19-25 CATEGORY
1st Prize: Emile Nelligan est Mort, by Iona Carmichael After finding you in his company, I held Émile Nelligan in my hands. Although slim and delicate as a fish bone, he was heavy with a language I didn’t understand. I took him to the bridge. I leant over its side. January’s remains were starved and seagull-grey. The river was a spill of ink. When the leftovers of the day finally coloured the sky, I drowned him. It began the day the clouds gathered and dropped hints of snow. December held its breath. My brain was restless. I’d retreated to Leaky’s, the only second-hand bookshop I know that serves drinks and home-made soup. I often go there to write. I like the cold and the hush and the smile of the old owner. Life has stretched her thin, skin tight over the gnarls and knots of her joints. I sat at one of the scrubbed wooden tables on the indoor balcony, pleasuring my tongue with real coffee. That afternoon I gave up on my poem and wandered among the stacks, tightly packed with neglected books and the smell of vanilla-yellow paper. I drew my fingers along the shelves, until I came to a hardback that had edged forward, out of line with the other books. I eased it out. It was a volume of Auden’s poetry. And there was another book wedged within it. Its cover was a deep red, its spine crippled. There was no title. I opened it; a ghost of dust escaped. Émile Nelligan Et Son Oeuvre. Montreal 1903. The opposite page bore a portrait of a young man. Below it someone had pencilled: 1879-1941, French-Canadian. Influences: Baudelaire, Verlaine, Poe. Wrote 170 poems aged 15-19, before going mad. I leafed through the book; the poems were all in French. I turned back. The poet had a mane of dark hair swept away from his forehead. His features were broad and dramatic. But what made him so striking was his vulnerability, the way he wore sadness with elegance. He reminded me of a muzzled bear, slave to a performance of simple tricks. And beyond all this there was something else. It was there in the dark well of his pupil. As I re-read the pencilled notes, my thoughts turned to you and your thesis. Your struggle with ‘Identity and Intertextuality in Québécois Literature’ had drained you of colour. I paid fifty pence for the anthology in the hope it might help. ‘It’s in French,’ I said when I handed you the book. You opened the slim anthology; interest stilled your water-green eyes. ‘Émile Nelligan …’ ‘Have you heard of him?’ ‘No.’ You flicked to the middle of the book. ‘ “Fantôme, il disparut dans la nuit, emporté par le souffle mortel des brises hivernales.” ’ I waited for you to translate. Instead, you turned back to the portrait. I could see he had your attention. At first, your interest was innocent: you were a scholar with a new-found subject. I listened to you talk about Nelligan’s life and theorise about his work. Ideas hit you like bouts of fever. You quoted lines of his verse, slipping in and out of French with ease, as if it were a lover. I grew irritated and curious. I searched the internet until I found copies of Nelligan’s poems. I pinned them to the walls of the study, read and re-read them. The poet’s voice rose with a powerful clarity. From bizarre and beautiful images Émile Nelligan emerged like a phantom, a winter creature, lingering at the periphery of his poetry. December collapsed into January. Another magazine rejected my poems. I read the editor’s letter, and then spent the day in Leaky’s, drowning my sense of failure in coffee. ‘How are you finding that French poet?’ asked the old owner when she served me my third cup. ‘Canadian.’ ‘Ah.’ She nodded. ‘You know in French a goldfish is red: le poisson rouge.’ I gave her a weak smile. I tried to write, but Nelligan paced the edge of my thoughts. When I returned to the flat, I was surprised and pleased to see your shoes at the kitchen door. I heard your voice. Had you brought someone back? I wanted you all to myself. The bedroom door was afar. You were stood at the foot of the bed, facing the mirror. You were half-naked and reading Nelligan aloud. I pushed open the door, took a step into the room. You continued to read, until you glanced up – caught my reflection at the mirror’s edge. The room was filled with an afternoon light that brought life to the changing colours in your hair. Did you feel the tips of your ears redden? ‘Don’t stop.’ You smiled. ‘It’s ok. I got carried away.’ You dropped the book on the bed. I had the rejection letter clutched in my hand. ‘Is that Nelligan?’ ‘He’s a real find. His poems are so naked and honest, yet they have this - this deadly impact … I - I keep forgetting he’s dead. When I read him, it’s like he’s there – laid on the page … I don’t know … he’s just ...’ ‘Distracting, damaging…’ You nodded. ‘He retreated into verse. There was always a struggle between his inner self and outer reality; it created great poetry, but tore apart the poet.’ You paused, surprised by what you’d said. ‘I need to write that down.’ You scrabbled around for a pen. Nelligan had captivated you again. I went to the bed and flicked through the anthology. Your annotations were closed around his verse. Would my work ever prove worthy of such scholarly devotion? ‘Strange that you can enjoy so much intimacy with someone who’s dead.’ ‘You sound jealous.’ ‘No.’ You looked up. I shook my head. ‘I’m not jealous.’ Silence opened up between us. I laid the anthology back on the bed. ‘What’s that?’ You indicated my letter. ‘Oh, nothing. Just some notes. I was going to get a cup of tea. Do you want one?’ You shook your head, frowned down at your writing. ‘I’m meant to be going out. You can come if you want.’ ‘No.’ I held up the letter. ‘Got these notes to work on.’ Only when the kettle had boiled and I’d stirred a second sugar into my tea did I allow myself to breathe. Then, I retreated to the study and lay on the floor in the last patch of sunlight. I woke to the silence of Sunday. A shower warmed me and my head drew comfort from a pot of coffee. I tuned the radio and sat at the desk. By the time the caffeine reached my fingers, I’d covered my notebook in random words copied from Nelligan’s verse. I could not escape his sad, prophetic cry. Yet the poet himself refused to surface. He was distorted behind some final layer of meaning that I could not grasp and withdraw. ‘… it’s like he’s there – laid on the page …’ I bit my lip. And then I tore at my notebook, swept the words to the floor. I tugged on my coat. The bedroom smelt of drunken sleep. I paused beside the bed and examined the constellation of freckles that marks your left cheek. How familiar and yet strange it seemed. ‘ “In the dark well you see there lies the source of all this drama.” ’ Yes, I was jealous. Émile Nelligan had slipped between us, disturbed the surface of our lives. He waited on your desk. I walked slowly. My feet knew where to take me: the park on the west side of the city. Crows squabbled, swings faded into drab. I headed for the bridge that arches over the large lily pond. I weighed the book in my hands and thought of the fish wintering in the water’s depths. ‘In French a goldfish is red: le poisson rouge …’ I frowned, flicked through the anthology. The language looked so familiar, yet was a puzzle; it exasperated and enticed. It had created an intimacy between you and the poet. You could see what lay in the well of his pupil. I could not: in the act of translation it had fallen into obscurity. I pressed a stone between the pages of the anthology, before looking once more at Nelligan’s portrait. ‘ “I, too, have dreamed of making poetry that lives.” ’ By then the leftovers of the day were finally colouring the sky. Émile Nelligan is dead. Inspired by the life and work of Émile Nelligan. Quotes taken from The Complete Poems of Emile Nelligan edited and translated by Fred Cogswell.2nd Prize: Platform,by Eley Williams
"Art must take reality by surprise." -Françoise Sagan
At that most crucial of moments, Christophe felt a tap on his shoulder. 'Sir, Mademoiselle: such behaviour is not permitted here.' Christophe and Julia detached themselves from one another immediately; spinning around, they found the top of a hat protruding into their shared line of sight. They lowered their gaze and discovered this hat was attached to a tiny railway official. He smiled up at them. Julia rearranged her hair and searched for her rail ticket in her bag. As she hopped on one leg, blushing furiously under the soft lights of the station, she looked ungainly and out of place, an embarrassed flamingo. Today of all days Christophe had been hoping for turtle-doves, not flamingos, and with some anger he turned to the man who was the cause of such a transformation. 'Can't a man kiss his fiancée in public?' Julia was only in Paris for the one day, and Christophe had intended to propose that evening in a restaurant at the top of the Théatre des Champs Elysées. But he could not wait, and as she had descended from the train at the Gare du Nord she found him kneeling on the platform. A tearful yes from her, and Christophe had just enough time to sweep her joyfully into his arms before this stranger interrupted their encounter. The attendant had a remarkably bulbous head, Christophe thought – it was so large and domed that perched atop such a small frame he had the proportions of some kind of grotesque toddler, an impression made all the more sinister by his arrestingly bouffant moustache, corrugated forehead and single, fluffy eyebrow running parallel to the peak of his official hat. This gargoyle, this uppity homunculus, this twisted putto; Christophe could have strangled him. 'Don't worry, I have my ticket just here,' Julia was saying in her unsteady accent. The attendant tutted. 'I am not a ticket inspector, I am simply here to uphold the law. It is illegal to kiss on railway platforms, did you not know?' 'Preposterous!' Aware he ought to emphasise this point, Christophe continued, weakly, 'I've seen it done in countless perfume adverts.' 'Nevertheless.' The attendant closed his eyes, relishing his words. 'It is strictly prohibited under French law.' Christophe and Julia blinked. The attendant was wearing a shirt so starched you could have juiced lemons on its creases. Christophe's voice took on a wheedling quality. 'Look, we weren't kissing, as such. Embracing, maybe. Osculating. Perhaps we were verging on an errant canoodle - I've lived in Paris three years now and I've never seen any law against that!' 'If we all were to kiss on railway platforms,' the attendant remarked, in tones as clipped as well-heeled shoes against marble flooring, 'it would congest the whole station. Perhaps you think you are above the rest of us?' Commuters were pausing on the concourse with their briefcases to regard the three of them; a number of pigeons had halted their courtship pirouettes to stop and take in the scene. 'I must ask you both to leave the station at once,' pronounced the attendant. 'Come on, Chris, I'm only here for the one day,' said Julia. Christophe, however, had squared his shoulders and his jaw, and a vein at the side of his head had coiled itself into an outraged, contoured knot. 'What law?' he demanded. 'Go on, exactly which law? When was it implemented?' '1910,' said the attendant, coolly, holding Christophe's stare. It was then Christophe saw the truth of it: this attendant's sole function was to slide out behind pillars and disrupt fiancées from having even the most innocent of congresses. Here was a loveless, bitter official whose only pleasure came when slamming his freshly-inked stamp of bureaucracy all over the delicate love-letters of spontaneous, human affection. With his massive head and moustachios, Christophe realised, this little Dandie Dinmont terrier of a man was the very avatar of officiousness. Granted an opportunity, he would undoubtedly be able to quote every subsection, paragraph and clause of this idiotic law. He would not be given the satisfaction, however. Christophe grabbed Julia's bag and stomped towards the sign marked SORTIE. 'Welcome to Paris, Mademoiselle!' cried the attendant to their departing backs. As they marched, Julia tried leaning against Christophe and injecting a fresh levity to proceedings. 'So where first on this whirlwind tour, mon chéri?' How he longed to tell her that the list of activities he had planned for them was over three pages long, with late additions written even as he had waited on the platform for her train; how he had been living for this day, choreographing over the preceding three weeks the way, to the exact footfall, he had envisioned their time together. Christophe had lived in Paris for long enough to know elements of the city well - where to get the best tuna-fish sandwich, see the best graffiti, meet the jazz saxophonist with the widest hand-span and smell the sweetest pastries being prepared - and yet knew that he would see it all with fresh eyes when she was beside him. The station attendant had changed all that. 