Let me sing of an evening in spring…
Sweet May had begun and a lofty breeze was blowing warmly winds through the gracious trees along the quais of the Seine. I was walking alone to assemble with friends to feast and celebrate those new pleasant nights that follow blue-skied days. It was a holiday throughout the city and the shops and markets were closed. The restaurants too were closed and it seemed like everyone had gone to the country or had otherwise disappeared.
At the Palais Royal, I met with long-tried friends. In the square by the silent métropolitain stairs, we stood and planned our evening of victory. All were inspired by the arrival of a good friend: clever-tongued Mich, who had just flown in from Madrid where he’d almost married a tender-lipped Spaniardess, daughter of a well-groomed father who knew of vast land and fortune.
“We’ll drink on the terraces at Place des Vosges,” some proposed.
“The city is empty for the day and night,” others sighed, “the chairs will have been brought in, and there will be no one to serve us.”
“We can feast on the riverside, at the Place du Pont Neuf, near the emerald garden, on the well-worn historic stones.”
“There will be no wine to drink!”
It was then, that I devised a heroic plan. “Come, men,” I said to the group, “Let us walk to Saint Germain. We will have our wine and our feast amid the river tides and emerald leaves of the garden!”
So saying, I led my good friends away; thoughtful Niels with his high-flown suit, and clever-tongued Mich among them.
When we reached the rue des Quatres Vents on St-Germain, I bid my friends wait outside. I could hear them whispering amongst themselves, anticipating the plan. All the while, I slid up to where I could creep to the high windows above that tidy shop, La Crémerie, where the honored Pierrot, man of many crafts, sold goodly wines.
Pierrot was in his nest asleep when I tapped on the window. He crossed his bedroom in his night-hat and opened the pane…
“Good Pierrot!” I cried, “I have a rowdy band outside, and the city is closed down. Nothing to be had elsewhere. We must find libations for our celebratory feast. Help us out with an array of your sweet and ready wines!”
…So saying, I procured from my waist a small stack of crisp bills, newly minted money, rich in colored inks, the kind that pleases all men. Patient Pierrot, man of many crafts, took the offering and bid me climb down to the courtyard and wait for him to dress and descend. So I did, and passing through the street, I signaled success to my waiting comrades and disappeared through the shadows into the long courtyard.
Out back, in a courtyard that resembled a stable where beasts are kept, I awaited for Pierrot to arrive. He quickly appeared and led me out to a place where the floor was packed of straw. A door of wood led down to the wine cave. Near the door, there were several large casks of wine.
“Will this do?” Pierrot asked, motioning to the casks. And what casks they were! Rich in wood, immense in stature and breadth; five casks in all, all bearing brass handles and inlaid lids.
“Pierrot!” I exclaimed, clasping my friend by the collar, “See what you have done! A mighty bacchanal will this wine fuel. I will take all five!”
“How many are you?” he asked. And I stopped to consider my friends who awaited. There was Mich, our clever-tongued guest, and thoughtful Niels, man of foreign lands, and swift-footed Aurélien among us. There was another too: a hefty Dane, hailing from Copenhagen; he had appeared quite suddenly among us, claiming noble kin. Apparently he was the nephew of some flowery Danish princess. He was tagging along our merry group, which made us five men in all. The rest, gentle women included, would be summoned later when we’d arrive at the Place du Pont Neuf with our new-found wine.
“Will you be joining us too?” I asked Pierrot.
“No, my friend. I have to work early tomorrow.”
I looked at the fruitful casks. It would take two men to carry each one, so vast were they, so heavy in form and tall in stature . . . yet two casks alone would not serve the feast I had in mind. I had to develop my stately plan.
“Have you any wood?” I asked Pierrot, “wood for building, and sturdy nails, and rope for binding too?”
Looking at me kindly, patient-minded Pierrot said, “I have plenty of wood! . . . wood, good for building; with sturdy nails, ropes and tools too.”
Hearing thus, I told Pierrot I would go fetch one of my men. Only one, though, for the pounding of nails disturbs no city-dweller at night, but the commotion of too many men does cause fear in urban hearts.
