David

I met him through a Russian friend at a dinner party. David was a retired English professor. I noticed his fine features, which were set in a square handsome face. His eyes were alert. No doubt, he had been taller in earlier years, but his slim frame was still well proportioned. The conversation turned to Rainer Maria Rilke. Oh, yes, he is an exquisite German poet. Yes, I had heard of his ‘The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge.' Could I please read a paragraph in the original language? All the lights of the crystal chandelier burst into illumination – that, and not my good looks, was the reason for the invite!

         The passage I was to read was half a page in length. Well, yes, why not, I pull that kind of trick at any banquet. My throat was suddenly devoid of any moisture. I felt the pressure. Ok, here we go.

Not sure how happy they were with my skills to emphasise certain phrasing, after all, I had never read him, and of course, I comprehended that I was reading to a sophisticated audience of connoisseurs here. I must have passed the test, as David invited me to his place to read and debate Heinrich Heine’s epic poem ‘Germany: A Winter’s Tale’. We also discussed the libretto of, and listened to, Mozart’s ‘Magic Flute’.

David’s house was in St Lucia, opposite a church. Overgrown weeds were intermingled with remnants of things that had been planted long ago. A pink flowering frangipani had uprooted some of the white fencing. Tripping through the vegetation I followed the small winding pavers to the low set red brick house. David greeted me with a continental kiss on each cheek. Bookcases filled the walls and surrounded the fireplace. In fact, as I was to find out later, every room, and I never found out how many rooms that house had, was filled with bookcases. But then, that is what you would expect from a literary man in those days.

We settled onto 1970s Danish lounge style chairs and started reading, me that is. David would stop me, and we would discuss certain expressions. As classical scholar his vast knowledge of music, history, German, Latin and absolutely everything, astounded me. He had written seven science fictions books and corresponded with Ursula Le Guin, pointing out her inconsistencies, which did not seem to diminish their friendly relationship. Frequently a phrase would prompt him to recite long passages of literature. By simply reading to him, I learned so much from the ensuing discussions. I think we both got what we wanted in the regular meetings that followed.

David was born in India but was sent to an English boarding school at a young age. After finishing his degree, he travelled extensively and taught in England, where he married. The university paid for the family’s, by now they had a son, passage to Australia. He stayed with his employer till his retirement. Though David’s wife had passed some years earlier, he placed a freshly picked bit of red geranium every day into a small vessel in front of her photograph.

At some point he took me up to his observatory. The long passage in the middle of his house led to a deck overlooking uninhibited foliage otherwise known as jungle. The smallest of step ladders led up a wall onto the roof above one room. The deck was no more than four by four meters. David had painted squares onto the floor. I think that assisted him in following and calculating the stars. It made perfect sense to him, the astronomer, and he explained it to me in detail, but I never understood it. However, I did admire with him the night sky and the gradual appearance of all the twinkling stars. It was a magical moment and worth the precarious climb up, and of course, down again.

David, the raconteur, enjoyed the rituals of days gone. Drinks, olives and nuts at five o’clock. Enjoyable dinners at the Amphora. He would be in his element, debating and reciting. One day David introduced me to his new lady friend Ann, birdlike, slim, blond, botoxed to the max, I was fascinated. Older than David, Ann was perfectly manicured and coiffured. The tinge of her fair hair would match either her pink or blue designer outfit. Widow of an English surgeon, vegetarian and more English than the English, she kept the conversation going. To emphasise a point, she would address her partner as darling this and darling that, ‘oh darling’, still rings in my ears. She recounted fascinating episodes out of a life, lived well. David adored her.

It is all a while ago now. I think of David with great fondness for having enriched my life and to paraphrase his beloved Rilke, if there are stars that do not fade, David was one of them.

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