smile spreading across her cold lips.
âI loved you,â he said, didnât you know that, didnât you realise it by now? She lowered her eyes, accepting her fate.
69- He raised his other arm and pushed. Mimi offered no resistance. Her body toppled over the rail and disappeared into the darkness and the sea. He looked at the illuminated face of his Tag Heuer: it was one in the morning. The distant horizon was 200 miles off both the coasts of Denmark and Germany. A time and a place for love and death.
The Ballad of Scott and Zelda
Maxim Jakubowski
This is how it could have happened (anachronisms and all).
Scott â December 1940
Yes, the past is a different country, he thought. Damn right. And these last few months, every single night, he had tossed and turned in the narrow bed, even when Sheilah had visited, as it all came back. Visiting his own lost life again, armed with no more than his mental passport.
To avoid the pain, he had moved into Sheilahâs apartment. Hers was on the first floor. His had been on the third. He could feel it all ebb away. One slow day at a time. There was no longer much work at the studio, and he knew the book was at a dead-end. Something told him he would never finish it. Or at any rate, not to his satisfaction.
She was so kind. But it just felt like charity for the poor, the under-emotional, the under-haemorrhoided, the under-cocked. He grinned broadly and filled the glass again. She had set him up with a writing board, and he kept up the pretence that the novel was making good progress. There was pain climbing the stairs, there was pain all the time, but the worst was not the physical deterioration, it was the past flowing back, reluctantly, as he couldnât just close his mind to its cruel assault.
He sipped the whisky. The glass was soon empty. He filled it again. Not much left in the bottle. No worry, he could always phone out for another delivery.
All this booze made him want to pee. He snickered. It just came in and seemed to flow through his body like water and come out the other end so quickly. He avoided his drawn, gaunt face in the bathroom mirror. He now spent most days in his faded blue dressing gown, with a pocket full of pencils and one always balanced over his ear. The great writer at work. And play.
Another glass, then. Yes. At least the whisky kept him warm inside.
Sheilah had arranged a doctorâs appointment for 20 December, but he had managed to get it cancelled on the pretext of some problem with his writing. He had no need to be told what was wrong with him. He knew all too well. The slow usage of time. He also knew that it wasnât illness or his body giving up on him that would kill him in the end. Because he just wouldnât allow that. The drink would do it so much faster and more efficiently. And painlessly. Just as it kept him alive right now. And erased all the memories of the past. The so-called golden days. St Paul. New York. The Côte dâAzur. Paris. Hollywood.
He hoped the alcohol wouldnât kill him at least until Scottie graduated from Vassar. He would write to her again tomorrow with advice. And maybe, with a bit more work and attention, he might actually finish the novel by February. It was just that he had lost much time following the heart scare, when he had fainted outside the Schwab drugstore in November. The medics had said it was his heart, but Scott knew. It was the booze clawing away at his insides. But he needed it so much. Couldnât get through the day without it. Ironically, it kept him alive as it killed him.
He looked, and suddenly the whisky bottle was empty. No matter. Tonight they had agreed to attend a movie preview of This Thing Called Love at the Pantages Theater. And he would wear his Brooks jacket, the pink shirt and a bow tie. Made him look like a dandy. He smiled.
Stock up on more booze afterward. Yep.
F Scott Fitzgerald, American author, died the next day. He had written the
âI loved you,â he said, didnât you know that, didnât you realise it by now? She lowered her eyes, accepting her fate.
69- He raised his other arm and pushed. Mimi offered no resistance. Her body toppled over the rail and disappeared into the darkness and the sea. He looked at the illuminated face of his Tag Heuer: it was one in the morning. The distant horizon was 200 miles off both the coasts of Denmark and Germany. A time and a place for love and death.
The Ballad of Scott and Zelda
Maxim Jakubowski
This is how it could have happened (anachronisms and all).
Scott â December 1940
Yes, the past is a different country, he thought. Damn right. And these last few months, every single night, he had tossed and turned in the narrow bed, even when Sheilah had visited, as it all came back. Visiting his own lost life again, armed with no more than his mental passport.
To avoid the pain, he had moved into Sheilahâs apartment. Hers was on the first floor. His had been on the third. He could feel it all ebb away. One slow day at a time. There was no longer much work at the studio, and he knew the book was at a dead-end. Something told him he would never finish it. Or at any rate, not to his satisfaction.
She was so kind. But it just felt like charity for the poor, the under-emotional, the under-haemorrhoided, the under-cocked. He grinned broadly and filled the glass again. She had set him up with a writing board, and he kept up the pretence that the novel was making good progress. There was pain climbing the stairs, there was pain all the time, but the worst was not the physical deterioration, it was the past flowing back, reluctantly, as he couldnât just close his mind to its cruel assault.
He sipped the whisky. The glass was soon empty. He filled it again. Not much left in the bottle. No worry, he could always phone out for another delivery.
All this booze made him want to pee. He snickered. It just came in and seemed to flow through his body like water and come out the other end so quickly. He avoided his drawn, gaunt face in the bathroom mirror. He now spent most days in his faded blue dressing gown, with a pocket full of pencils and one always balanced over his ear. The great writer at work. And play.
Another glass, then. Yes. At least the whisky kept him warm inside.
Sheilah had arranged a doctorâs appointment for 20 December, but he had managed to get it cancelled on the pretext of some problem with his writing. He had no need to be told what was wrong with him. He knew all too well. The slow usage of time. He also knew that it wasnât illness or his body giving up on him that would kill him in the end. Because he just wouldnât allow that. The drink would do it so much faster and more efficiently. And painlessly. Just as it kept him alive right now. And erased all the memories of the past. The so-called golden days. St Paul. New York. The Côte dâAzur. Paris. Hollywood.
He hoped the alcohol wouldnât kill him at least until Scottie graduated from Vassar. He would write to her again tomorrow with advice. And maybe, with a bit more work and attention, he might actually finish the novel by February. It was just that he had lost much time following the heart scare, when he had fainted outside the Schwab drugstore in November. The medics had said it was his heart, but Scott knew. It was the booze clawing away at his insides. But he needed it so much. Couldnât get through the day without it. Ironically, it kept him alive as it killed him.
He looked, and suddenly the whisky bottle was empty. No matter. Tonight they had agreed to attend a movie preview of This Thing Called Love at the Pantages Theater. And he would wear his Brooks jacket, the pink shirt and a bow tie. Made him look like a dandy. He smiled.
Stock up on more booze afterward. Yep.
F Scott Fitzgerald, American author, died the next day. He had written the
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