'We are going to the law library,' he growled. Not taking her hand, he wheeled left out of the station with a renewed purpose in his stride. So it was that for their single day together in Paris, Julia and Christophe swapped café society for leafing through La Gazette du Palais in the Centre Pompidou; instead of whispering sweet-nothings over the croci in the Jardin des Tuileries, they ran their thumbs down the Journal Officiel in Le Kiosque de Assemblée Nationale. Christophe had too wild a look in his eye (and lacked the proper accreditation) to be allowed access to the Bibliothèque Nationale, but they spent a good four hours trying. Christophe became most animated. As the day with her new fiancé came to a close, Julia was exhausted and irritable, with mascara smudged up by the heel of her hand after so much index-checking and catalogue-flicking. If anything, the comfort of the train carriage home was more appealing than spending another moment in Christophe's company. As they returned to the station for her return journey, they found the attendant still there as if he had remained in wait. Christophe hadn't eaten all day. Fuelled by a ferocity of feeling she had never seen in him before, she watched Christophe barrel up to the attendant in huge strides. The attendant puffed up to meet him, tomcat-like. 'Monsieur?' 'You were quite right about the law's date,' said Christophe. 'Do you know what else happened in 1910, however? I've spent all day researching. The planet earth passed through the tail of the Halley comet. Can you imagine such beauty, on a stellar level?' 'Sir..?' 'That very same year, a fire at the World Exhibition that year destroyed the British and French exhibitions. Can you think of a more incendiary symbol of continental fragility, the ravaging of cross-channel relations?' 'Sir, I must insist...' Christophe's voice sank from a roar to a keening, spittle-flicking hiss. 'That same year Django Reinhardt was born – remember his song 'A Little Love A Little Kiss', you Philistine? And in your precious 1910, Leo Tolstoy died – have you read his passionate letters to Valeria Arsenev? A landmark year, you could say, for talents centred upon the expression of passion, the very articulation of affection.' The attendant was now visibly trying to get away, but Christophe would not let up. 'Christophe, there's my train...' Julia whispered, but her fiancé seemed unable to hear her. 'In 1910,' he went on, bristling, 'Klimt's painting The Kiss was two years old. And Rodin had been promoted to a grand officer in the Légion d'Honneur. Have you seen his statue The Kiss? Look, I bought this postcard from one of the bouquinistes on the Seine, see?' Christophe thrust something under the trembling official's nose. 'Can you read the caption? “Room of The Kiss by Auguste Rodin, Musée du Luxembourg, Paris, circa 1910”. I paid 50 cents for an image that has more human warmth than you and your so-called law could afford me on the whole length of this platform.' The attendant waited for what would come next. 'And now my fiancée must catch her train back to London,' Christophe managed, voice breaking, 'and you tell me I cannot even kiss her goodbye on her journey? What happened to Paris as la ville de l'amour?' Here Christophe drew Julia to him, and pressed his lips delicately against her cheek. 'Monsieur, I must protest -' began the attendant, finally stepping forward. And then, as Julia made her way through the barriers with her ticket scrunched in her hand, she watched as her future husband planted both his hands on the attendant's shoulders, knocking the official peaked hat from its place, and gently kissed the attendant smack-bang in the middle of the station concourse.3rd Prize: The Art of Surprise, by James Gheerbrant As M. Huget pressed his weathered face up against the woman's bosom, Vincent Lefèvre felt his confidence recede into the warmly enveloping folds of the tatty leather armchair. Five yards away, with all the proficient and untrusting scrutiny of a surgeon dealing with a particularly foul or unusual foreign body, his art supervisor was examining his final submission for the term: a portrait of a reclining nude. Huget was a curiously ambulatory critic, pacing round the room to inspect the piece from acute angles and outlandish distances that seemed to preclude any objective evaluation of its merit. When at last he spoke, he was braced uncomfortably against the far wall, and it was to the easel, not Vincent, that he addressed his faltering inquiry: “Is it art?” Huget was a small man with an avuncular mien and twinkling eyes that bestowed boyish curiosity rather than severity, and his queries and observations were couched in the sort of sententious generalities that would not have made him an imposing detective. And yet it was with a familiar frisson of terror that Vincent searched in vain for an answer that would allow him to escape the reality of his inestimable ignorance in this regard. “It's a painting of a nude, monsieur. I hardly see what could be more typically artistic.” “That,” said Huget with a grin, returning to sit opposite Vincent at the leather-topped desk, “Is rather my point.” “I don't understand, monsieur.” “Art, Vincent, is not merely a matter of execution. Technically, your painting is good, excellent even. And yet I find it conceptually...” – he selected the word with the relish of a child picking a particularly choice sweet from the jar – “infantile. Great art, you see, must provoke. Disturb. Astound. It must show us what our eyes cannot see. It must never provide answers, only pose questions. Above all, art must take reality by surprise.” “Sagan,” muttered Vincent. Huget laughed. “What did I say about never providing the answers?” Vincent did not return his playful smile. “You will recall,” continued Huget, “That you are expected to complete your final project over the summer. In August, you must present your complete body of work for examination. For this the École provides a grant of 5,000 euros. The brief is open. The opportunity is yours to be bold, creative, original, daring,” he said, tossing adjectives into the ether with the joyous abandon of a Masson flinging sand and glue at his canvas. “Or,” he added in conspiratorially hushed tones, “You may see it as 5,000 euros with which to do anything you like.” “Within reason.” Vincent wasn't quite sure if he was asking Huget a question or completing his sentence for him. Huget leaned closer and offered his pupil one of his mischievous twinkles. “Or without it.” * * * As he ruminated on the day's events over a fortifying beer at a local café, Vincent's mood was