Out on the street, I retrieved strong-handed Aurélien, and the two of us returned through the shadows of the courtyard to the place out back. There, Pierrot was waiting with nails and tools, wood and ropes to tie with.
“What is your idea?” asked Aurélien as he calculated my words.
With his question, I set forth to explain my idea to build what I called a ‘Porte-Tonneau.’ . . . “It will involve large uprights shafts,” I said, “cranes to carry each tonneau. Each cask will be tied by the rope and slung around the top-most crest. All of this will be compact – two casks on each side, and one trailing. The Porte-Tonneau will be on sturdy wheels of wood. Two men alone, it will take to wheel these five casks. A third will be stationed behind to watch the load and the other two men will make merry. All together, we five men will usher these five casks through St-Germain until we reach the statue at Pont Neuf, and from there, we will set one man to guard the casks, while the other four take trips descending the stone steps to the riverside place where we’ll feast with the celebratory wine!”
“Some idea you have founded!” exclaimed my friend, swift-footed Aurélien, as he smiled wide at my ingenuity. The two of us then set about to work. We hammered long and hard, sending slim nails flying into moist wood. We set the shafts upright and secured them, set the crane above those. Fatedly, when we hoisted the casks onto the crane, calculating Aurélien forgot to firmly fasten the crane over the shafts.
Once these tasks were achieved, we had the wheels to firmly bolt. This was done by means of stout wooden pegs. After, we said good night to my generous friend, patient Pierrot, man of many crafts, and he wished us well in our revelry. And, setting off, we began to wheel the Porte-Tonneau out through the long courtyard towards the street. An ingenious machine, it was light enough for two men to wheel, though its load was not light… five industrious casks full of gorgeous ready wine!
Aurélien and I wheeled the great Porte-Tonneau out into the rue des Quatres Vents. The band of merry men, clever-tongued Mich, well-tailored, Niels and the hefty Dane, were huddled on the corner awaiting us; and all came to meet our bounty with glad hearts and outstretched hands.
“Some feast this will fuel!” they all cried. And, with our spirits high and ascending we all set out to wheel the great Porte-Tonneau through the rue des Quatre Vents, past the closed up markets of St-Germain, off towards the quais of the Seine.
On the rue de Montfaucon, strong-handed Aurélien took over watching the flank of the great wheeling Port-Tonneau from the backside, while our royal Danish foundling took over the weight the right side. Those savior casks of wine wobbled only slightly on their hefty ropes tied to that crane, strong as the neck of a fine-bred steed, and the wheels rolled nicely over the cobblestones. Foreign-born Mich, good at fierce tasks, pushed on the left side of the Porte-Tonneau. With all of this, I was freed up to observe all that passed on the narrow streets.
Passing down the smooth stone streets beneath flickering gas lamps, our singing group marched, proud of the feat we had achieved. I looked to the left and saw a tall wooden house with a closed-up bakery on the ground floor. Next to it was an open cobbler’s workshop. A heavy-handed cobbler in an apron stood in the doorway hammering out a pair of animal-hide shoes in the darkness of night. What a sight! Was this a medieval town-centre, or modern-day Paris?
On the rue de Buci, we passed saw a blacksmith stoking a fire to hammer out glowing rods of iron. On the rue de Seine, we saw peasant woman taking a child to leave it to be exposed. Somewhere along the way, thoughtful Niels, man of many myths, procured a sort of tin canister with ridges; and, using a small wooden baton to swipe at its side, he made a rhythm that we could all march to. We all had our hearts set on the great feast that would be made with our wine down along the quai.
Down the rue Jacques Callot, our mighty Porte-Tonneau, machine of my clever invention, rolled smooth and ardently, and we could see the quai in sight, just beyond the rue Guénégaud. We had only to cross the wide street, veer to the right, and dispatch our machine to the midway point of the old Pont Neuf. It was when half of this plan had been achieved, that the grim moment of the journey befell us.
