Through my little body.

Now astir.

Where is she now, my Mummy astray.

So far away.

Can she hear my plea from the heart.

So simple it is, but where do I start?

Paris has many gardens and courtyards hidden away as if on purpose. Apart from the coins that generous people leave me on the bridge and the embankment, I earn money in the neighbourhood by tending residents’ gardens and terraces. It keeps me busy and on my toes. That way, I think of nothing else but soil, roots, petals and leaves.

Sometimes, as I crouch in doorways before being quite briskly chased away by vigilant concierges, I remove my mangled sketchbook from my bag and start drawing the people I see going by. Fewer bodies than body parts, legs and more legs, like clumps of trees and feet, not always attached to the same legs, make a big blot on the paper,