a heady mixture of exhilaration at the freedom that the project afforded him and frustration at his inability to come up with an idea that didn't seem trite, absurd – infantile. Then, of course, there were the lingering dregs of his rancour from Huget's admonishment. Of course he knew what art was – he'd been studying the thing for three years, for goodness' sake. And to criticise him for painting a nude of all things – would he have chided Boucher, Courbet, Manet? He could feel the sense of injustice rising inside him like the gassy bubbles racing to the surface of his lager. “He said what?” Sitting at the small table with Vincent was Christophe. Christophe was Vincent's best friend, a position he had come to fill more or less by default with the departure or degeneration of various other childhood acquaintances. Dry, analytical, a journalist by trade, Christophe was a rather welcome counterpoint to the more impetuous extremes of Vincent's artistic temperament. Not, of course, that Vincent would ever have let him suspect as much. Those familiarly inquisitive eyebrows reminded him that he was in the middle of a story. “He said it was infantile.” “Christ. You didn't do him a crayon sketch of your house did you?” “No, in fact it was a nude. An infantile nude. Funny, 'cause you don't see many four-year-olds in life-drawing classes, but there you go.” “And what are you supposed to do with the 5,000 euros?” Vincent sent his cigarette butt cartwheeling into the gutter with the insouciant flick he had first mastered one adolescent summer. “Anything I like. As long it's shocking. Provocative. Apparently I've got to take reality by surprise.” “I see. What's your strategy? Turn off the lights and sneak up on it from behind?” “As funny as this may be for you, this project could very well make or break my artistic career, and unless the right side of my brain wakes up some time soon, chances are it's going to be the latter.” “Why don't you just blow the money on a party? That'd really shock him.” Vincent laughed bitterly, but he realised Christophe was not laughing with him. “I'm serious. Rent some place out, invite all the bright young things of the Parisian art scene, and bring your camera. Then go crazy – I'm talking sex, drugs and rock and roll, and the more graphic the better, 'cause remember you're getting this all on film. I'm coming too, of course – I'll write it up for the Figaro. 'École des Beaux-Arts student blows grant on one-night orgy' – that's your shock and provocation right there. Hand in the photos and the press cuttings in your final dossier – tell them it's a comment on the irresponsibility of youth, biting the hand that feeds it and all that. Why the hell not?” Vincent knew all too well that trying to part Christophe from an idea was like trying to wrest a bone from a particularly tenacious dog, and, in the deliciously hazy befuddlement of a half-drunken summer evening, he felt his resolve ebb away. With a dread that didn't seem to register properly, he saw himself clink glasses with his friend. * * * He had known all along that it was a mistake. He had allowed himself to be seduced by the pleasantly lurid colours of the photographs, the schoolboy thrill of the small media storm, most of all by the insane logic of the whole enterprise. Huget had wanted him to shock, to step outside his comfort zone, to take an idea and run with it, and he had done all those things. But as he shrunk into the recesses of the armchair and watched Huget's stern back as he poured himself a coffee, he realised this was an absurdly flimsy defence, and it would not protect his dreams of an artistic career for very much longer. Had he really expected that those thin lips would turn upwards in a proud smile, had he really imagined that wizened hand would extend from that purple corduroy sleeve to clasp his own in congratulation? “Tell me,” said Huget finally, in the slow, measured tones of a man trying to hold back a rising tide of quiet fury, “What exactly you were thinking when you came up with this idea.” The rationalization that Vincent had rehearsed over and over in his head was weak and wavering. He could not bear to meet his teacher's eyes; instead, he stared at his hands as he heard the hollow echo of his own craven justifications ring around the room. “You do realise,” said Huget, “This is the single most outrageous act in the École's proud history.” Vincent nodded with a sudden remorse that felt wholly inadequate. “Perhaps,” said Huget, “That was why I loved it so much.” Vincent's uncomprehending mind did not immediately understand the cathartic giddiness that overcame him. Slowly, he lifted his gaze with the reverent cautiousness of a man who suspects he may be in a dream and does not wish to wake up. There was that familiar twinkle. “The École wishes to offer you a full scholarship,” continued Huget, “In the hope that you'll continue to produce work of such extraordinary conceptual” – he chose his word with customary care – “maturity.” Huget circumnavigated the desk with spry steps and extended his purple corduroy sleeve to lay his wizened hand on Vincent's shoulder. “Nice to know,” he said with a laugh, “That reality retains its capacity to take the artist by surprise.”
16-18 CATEGORY
1st Prize: Unwelcome Visitorsby Lucy BinghamLe sommeil des morts. It envelops me like a thick blanket, dark and serene. I do not dream, I merely exist. My breath is slow and regular, my heart giving occasional thumps. Je me sensléger comme une plume, mais lourde comme une planète. Anyone who saw me would think that I were a corpse- cold, unmoving, dead. “Griswold!” A fuzzy, piercing voice filters into my sleeping ear, and there is a creak as the lid of my box is opened and flung aside. Morning air swoops in like an ice cream scoop, expelling the perfect heat of hibernation in an instant. My tissue paper bedding rustles and a frustrating rayon de soleil leaps into my shell, scorching my face. Calmez-vous, Griswold. Dormez à poings fermés. “Mummy, he isn’t awake. Why isn’t he awake, Mummy? It’s April. Granny said he’d wake up ages ago. It’s not fair, I don’t want a silly tortoise, I want money, toys—“ Ouh, p’tit coquin! A deeper, more mature voice cuts in. The sound tastes like une soupe aux légumes, with too little salt- thick and drab. I do not recognise it, but the accent is English. She seems to chew on her words before letting them out. “Darling, Griswold has to wake up in his own time- no, don’t poke him! We just have to wait, and then he can come out and play. And