Alas, good Aurélien, clear of calculations, left his watchful post behind the rear flank of the Porte-Tonneau so that he could walk beside the machine and sound a festive melody through the pipes of a long tin flute. A merry song it was and it brought us even more joy to hear swift-footed Aurélien’s goodhearted song; still, our clever friend, so good at careful tasks, had obviously been thinking more of the feast that was to come than the task at hand back when he and I had constructed the Porte-Tonneau, because he had forgot to firmly fasten the crane over the shafts of machine. So, while Aurélien piped his merry flute, and clever Mich and high-born Niels, that purveyor of distinguished ideas among people, were occupied with playing the canister and singing; and while the hefty Dane and I were on either side of the Porte-Tonneau pushing for the benefit of all, and guiding the machine along, that careful and ingenious Porte-Tonneau began to deconstruct on the top-most part.
It first happened that the crane, thick as the neck of a well-bred steed, toppled down from the shaft. Immediately after, the first sacred cask of goodly wine on the Dane’s side fell and stretch the rope taut. But the rope wasn’t short enough for such a descent and that ill-lucked cask was dashed upon the street; its plies of wood split and the moist contents were spilled.
With that weight of that cask gone, the rest of the evenly-balanced load was thrown off and the remaining four casks remaining followed the first. Their magnificent bodies, so wide of girth, fell on their ropes and struck the bricks of the street, spilling wine across the ground.
To tell now of the great and silent gasp we men made, when those casks were dashed upon the street! As the vessels simultaneously fell and cracked open on the bricks, we good men all leapt back, eyes cast wide, and great horrible sighs of lamentation escaped our heroic mouths. To tell of the wine that flowed… goodly wine, all lost upon the street! Such horror men do not often see! Not one prosperous cask of fragrant wine was spilt. No, five casks in all. Five hearty vessels of wine were thrown from that machine. And we men were helpless there to watch it. As hard as it is to watch a mother spill tears over her son who is laying dead on a battlefield, tears like hot rivers streaking down her miserable cheeks; so heartbreaking it was to see that goodly wine spill from those bursted containers, those once stately casks!
For many moments, we said nothing as the dark arrays of wine flowed by our feet, as swift as the torrents of the Seine itself, which flowed just over the railing beside us.
“Men!” I finally said, “Such is our grief! Surely some god who runs across the swift sky have we angered to let this fate befall us!” So I spoke, and my men’s descending hearts gave heed. “Let us forget all and wander now to the place to tell the news to any revelers who have gathered in anticipation of our feast.” The men stood before me with bowed heads, keeping their eyes closed to keep from seeing the sad sight of that river of wine flowing along the banks of the Seine. My own gaze drifted up skyward, and I saw the stout crane of the Port-Tonneau, now free of burdens, dangling with its torn ropes overhead. Thoughtful Niels asked that we all close our eyes and share no more in that miserable sight. “Come men,” we all said, and all heeded our words, “Please let us forget this.” And so saying, we all set about to deconstruct the great Porte-Tonneau, so that no latecomers or passersby would get insight into our clever device. Swift-footed Aurélien, good at vast calculations, set about the hardest task of freeing the wheels and the shafts from the heavy base and moving them to the steps leading down to the river. He labored hard in lament of his error of having forgotten to firmly fasten the crane to the shafts back when he and I had built the machine. I knew his lament was unfounded, no guilt was his, for surely a jealous god led him astray during the construction of that fated machine. Calculating Aurélien was a man of careful measure. Had we initially sacrificed that odd cask to the thirsty gods, the other four would have surely remained whole and in our possession. Four casks of wine can feed a mighty feast! But in our hubristic greed we were robbed of all!
Thus, with the Porte-Tonneau dismantled and scrapped along the quai, with no more wine for a bacchanal, we set about to walk unhindered to the Place de Pont Neuf, that stretch of historic stones beside a garden of emerald leaves. There we would inform the men who had heard rumor of our heroic plan and had arrived for the feast.
At the Place du Pont Neuf, several tried companions had gathered – men rich in years and some youths too. They were waiting for the feast to arrive, as they’d heard rumor of the great caravan of casks trailing through St-Germain. They said women were to arrive soon and described them: beautiful demoiselles, slim in form, colorful of dress, of the kind that give men pleasure to see. Women whose words men enjoy listening to, for the sounds of their voices are high and soft, lofty as the ripples of wind over the wings of some high-soaring bird.
“Shall I call them off?” asked Cedric, an eager-spirited companion.
