It’s about 20 feet down. I’m a poor judge of height and distance usually, but from the bank yesterday it looked to be around 20 feet. Of course, the water level might have changed since then, but not by much.
It is truly amazing how quiet it can be in the middle of a city at the right hour of the night or very early morning. A few seagulls veering overhead with their unearthly crying, and exactly three cars – all taxis – in the last half hour. One single pedestrian had passed behind me on the opposite side of the street. He was drunk, hadn’t noticed me, and couldn’t stay on either the pavement or the road.
Strangely in the near-silence and the emptiness (which was full of the things that had been there, and would be again in a few short hours), I didn’t feel alone. I didn’t feel lonely, any more than usual. I felt at peace. That only strengthened my resolve. My feet kicked out into the breeze blowing under the bridge.
The wobble itself was less disconcerting than the arms that were suddenly around me, thick-muscled, steadying my sway.
“Careful,” he said, in French. The voice was quite deep. It’s remarkable feature was the humour that enlivened it, especially in what surely couldn’t appear to be a very funny situation.
“I am,” I answered in English. Tonight wasn’t a night for taking any prisoners. How was it that I hadn’t noticed this man, whoever he was, coming up beside me? My voice was steady and humourless. He should’ve cleared off.
“You’re not drunk.” Still I hadn’t turned around to look at my ‘saviour’. He, at least, had removed his bare arms from my waist. That unexpected intimacy had taken my breath away as surely as the cold brown water would.
“Why else would a young lady be sitting on the railing of a bridge alone in the middle of the night?” The humour was still in his tone, despite the gravity of the answer that rang out without being spoken. It didn’t seem he was in any hurry to leave, although the slowing pace of his breathing made me think he must’ve been running. For the first time I doubted the wisdom of my chosen hour. No-one would've stopped in the daylight, in the bustle. No-one would've assumed responsibility.
“I’m okay now, thank you.” Turning as I said it, intending to dismiss him with a look, we almost collided. Again he raised his hands to steady me. It wasn’t over-familiar or presumptuous; just the same instinctive move you’d make to catch a jar of jam falling out of a cupboard. The remarkable thing about his face, like his voice, was the humour that animated it. A smile seemed to be crouched in every line. He turned as if to leave and I returned to the ripples on the surface, the plastic bottles and bags. Three steps and he was jogging.
“You shouldn’t do it, you know!” He threw this over his shoulder the same way someone upriver had slung those bottles.
A heartbeat, a slow blink.
“Why?!” I shouted, not without a hint of anger.
I listened to the silence after his footfalls halted. I heard him slowly, treading softly, walking back in my direction, all the while theatrically holding the pause. Or thinking.
“Because you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself.” I felt rather than saw or heard him behind me again, as if my whole body was covered in tiny whiskers. A smile escaped. No teeth, though, and my rueful face was composed by the time he’d clambered over the black-glossed railing to join me. We sat three hand-widths apart and he peered down at the dark shadow of the bridge, the movement of the muddied water.
“How could you live with the guilt of my guilt on your conscience?” Of course, his question was absurd. “I’ll wake up every day thinking ‘What could I have done to save that girl who jumped from the bridge?’ And I’ll go to bed every single night thinking ‘How could I let her do that?’” He paused, but didn’t look at me. Kicking myself for thinking the thought, I found him handsome. In an unassuming way. A wide mouth.
“How could you live with my blood on your hands?” My mouth opened and a squeak of indignation came out before I could stop it. “Because eventually I would have to kill myself. Who knows, maybe I would jump from here. You would be my murderess.” The matter-of-factness caught me somewhere between scoffing and outrage, leaving speechlessness. He had already got to me on some level, though. I was listening.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” I blurted finally. “What do you care about me? And why should I care about you?”
“O-ho! A fine argument!” He was smiling, and I was angry. “So you don’t care about you, and you don’t care about me. There must be something you care about, otherwise what are you waiting for?”
What was I waiting for? Who was he that I needed to justify myself to him? Only a pretty face, and a pretty face never solved anything for very long.
“Maybe I should jump with you…” the stranger mused. “It would save us both a lot of heartache, don’t you think?” It was only when his direct gaze landed on me that I realised I’d been watching him. Me, stubborn in my reserve and isolation, completely focused on the task in hand.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” I said again, exasperated. “You must have a family and friends…”
“And you don’t?” He raised his eyebrows.
“That’s none of your business,” I snapped. “And the oldest trick in the book.”
“Ah, you’re disappointed in me.” This guy must be an actor, I thought. He managed to look genuinely ashamed of himself and his efforts to ‘talk me down’. Despite everything he was saying, it was hard to pin down the level of indifference he maintained as feigned or real.
“If you have to do it, at least have a little bet with me,” he said, as if bringing the matter to a close. “I bet 20 euro that you survive.” He held out his hand for me to shake, despite the 20 foot drop and deep, silty water.
“But…” was all I managed to splutter before he plunged in.
“And another little bet – I love to gamble now and then.” I shrugged to signal ‘go ahead’ as he deftly turned and leapt back onto the pavement.
“I bet 20 euro that I will be here before you tomorrow night.”
And he was gone.