don’t be so rude about poor Granny, you know she isn’t well. She sent Griswold all the way from Paris because she wanted him in safe hands. He’s very old, so you have to be gentle with him, okay?” There is a plaintive pleurnicheur, and a vicious jab at my shell, before they depart, neglecting to replace the lid of my box. I hear fading footsteps, and enfin, I am alone. Easing my head out of my shell, I blink slowly and regard the dusty ribbons of sunlight that dance above my head. Mildewed air creeps into my nostrils. Thin strips of rose-coloured tissue paper line my box, which has smooth cream walls and an understated black border at the top. I always was a tortoise of delicate taste. I give my stubby legs a brief stretch, and heave a huge yawn, ma bouche creaking and snapping shut. I fancy that soon I will soon hear the approaching shuffle of sheepskin slippers, those sweet mutters of senile dementia, her flowing floral nightdresses and syrupy smelling inside-out cardigans. Je pousse un soupir de soulagement and bury myself further into the delicate pink. Closing my beady eyes, I try to return to the land of sleep. But I cannot; the bedding crinkles when I move, and a cold breeze whispers in my ear. Stale air fills my lungs and then my stomach gives out a mournful cri, like a little child. Why no concombre? Whenever I wake up in Spring there is concombre. Desperately, as my heart begins to kick up from its slow rhythm of hibernation, I search in the tissue paper for some morsel of food. There is none. My stomach yelps and fiercely kicks as if trying to escape from my tough skin. I close my eyes like a weary maman, and groan. Stretching my neck, I can see the view from my box. Wooden slatted walls lined haphazardly with garden tools surround me, and a spider scuttles busily along the sill of a grimy window. I am in a shed- mais je ne lui connais pas. Those unfamiliar people now seem to be in charge of me, apparently due to “Granny’s” illness. I had known that ma vieille dame had been unwell for some time. She had talked to me of seeing three legged sausages on the dinner table, or hearing a marching band as she made her morning café. My eyes would crinkle into a smile as she searched in vain for her false teeth, and when her shaking hands carried me to le jardin for my daily walk. As she chatted to me, I would nod meditatively, munching on crisp lettuce leaves and concombre. She used to talk to me just the same when she was une petite fille. I loved to listen to her. As she solemnly filled my box with rose tissue paper, I knew this would be the final time she said bon nuit. The last thing I remember of her is a waft of Arpège and a soft, wrinkled fingertip stroking my nose. After several hours, the humans return to the shed, picking their way through the scattered garden tools. The child squeals as she brushes against them. There is yelp as the sharp fingers of a rake catch at her clothes. I allow myself un petit sourire of satisfaction. I look up at the faces peering in at me, the foreigners. One has a small, pudgy face, with a slobbering mouth and fierce red cheeks. Soggy, fat fingers poke at my face, welcoming me back into the world. I attempt to conceal my disgust with a benign sourire aux anges. The other watches from above, with jangling earrings and a humourless stretch of mouth, like une vache on its hind legs. Her mousy hair hangs heavily to her shoulders like drapes, and she surveys me with wide-set brown eyes, shadowed by drooping lashes. At last, her hand, with bitten nails painted a lurid crimson, reaches into my box and offers me a handful of diced carottes. There are no wrinkles or liver spots, just a plain canvas of bland, sallow skin. Ragged cuticles and chipped nail polish pass my face as she moves the hand away. I certainly can’t smell Arpège this time. I sniff at my meal disdainfully, noting the greying skin of the unpeeled old vegetables, and grudgingly begin to chew them after my stomach lets out a yowl of impatience. “Mummy he’s so hungry!” marvels the young human, attempting to force a piece of carrot into my mouth. It tastes like plasticine and biscuits. “Look, I’m helping him, he likes me- Don’t you, Grizzle?” I most certainly do not. I miss ma vieille dame, who held me as though I were made of glass, who carefully peeled ma concombre before feeding it to me. The way her neat curls of white hair framed a face which sagged softly, and the gentle ‘clique-clique’ of her pearls. I turn away from them in despair, and, resisting the squeals and pokes of the young human, draw my head into the empty darkness of my shell.2nd prize: La Salle Pleyelby Jenny Metcalfe The invitation sits on the mantelpiece, one edge hidden behind the photo frame. She pulls it from behind the black and white picture, where it leaves a trail in the dust. The paper is heavy, with a golden border and looped, stylish writing. The date reads 17th December 1927, and there is a concert in La Salle Pleyel. Marc Bellanger is the soloist, a young pianist with his debut concert, playing Debussy’s ‘Reverie’. Feeling his soft touch on her arm, she closes her eyes. The orchestra walked offstage, chattering amongst themselves as they followed the conductor, who in his rage had forgotten his shoes. Marc Bellanger smiled to himself, crossed the stage, and went to sit down at the piano. They had left the spotlights on and the glaring white light almost blinded Marc as he shifted the stool into place. He couldn’t see the seats in the empty hall; simply darkness and silence. The piano had been polished and tuned in preparation for the concert that night. Marc placed his hands over the keys and played one note. Pure and clear as a struck crystal the sound sang through the room. ‘Perfect’. Instinctively, his feet found the pedals and pressed down. His fingers danced across the keys, the sound arced through the silence. Rippling, dream like, the music swelled through him. It was a beat deep within him, a current that tugged at his hands as they floated above the piano keys. Gradually, he lost sight of the theatre. Colours blossomed before his eyes, the light blazed like fireworks. He could taste a honeyed sweetness in his mouth, as streams of shimmering pearl, diamond and sapphire notes rippled through the air. As the key turned minor, the colours became subdued, distinct, yet muffled. Quietly he pressed his fingers on the piano, firm but perfectly controlled. He breathed slowly, the deep notes reverberated through him, his hair stood on end. Triplet rhythms tripped lazily from his right hand, dropping like rain into a still pond. The sustained notes in the left hand oozed, as richly warm as hot chocolate. The ‘Reverie’ began drawing to an end; Marc closed his eyes and let his fingers feel for the keys, allowed time to slow, and the last chord died. When he could only hear his own heartbeat, he relaxed. ‘If only all the others could play as you do, Monsieur Bellanger.’ Marc turned on the piano stool, then rose as the conductor walked towards him. The conductor and head of music at La Salle Pleyel was a man of short stature and greying hair. He wore a pocket watch, carrying it in the same pocket as his baton. He carried the folded invitations, edged in gold. He had waited in the wings as Marc practised. The piano was magic that afternoon. When Marc played, the conductor forgot the pressure of the concert, due to start at seven o’clock that evening. He remembered why he had become a musician in the first place. It is said you shouldn’t let people influence your life, but with some you have no choice. Sergeant Henri Bellanger was one of those people. He wasn’t a particularly strong fighter, or a particularly brave man, but he had a look that made Captain Motte pause. He was always calm, always polite, whatever the circumstances. Motte never heard him swear or raise his voice to anyone. The sergeant always smiled when they met. He had a mantra, a phrase he whispered to Motte once when they took shelter in a bombed farmhouse. ‘If you can’t sense it, it’s not real.’ The farmhouse had been under fire, some windows were broken, furniture was coated in a film of dust and the sunlight was trapped in shards of broken glass. The men began scavenging for souvenirs, rummaging through the cobwebbed cupboards and collecting the abandoned food. Henri walked straight to the piano. It had taken a battering, but the strings were intact. It was an oak brown upright piano; its keys were yellow, chipped and covered in dust. Henri pulled across a chair and sat down. He began to play. As he did, the men fell silent and listened. Captain Motte lay down his rifle. When Henri finished, he turned around with the same unconcerned smile he always wore. ‘“Reverie” by Debussy.’ said Captain Motte, thinking of better times. ‘Yes, captain. It is beauty and dreaming, peace unsurpassed.’ Captain Motte agreed, though he didn’t have time to say so. As Marc finished playing the conductor strode into the spotlight, his feet cold against the wooden boards. ‘If only all the others could play as you do, Monsieur Bellanger.’ he said. Marc smiled cheerfully at him, turned and closed the piano. The conductor shuffled through the invitations in his arms. The expensive paper with gold lining was beautiful, the lettering delicate and artistic. He found the invitation with Madame Bellanger’s name on it, and handed it to Marc. The boy, only 17 years old, took the invitation with a slight bow of his head, then held the sheet lightly in his long, thin fingers. Madame Bellanger draped her black evening shawl over her shoulders. She glanced once more at her reflection in the mirror and touched a hand to her hair. Henri smiled at her. ‘Mum, we’re going to be late.’ ‘They won’t start without you, Marc.’ she called, walking to the door. Marc stepped out of the living room and stood very straight in his black coat and tie. ‘I can’t be late.’ he said. ‘Come here.’ Madame Bellanger reached up and straightened Marc’s bow tie. She took Marc’s arm and together they left their flat. La Salle Pleyel had ordered a car to take them both to the auditorium, the black cab’s engine chugged noisily as the driver helped her in. Marc slid into place beside her. She stole a quick look at her son, who was staring out of the window, humming Debussy under his breath whilst his fingers danced on his knees. He looked so like his father. Just as handsome, just as thin and tall with long delicate fingers. Not a labourer’s fingers, an artist’s fingers which could float with a lightness hers never could master. He had the same way of holding his head as his father, the same long steady stare that melted her heart. The reflection in the cab’s window distorted the shadows of the buildings and people they passed on the roads. The whole of Paris was alight, shops and streetlamps glowed as circles in the darkness. There were few men on the streets; those out in the bitter winter night wore long grey greatcoats, shoulders hunched against the snow, heads bowed against the wind. Madame Bellanger saw Henri’s head bend gently, felt his fingers brush her face. She hastily checked the contents of her handbag, searched, frantic, for the invitation to the concert. She found it, sighed and snapped the clasp closed, patting the bag on her knee. A doorman opened the cab as they arrived at La Salle Pleyel, and took her hand as she stepped onto the icy pavement. ‘Wish me luck.’ said Marc, bending to kiss her head. ‘Good luck, I love you.’ she replied, squeezing his arm. Marc slipped away from the main door and through a side entrance. The doorman guided Madame Bellanger inside and raised his cap when she thanked him. Inside the entrance hall, the elite of Paris society sipped champagne and refused canapés from waiters in sapphire waistcoats. The plush carpet glowed scarlet in the honey light of the candelabras. She went to stand by an ornate mahogany desk, smiling at the young couples she passed, nodding to the older men with medals on their chests. Above the desk was a large mirror, edged with golden angels. Behind her Henri smiled and grasped her shoulder. As it came to seven o’clock, the crowd slipped into the auditorium. A young man with jet black hair and a hired suit approached her. ‘Excuse me, Madame Bellanger?’ ‘Yes, young man.’ ‘The conductor himself has asked me to lead you to your seat. May I see your invitation?’ She pulled the gold edged invitation from her handbag; the young man smiled and took her to her seat. Moments later, the theatre darkened and a spotlight glowed on stage. The crowd applauded politely as Marc entered, bowed, caught his mother’s eye then sat down at the piano. She opens her eyes. Her fingers shake as she turns the invitation over and over in her hands. Sighing softly, she replaces it on the mantelpiece, returning it behind the photo of Sergeant Henri Bellanger. She turns and put the needle of the gramophone in place. The recording sings and she hears Debussy’s ‘Reverie’, played by Marc Bellanger. She does not merely hear it, she senses it, therefore it must be real.