“Aye,” we said gloomily, “There will be no feast.” And all bowed their heads.
Walking back through the Latin Quarter, I noticed the hefty Dane had taken leave of us . . . So are men who are not tried as friends quick to stray when a feast is befouled. He had slipped away without saying farewell. Us four men, Niels, Aurélien, myself and clever-tongued Mich, continued up St-Germain as the dark of night deepened in hue and tone. After some time, we noticed Mich was dragging behind. I looked back twice and saw his feet taking clumsy steps.
“You are tired?” we asked.
“Yes, I haven’t slept or eaten since Spain. Long trip . . . I think I will go to my hotel and sleep.” So he said, our newly-arrived friend, and we of understanding bid him goodnight and turned to continue on.
“He is a good friend, clever Mich,” I told my men once we were farther up the boulevard. “I am sorry that we couldn’t give him an honored place at a feast, as he has just arrived in Paris today.”
“It would be good to do something nice for him,” said thoughtful Niels.
Aurélien suggested that we host a daylight feast soon, in his honor, a banquet at the Chalet des Îles in the Bois de Boulogne. This idea brightened our path, and we continued on. Eventually we came to the gates of Luxembourg and my companions turned to me.
“I’m off this way,” said Niels, pointing to the Panthéon.
"And I go here,” said Aurélien, pointing to the sky.
“So you’re both leaving too?” I asked, “Well, I admit there is no point in continuing the evening.” So saying, I shook the men’s hands and bid goodnight and we all were off in separate ways.
Alone now, I thought of the quiet room in St-Germain to which I held key. There, I vowed, I would drink a bitter tonic to sleep and try to let the night drag on into a later morning, such were my morals. Worse was, that it was springtime; and at no time should a man have loftier morals than in the spring. But, alas!, I was tired and disheartened.
It was then the coincidence occurred…
While I was dragging my weary self across the Place de l’Odéon, head hanging low, a possession took hold of me and forced me to look up. There on the other side of the street, I saw someone I once knew – someone from long ago. As he drew close, and I became certain it was him, a pleasure beyond all comparison charged my veins. My blessed heart ascended.
“Philippe!” I cried out, making swift steps to cross the street. “So long it’s been!” He was shaken. He looked at me as though he were one with soft eyes coming into the light after so long spent in darkness – as if he couldn’t understand what he was looking at. He seemed bewildered, scattered. His suit was nice, cut in the Swiss fashion, like in long-ago days, but his hair was disheveled and his forehead gleamed of sweat. His handsome face, which in previous times had always appeared as though it were chiseled out of supple stone, marble quarried from fresh northern shores or from the salty beds of the Propontis, now appeared ragged, as though a terrible injury had befallen him.
“Old friend!” I cried as I overtook him. The dullness from his eyes faded as he became aware of whom it was he was seeing. He addressed me by an old-fashioned name, and a great smile leapt across his face. We then clasped arms as do fond brothers when the ripening years bring them to reunite after the long and carefree seasons of youthful travels have reached their inevitable end.
“To think of seeing you here!” we simultaneously rejoiced. And with our rejoicing, all the lamentation for my cracked Porte-Tonneau and the spoiled feast swept out of me and my high spirit ascended. I was instantly flooded with happy memories of those now-faded times we’d spent together. He had been like my brother, Philippe. And those two girls –sisters by birth, having shared the same mother’s breast – had too been like our own dear sisters – fond lovers. Long ago it seemed, now. Many were the friends I knew. Many women I’d been close to. All now mostly faded, yet those two women would continue to draw my thoughts. I recalled my sleepy-eyed Pénélope. And her sister, the delicate Thémia.
Here now on the street, with my old friend standing in the light cast by a streetlamp planted in the darkness, it was night; but before my eyes it was day, and I saw youthful Pénélope wandering along banks of the Seine, across the bridges, thumbing that little amber stone locket she wore on her neck. I remembered our travels, mornings at the windows of our little hotels on well-wrought European streets. I remembered our wars; I thought of our sojourns abroad. Suddenly I thought of that damned boat on the Black Sea. I would sit in the boat and work, scribbling notes, while Pénélope would row, her head tilted up to take the sun. I recall the slow waves lapping against the wood of the oars and the gentle line of the shore far in the distance. Great fortune to be reminded of all this!
