Storied By Josh

This is an older story I wrote years ago. I have never been to Brig. I would very much like to go.

Light spilled onto the stone and he sipped his drink. The air coming off the river sifted its way through the street and he could smell spring in the air already. The language coming from inside the pub was foreign to him and familiar.

Cannes was too full for him and Trier was too full of story book characters with smart phones. Florence was fine and the wine was good, but here, here was wonderful. An American by birth he had finally obtained his visa after graduating from college. It was a work visa but work was something he avoided like the plague. He had come to Europe to learn.His warm beer wasn’t something generally partook in but finding a decent scotch in this city was something of a rarity. So he sipped and complained only in his mind.

Occasionally a blonde would glance his way and notice his Americanized clothing. That’s how they could tell him apart. Everything In Europe was the same and different. He expected there to be differences, but even the styles of clothing were different…it had thrown him for a loop at first but now he had adjusted. He enjoyed the second glances, it made him feel…elevated somehow. It was a typical American response.

The Glishorn Mountain’s cold wind had abated for the moment and he was thankful. Grass had finally sprung up around in the town. Though it would fight like a cancer patient for a while until the temperature warmed more.

He was lost reading his Dante. He found the old writers hard to understand and their speak nearly as foreign as the voices around him. Brig was beautiful and he didn’t mind, he could think of worse places to be stumbling through a book.

Frequently, he’d write his mother back in beautiful Oregon. “If you could only see it here mother, it is as if God put all the beauty he could muster in a tiny place and told the people; ‘keep it secret, keep it safe.’ The women are lovely and the men are men, in their own Swiss way, I can’t help but be spellbound by this all. One day mother, we will visit here together.” His mother was the only significant woman in his life of many women.

His server offered to get him another drink. “Coffee, please.” She smiled and said something French. He didn’t understand it but her grin intoxicated him into his own. “Thank you…eh, Danke, shon.” She understood.

“Hello, Arthur.” The voice brought a chill to his backbone. She stood on the narrow street, just under six feet tall and brown hair that he had felt against his face before. Her eyes were brown and green, depending on the light and he remembered it all with the speed of the words that came out of her mouth.

“Hello, Chelsea.” He said. “I wasn’t planning on running into any Americans here.””Valais is a poor kept secret.”
“I supposed you’re right, but I thought Brig was. Here, take a seat.” He stood and pulled a chair out.
“I think I will, thank you.”
“Would you like a drink?” He asked looking for the server, but she was already gone inside.
“No thank you, I have a bus to catch in an hour.” She looked him over. “You should buy a razor.”
He snorted. “It’s Europe, somehow I doubt you’ve been shaving either.”
She smiled. “No, I’ve been much too busy.” She stared into his eyes. “It’s been a long time, Arthur.”
“Not so long, five years?” He tried the math in his head.
“Five is a lifetime for a young girl.”
“Not so young anymore. But still beautiful, still shon.”
“Like the waitress?”
“No, different, but still beautiful.”
“How have you been?” She asked, graciously changing the subject.
“I’ve been good, traveling alot. Work Visa. I’ve been over here for two years but they just keep extending the visa. I tell them I’m not doing anything, but you know how it is. What about you; what have you been doing?”
“Traveling some, I’m starting to run out of money so I’ll need to find work sometime. I’ve been working as a barista in Italy, but finally saved up enough to travel again. Is this where we’re supposed to compare travel stories?”
He smiled. “Please don’t, I’ve already done that a thousand times with a thousand Americans I don’t know.”
“Me too. What are you doing for work, then? Are you still writing for the Guardian?”
“Only to pay the bills.”
“Travel section?”
“World events and politics.”
“Figures,” she rolled her eyes. “Take the American out of America but you can’t take the America out of him.”
He chortled. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. Speaking of which, what have you read about it?”
“Nothing’s changed. Same celebrities, same Congress, same two party system.”
“I’m glad I’m not going back.”
“Aren’t you?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Think I’ll become an expatriate.”
“But still an American.”
“Always.”
“Good luck.” She said as she sighed, no one ever changed.
He eyed her. “Listen,” He said, pushing his luck. “Why don’t we go to my hotel room, it’s warmer.”
“That’s not gonna happen.” Her eyes lit up.
“Just the lobby, it’s waaaarrrrm.” He singsonged the last part.
She smiled a long memory smile. “You are good.”
“I’ve had practice.”
“No, Arthur, it’s good to see you, but it’s not that good.”
“Should I apologize?”
“For now? or before?” she chuckled.
“Both I suppose.”
“No, I was young, I was stupid.”
“No, I was stupid. You were a good thing.” And she was. He dared to think for a moment that she would be the one to tie him down. He woke up in the mornings as happy to see her as he was to fall asleep with her. For a while, but in what his mother described as his “WADD” or “Women Attention Deficit Disorder” he was eventually up to his old tricks. It made him hurt a little now. “You know, you still look like Emma Stone to me.”
“Skinnier?”
“Mmm. What’s going to get you into the hotel?”
She laughed outright, finally. “Nothing Arty.” She called him Arty. It had been long time since he had heard that.
“Fair enough. You look exactly like her.”
“Thank you.” She glanced at her watch.
“Aching to to leave?”
“No, actually. It’s been along time since I’ve had a conversation in English, I’m rather enjoying it.”
“Sorry it had to be me.”
“Don’t be so self deprecating, it doesn’t work.” Her bangs fell into her eyes, like they used to. He dared to brush her strand of hair, like he used to. She held her breath.
“I am sorry.”
“Me too, maybe another time. I should go though.”
“Would we really regret it if you stayed?”
She smiled forlornly. “Yes, Arty, we would.”
“I could live with myself.”
“I know. But things are different now.””I am sorry.”
“Quit saying that.”
“Fine.” She stood up. “Art…Arthur, you were my favorite.” And she turned away, before turning back. “Did you ever love me then?”

He thought for a moment. Unsure of how to respond. She started off muttering something about how she shouldn’t have asked that, it was a stupid thing to ask. He stood up suddenly, and grabbed her hand.”You were everything.”

“Oh fuck off Arty.” She started laughing and he couldn’t help it. He pulled her close and kissed her on the mouth. At first she accepted, then quickly she pulled away.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop it. Stop saying that.”
“Fine.”
“I’m going now.” She paused again, “I loved you too.” And she walked away. And walked.
And walked.

The waitress came back out after she had left.”Est-vous des ami?” she asked.
“The very rare kind.” He said before he pulled out a few Euros. “I am taking a walk.” he said to no one in particular. As he walked his mind danced in the memories they had made those years ago. Before he knew it he was out of the village and looking across the valley.

Suddenly he knew that no matter where he went things would always change to stay the way they were, It didn’t matter if he was in Bruges or Brig. But he desperately hoped he would meet her again. Then he knew he was lonely, finally, after all these years he was lonely.That was what he had come here for. To be alone. Yet he knew it wasn’t really.

Maybe he had hoped that under the starlit sky he would find a nice bilingual Swiss girl who made waffles to die for and love in the evening. It wouldn’t happen though, and he knew one thing for sure. He had wished she never came here. How dare she?

Ruining my vacation. How dare she? He would never forgive her now, he would never take her even if she was begging and hungry. He threw his copy of Dante as far as he could, which wasn’t far.

Damnit, he thought. I wish I had never come to Valais.