3rd prize: Monsieur Aries,by Jim McGovern Mrs Potts doesn’t breathe as she watches the moustached man spreading frosty icing over the cake. The quaint little shop is thick with a heady scent of sugary icing and sweet butter cream. ‘You see, Madame Potts,’ the man says quietly, ‘baking is not a skill. It is an art. Creating the perfect cake requires more than time and effort. It needs care … it needs love.’ For a moment, their middle-aged eyes meet. Then Monsieur Aries turns his attention back to the cake. ‘There, c'est fini.’ ‘C’est parfait,’ breathes Mrs Potts. ‘Your French is becoming very good.’ She blushes and examines her manicured fingernails. ‘Thank you.’ ‘So, your friend’s birthday. She is excited about it, yes?’ ‘Oh, very much so.’ Six of Mrs Potts’ friends had had birthdays over the past two months, and for each occasion Mrs Potts had ordered a special cake from Le Gâteau, Monsieur Aries’ famous shop. But if Monsieur Aries had found the sheer volume of orders he was receiving from Mrs Potts peculiar, he did not mention it. Mrs Potts stares at the slanting rain hammering against the pâtisserie window, and then looks back at Monsieur Aries. She pauses for a second, then opens her mouth as if to speak. ‘Yes?’ She shakes her head. ‘Nothing, nothing.’ An uncomfortable silence reigns for a few seconds, before Mrs Potts speaks again. ‘That cake is absolutely splendid. Jennifer will be so pleased.’ ‘I’m glad you approve. And, as a token of your regular custom, I will give it to you for half the price.’ Mrs Potts stops for a second, searching through her list of recently memorised phrases from A Total Beginner’s Guide to French. ‘C'est gentil à vous!’ Monsieur Aries smiles. ‘De rien, madame. De rien.’ The lady surveys the little shop through her circular glasses. The illuminated glass cabinets are filled with sweet-smelling flans and framboises. Monsieur Aries stands over the counter, fingers tucked into the pockets of his elegant waistcoat. ‘I shall pick it up tomorrow morning,’ says Mrs Potts. ‘And thank you again.’ After a brief moment of hesitation, she opens her umbrella and sweeps out of the shop into the whirling rainstorm. The bell tinkles to mark her exit. The shop falls silent, and Monsieur Aries stares pensively out at the rain. ‘Ah, love,’ he says reflectively. ‘Amour.’ It strikes him as he shapes the words with his mouth how inadequate and fragile they seem. How could a single word like ‘love’ or ‘passion’ or ‘euphorie’ describe the intricate feelings crashing like waves against the shore of his mind? No word, neither in English nor in his mother tongue, could not possibly encapsulate the complexity of the actual sensation. Words, by their very nature, seemed doomed forever to be blunt instruments when describing the sensitivity of the human soul. All his life, Monsieur Aries had loved books. He had taken immense pleasure in losing himself in another place, another time, somebody else’s story. But now he was experiencing his own story. He had read countless romances, countless descriptions of other people falling in love. And yet, they had never quite prepared him for how exhilarating it would feel. * ‘Damn you, Mrs Potts!’ A young girl, passing along the street, is somewhat startled by the lady’s outburst. ‘I’m sorry,’ says Mrs Potts, reddening. The girl just grins and walks by. Curse you, Mrs Potts! she thinks furiously to herself. You made yourself look like a complete fool back there in the shop!You know how you feel about him. Why didn’t you say something? The truth is that Mrs Potts hadn’t been able to find the right words. For the two months she had known Monsieur Aries, a spark of passion had grown within her until it burned like a violent, raging fire. How could she possibly condense those endless weeks of beautiful agony into a few short sentences? You see, Monsieur Aries … Frédéric. Is it okay if I call you Frédéric? I know I’ve only known you for a couple of months but … Mrs Potts thrusts her key angrily into the front door and steps over the porch. A purring greets her from the living room; a cat with flaming red fur leaps into her lap and she strokes him absent-mindedly. For a few minutes, Mrs Potts thinks sadly about her lonesome life. She thinks about her mother and father, who died when she was thirteen. Then she thinks about her string of failed romances. Steve Roberts, Adam King, Steven Walsh. It was not like she hadn’t tried. She had. But she just hadn’t been able to relate to the men she had dated. They had seemed utterly strange to her, like beings from another galaxy. But now there was one man that she did understand … ‘How should I tell him how I feel, Harris? What would you say in a situation like mine?’ The cat simply purrs contentedly. ‘Oh, how silly of me. You’re just a cat, of course. You can’t speak. What must it be like to have no words, no language, no way of expressing … never mind, Harris. Let’s get you a tin of tuna.’ * Monsieur Aries lies back on his leather couch and picks up a newspaper. He reads about famines and wars and weddings as a spinning Ravel record sings like a wild Cardinal. But his mind refuses to focus on the headlines; instead, it drifts back to Mrs Potts. That friendly, flustered face, constantly chatting about everything and nothing – the weather (inclement or otherwise), taxes, television programmes, chewing gum on the pavement – anything to fill the silent world with words. And Monsieur Aries would always stand and smile. He was convinced that his love for her was mutual. There were so many signs. The reddening of her ears when she talked to him, her constant fidgeting with her lapel brooch, the never-ending orders of cakes for her friends’ parties. Monsieur Aries had never actually been one for relationships. He had preferred to read about others experiencing affection and companionship, sometimes even believing that he was incapable of such feelings himself. He had moved to England from Montpellier as a young man, and had forgone such worldly pleasures, instead concentrating on carving out a life for himself, working himself to the limit until finally he had created the most highly regarded pâtisserie in the United Kingdom. Monsieur Aries’ life had been interesting, varied and satisfying, but it had also been lonely. A young man in a foreign land, speaking a foreign language … He had managed to cope, certainly, but he had always felt somewhat isolated from the rest of the country, even after mastering the language. He had often felt that something was missing from his life, like the piece of some huge jigsaw puzzle that has fallen out of the box. Mrs Potts was that final piece of the jigsaw, he was certain of it; she would complete him. He sighs, and resolves in his heart to tell Mrs Potts his true feelings about her. ‘I love you, Mrs Potts,’ he mutters to himself, and turns off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. * The bell tinkles as Mrs Potts brushes into the store. Monsieur Aries, taken by surprise, jumps to his feet. ‘Mrs Potts – greetings!’ ‘Bonjour!’ Her face reddens, right on cue. ‘You are here for the cake?’ She nods distractedly. Words and sentences charge around her mind like crude, clumsy animals; none seem suitable for use. As usual, a short silence falls, and Mrs Potts breaks it with her normal banter. ‘It’s beautiful weather outside. Absolutely gorgeous.’ ‘Indeed. The rain, fortunately, seems to be giving us a respite.’ The two hearts beat rapidly and in synchronicity. Nobody speaks. They both grasp and fumble and grope for the right words, but none spring to mind. They stare into each other’s eyes. At that instant, they recognise each other’s expression. They know they are both trying to say the same thing. But neither one of them can express the feeling in words. Mrs Potts cannot bear to look at him any longer, so she glances out of the window. Her cat, Harris, is sitting on the opposite pavement, tenderly preening a female cat. The two animals are silent. And yet – such love … Mrs Potts grabs Monsieur Aries by the lapel and kisses him. He kisses her. Tears are shared. And all without a single word. As the couple embrace, silence falls. But for once, Mrs Potts does not mind.