Then Philippe stirred me from my thoughts…
“Which way are you walking, brother? I’ll go with you!” Philippe clumsily clasped my arm and we began to head down the rue de l'Ancienne Comédie. “Very strange . . . I just arrived in Paris this morning….” He seemed out of sorts. He began to explain that he’d been in Monte Carlo on some kind of business – some botched land purchase. He then went on to ask a nervous question, seemingly unrelated, about whether or not I still owned some hat which I never owned. The perspiration was foaming on his forehead. He said he was staying in a hotel across the river and was on the Left Bank quite by accident. “Quite by lucky chance!” he shrieked, wiping the sweat from his eyelids, “…Lucky chance! I wasn’t supposed to be walking through St-Germain tonight. I’m here by pure fluke, etc., etc.” His words dropped out and stumbled over each other. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a couple crumpled tickets and started to smooth the creases out in his hands.”
I started to feel worried for my old friend. What misfortune has struck him? Has he caught the worm of madness in such a mild season? His eyes resembled two bulbous larvae trembling to grow into winged things.
“Brother!,” I exclaimed shaking him, “Have you visions of the present? Speak of the girls! You have recently seen our dear sisters, I trust, sweet Pénélope and Themia?”
“Of course,” he issued calmly, “I was down on the Mediterranean just a few days ago, visiting them. We were just talking about you! Pénélope is….”
Oh, to hear him mention those two! “…And they are well?” I interrupted him mid-sentence, tossing questions to this and that and therefore… “…ever so long it has been, I have wanted news from you. Recount your story, Philippe, every adventure. Don’t leave out a single tale!”
“Old friend,” he replied, “even if I had pitchers brimming with potent coffee to wake my thoughts and pry my eyes wide, I couldn’t stay awake to tell you every tale. For this business has wearied my limbs through and through. Yet, you are in Paris tomorrow? Let’s meet in morning near my hotel. We will have breakfast together and tell of our recent pasts, for I have many stories that will make you smile . . . Is the sky turning red? . . . No it’s not, I thought it was…
“Anyway,” he resumed, “we will plan a trip down to the South of France to see them. They are on the coast, not far from Saint Tropez. Themia is considering buying a large property down there. She wants to settle down. Pénélope will stay with her. Do you want to go see where they might live?”
“Saint Tropez, you say?! So they’ve returned to France? Did Themia sell her house in Spain? What happened to going to live in Greece? To buying a house on the Peloponnese?” My thoughts raced to the delicate Themia. She always spoke of wanting to settle down in Sparta or Corinth, or on an Argolic island, to live by the ever-flowing Aegean Sea.
“I’m afraid Themia gave up on Greece,” Philippe responded, dripping anew with milky sweat, “She’s in France with Pénélope. They’re down on the coast. I’m happy to say they’d like to see you as soon as possible. We can go south this coming Tuesday. Did I say Tuesday? Yes, Tuesday! I am obliged to stay in Paris on business until then. But Tuesday we will go south together!”
“Oh, such a good news this is!” I cried with pleasure abound in my breast, for I thought then I would see Pénélope again in just a few days. My mind drifted back to the last time I saw her…
It was in a room on the rue Montfaucon where I set pen to glorious page every afternoon that summer, writing a tragedy. Pénélope had slept in my bed and was now leaning on the windowsill. The incoming sun washed her face with light. She was naked, except for a white pair of panties and a necklace clasped around her neck. She was proud when she was nude, with her youthful body, and never tried to cover herself. The necklace was something I’d given her. It was a Russian winterberry encased in a drop of amber. I’d purchased the pendant in Petersburg. Later in Copenhagen, I bought a chain of white gold, thin as gossamer, and presented the pendant on the chain to her when I returned to Paris. The winterberry reflected the sun on her small and firm chest where it rested as she stood on the bed in her bare feet, leaning her elbows on the windowsill, smiling at me in her pale innocence, her beautiful dark hair tossed across her naked shoulders. I remember those long and slender legs, firm and very young; and that sweet and gorgeous mound encased in white cotton between her legs. It swelled with hot wetness when I touched her. I kissed her lips and her tiny ears and said I would be leaving Paris for a while and we kissed again. Then she dressed and left my room on the rue Montfaucon and I never saw her again after that.
“Oh, such memories I have of us,” I sighed to my friend, “Philippe, it is a good plan you speak of. I am counting on you to lead me to those girls. I must see Pénélope again. Tomorrow, we will meet for breakfast, you and I, and plan the affair. Tuesday, we will go to Saint Tropez. Think of it! All of us, together again on a sunny golden shore . . . What it the name of your hotel?”
“The name of my hotel?” inquired Philippe, scratching his eyelids, “Oh yes!” He took a crumpled paper from his pocket and swiftly wrote the address of the hotel. I looked at the paper: eighty-seven boulevard Beaumarchais. …Beaumarchais? What was he doing staying in this wasteland?! I watched him as he licked the wetness on his lips and repeated the address over and over. His eyes swelled strangely as he spoke. His right pupil inflated, while his left eyeball rolled around and wandered here and there.
“Nevermind brother,” said I, “Until tomorrow! I will come at nine in the morning. We will tell our stories and plan our Tuesday voyage. Until tomorrow!”
“I’ll see you at nine! Until tomorrow!” he cried, and flung his hands towards the great concaved sky, and thus disappeared into the dark shadows on the winding boulevard.

“What a night it is!” I sang aloud, once alone, passing the Cathedral St-Germain. I started towards the Faubourg. “Look at these leafy bows tenderly brushing the ivory crowns of these stately houses. Oh, to be a neighbor of this fortune!” Happy I was, walking through the Faubourg St-Germain, back towards the room to which I held key. I knew great work I would undertake that night! . . . Work of unsurpassable merit! . . . Work of the kind those ancient geniuses tried to buy with hecatombs of grazing kine surrendered in smoke to Calliope’s maids . . . Stop! Time to breathe. Time to look around me…
Time to take a glance at my own modern age in a tender European metropolis where gilded skies are dark with storms at night. Nightingales step on loosely-strapped heels out of sleek automobiles, they click clack, click clack their sweet little feet across terrace stones braised by hot rain drops – Bonne soirée! Je vous embrasse ! Bonne nuit! . . . they all chime as they go in and are gone . . . aux abris de la lune . . . is it summer so soon?
No place ever inspired me to compose illuminated psalms as did the Faubourg St-Germain. What a beautiful night to go vagabonding through antique Parisian streets! A gorgeous night to breathe the fresh air of creation on balconies, on rooftops, the sky draped over a siren’s moistened braids, the stars are like pearls nested in her hair; and I laugh as she kisses me. How happy I am tonight!
Vagabonding through the street, all these joyous inspirations flooded me, and I let them build in my happy heart – for I knew that when I returned, I would fall upon my work madly – just as that crazed philosopher fell with his joyful elbows on piano keys after a lifetime of work. I would do like he once did.
Back at the room to which I held key, I looked at the clock on the wall. Two in the morning. I would meet Philippe at nine. In between I would work. A warm wind came through the open window. At the sturdy desk where I set pen to holy craft, I sat before my oeuvre. Sweet ink, run swiftly, I called, sweet ink, drink me gently. Froth on the muse’s tongue, black as the lair of the squid in the ocean’s depths, milky dark ink of fair muse, swim well across my happy page…
I worked beautifully for many hours. My hero’s tale had now taken the form of the most perfect of all creations. “How glorious is my art!” I rejoiced in the night, “Holy and sublime!” I laughed euphorically as I read over what I had penned…
The voluptuous voices were singing in unison to announce my hero’s long-awaited homecoming. Piloting a swift ship, he skiffed across the jeweled sea from his far-flung island. There he’d been stranded for most of the spring – fault of my own, I admit, for I’d been lost a lot of the spring myself in wine-drunk revelries of the most maddening sort. Too much cheer to hear my hero’s pleas. But now that a new happiness sat on my lap, my work of art soared like heaven-bound birds in the sky…
The long-tried hero’s ship careened over the ocean swells. Strong were his seaworthy muscles, hoisting the sails. Glad were the songs he sang to triumphant strings. And the billowing clouds brought forth winds sending him along to his homeland and family, waiting years for his return.