Special mention: Swansdown,by Natasha BailyWords are loaded pistols.Jean-Paul SartreThere are any number of things you can do when the world is ending. You can speed yourself into a conceivably less cruel one by applying a streak of hot lead directly to the brain and hoping for the best; you can drink until your liver turns thick and leathery and stagger around in the street cursing Huntziger and the rest of those useless bastards at Compiègne. France est perdue. For now, you can say what you like because nobody cares any more.Words will not become dangerous for at least a little while longer yet (fast forward a year or two and just the mention of the word Résistance will be enough to make sure nobody ever hears you say it again) so you may as well let them all out before the time comes to hold your tongue. In a ground floor apartment on the Rive Droite of Paris, a woman is tucking an untidy five-year old into bed. Read me a story, Maman, the child whines. In all honesty, the woman is tired right down to the bone and further, a sort of tiredness of the heart and can think of few things she'd less rather do. Which one do you want, p'tit chou, she sighs. Extraordinary that any language can turn "little cabbage" into an endearment to be slipped into the ear of a loved one. Le Lac des Cygnes, the child pipes, wriggling away from the mother's hand as its nose is swiftly scrubbed with a piece of cotton. Swan Lake. A surprisingly astute choice; beneath the tutus and pink pointe shoes, a tale of blood and betrayal and beauty lost. No war in this one though.It seems then, that another thing you can do at the end of the world is tell a story. In his dream, there is a lake. Glassy as a mirror and colder than death, dark as any water may be where there is no moon to float upon its surface. He imagines if he were to dip his hand into these waters, it would come out stained an inky black from fingertip to wrist. There were yellow irises fringing the shore in the spring, bright and bewildering as happiness, but now there are none and he wonders how long winter will last.For it is winter here, of that there can be no doubt; that of course is why he's wearing his best cloak, the one generously lined with Russian ermine, and matching cap in the same silvery fur. Cold can be bought off if you have enough money to do so, and he is a prince after all. There are swans here, a great snowy mass of them splashing in the bulrushes and he raises his crossbow to take aim. Swan is delicious when roasted, especially the dish that is all the fashion at the moment where a succession of smaller birds are sewn inside the roasted swan, from duck down to a single quail at the centre.There would be nothing out of the ordinary in this part of the dream, were it not for the fact that in the moment he glances away to brush his hair out of his eyes, the swans are no longer swans. They are women.One is taller than the others, with the rigid posture of a princess and dark lakeweed hair straggling down her back. Her neck is long and pale and enticingly vulnerable; her eyes too light for her face, the startling blue of duck eggs and sunny skies. She is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. The feeling that always comes upon him at this point is one that stays with him even when he awakes, the feeling of having a heart too large for his ribcage- fragile and stretched as a balloon with sudden ridiculous love for this swan-woman whose name he does not know. Je t'aime, the words adhere to his skin so that he wakes up sticky with them, as though he's been bathed in syrup.Dreams have a way of blurring, fragmenting like broken mirrors and the reflections they throw up are anything from entrancing to horrifying. This one is no exception. The lake is gone- it is his birthday now, his eighteenth and they are dancing in the great hall of his palace. His swan princess (for so she will be once he marries her) is dazzling, all smiles and swift pirouettes. He catches her eye for a moment and is disconcerted by the odd metallic glint he sees, somewhere between spite and triumph.Dismissing it as a trick of the light, he does not notice the heavy body of a white swan thumping despairingly against the leaded window. Wingtips pressing against the glass like pale fingers. Occasionally at this part of the dream, he is lucky enough to wake up before he finds himself inexplicably by the very same lake he began at. His princess is at his side, though there is something rather crueller about her face- the eyes are almost black in the fading light and if it were not so idiotic to think so, he would swear she is squatter than he remembers and flabby as unbaked dough.He is aiming at the swans again and once more they are not swans. One raises her head. The woman (his princess, he has to remind himself because it is too preposterous to believe that he has been deceived by a cheap copy) at his side closes her hand over his where it rests on the crossbow trigger and squeezes. There is a look of surprise and terrible loss on the face of his swan princess as an arrow skewers her through the gut. She makes only the smallest of splashes as her body hits the water.If he has not done so already, this is when he screams himself into consciousness. He's screamed himself sick on more than one occasion before, though it is no less humiliating for being so familiar. A servant cleans him up, dabbing nervously with a damp cloth and mutters a quiet shall I send for the queen, sire? Royal life has not suited his queen, now grown fleshy as a marrow, with several chins spilling over her jewels. He can feel her revulsion- married to a man whose nightmares have cracked him like an egg, about whom even the servants snigger. Poor mad His Majesty.It's just a dream, darling, she cooes, with the kind of false smile one feels obliged to use for invalids and very small children. But what mere dream could conjure up the look of shock mixed with heart-shattering sadness he sees every night as he impales his beloved with his own betrayal?It isn't a dream, he snaps. He remembers her stubby fingers closing his own around the trigger. What did you do with her afterwards, he asks, feeling the bile rise in his throat at the image of the limp white thing in the lake. It was just a swan, darling, don't be so ridiculous, she simpers. What do you think we did with it? We ate it stuffed with juniper berries, your favourite, swan is so delicious roasted, wouldn't you agree? A stuffed princess. A lake at midnight, an imposter wife, a love so all-consuming it brought a prince to his knees and turned his brain soupy with regret. You can change the words, but the story remains the same. At the end, you always end up with death somehow or another."That's not how Lac des Cygnes goes, Maman," the child complains when the mother has finished, "The prince marries the real princess not the other one and you didn't say anything about the magician and the princess doesn't die at the end!"The mother sighs and tiredly pushes her hair off her face. "I suppose she doesn't... Maman's just very tired tonight, chérie." The child snorts a goodnight, affronted by the story's dissatisfactory ending and Maman's failure as a storyteller. The secret of the storyteller, you see, is to tell the one everyone knows, to tell the normal story with no surprises. No listener likes to be caught unawares, stabbed through with an unexpected sentence while their guard is down.But then again, she reflects, nothing is particularly normal any more.