I walked to the piano in the corner of the room to pound out some thunder in the night. My happy elbows colliding against the piano keys sent shards of lightning to lick the waves, and thunder sent winds that blew the boat landward by night.
When our hero awoke on the calm sea in the blushing light of early morning, he could see his native land not far off; and there on the land, he could see the cooking fires and the stately cypress trees. These things he’d often dreamt of when on his seafaring journey, away for years at war. Around the fires, he could see people gathered. They played pipes and roasted food. Sweet music could be heard! As his boat came into shore, he could smell the savory smoke from the fires. With such a glad heart, he watched the flames toss lofty billows of smoke into the peaceful skies. The pipes played on and he knew he was home! Stepping onto land, our long-traveled hero dove upon the fertile earth and kissed it plainly, embraced its bounty, rejoicing in the taste of the mineral earth that had given him life!

I woke up sometime later. I didn’t know I’d been sleeping. It seemed an advanced hour, late in the morning. Pressed to the flesh of my tired cheek were crisp pages covered in wild flourishes of ink, strewn and ruffled. I had been working late, it seemed. Then all came back to me… I had worked until the little-morning on my hero’s homecoming. After, while I was sleeping, I dreamt that I too was traveling by careening ship. I’d come in the night to the faraway land where, in long ago times, my own cradle is fabled to have been perched next to a thriving stove. I too leapt to the ground, upon my homecoming, to smell the soil that had raised me and gave me strength. Now awake, seated at a desk in wood-furnished room, I had the sudden fear that I actually was in my native land, that my body was now longer in Paris. With great alarm, I looked around the room to which I held key. I saw the French electric plugs in the walls. Then gentle relief crept over me, for I realized that I was still far from my own native land. My wandering had not come full circle. Pleasure filled my soul.
That relief was short lived, however. When I pried my body from the mess of papers on the desk, I recalled I had an appointment to meet Philippe that morning at nine. What time was it?!
I leapt savagely from the chair and ran to see the clock… forty minutes after eight! I had time yet, but I needed to hurry!
Taking a ring of keys and a roll of paper currency to get me along, as well as my traveling pen and some scraps of paper in case I were to come across some ideas on my way, I ran out the door and down the street to cross the river. In a flash, I was on the métro, line-one, feeling the cool wind blow through the empty cars as it shuttled along towards Bastille. Come Tuesday, I thought, I will be far from here – on the Côte d’Azur kissing the sun-coated skin of youthful Pénélope.
The métro stopped on the aerial platform at Bastille. I ran with quick steps out of the station, leaving the Opéra in a peripheral blur. Up the Boulevard Beaumarchais, my good heels made way: number eighty seven.
It was a shabby hotel from the looks of it. I buzzed the door to the office and let myself in. Inside a dirty little lobby, the attendant was absent. A cat was perched on the desk, when it saw me, it hissed and bayed.
“Come cat!” I said, approaching the desk with an outstretched hand to tame the beast. But the feline did not like my gesture, and hissed louder, swiping with its claws in attempt to tear the flesh off my hand. It growled. I thought then to reach for the cat with both hands and seize its little head and snap it at a right-angle, so as to dispatch it down to Hades; but before I could let that pleasure fulfill itself, a little fat woman rushed into the lobby from the back room and threw a magazine at the cat to make it scatter. She looked at me and said…
“Gentleman, I’m sorry! My cat nearly gnashed you to pieces! She nearly shredded you to a pulp! Let me see that, is your hand bleeding? No, it’s not? Not really . . . Oh, if she had gnashed you, you would have been angry towards me. And, I have enough problems without that already. Guests are making a havoc of my hotel, eating my food and destroying my linen and property and leaving without paying! It is a sad couple of days I have been made to pass! Well, no matter. What can I do for you, my good gentleman?”
“I’m here to meet a friend for breakfast. A gentleman from Monte Carlo.”
“Bon Dieu!” the hotelkeeper started up in a shriek, “I know the one you mean! He is no gentleman, your friend from Monte Carlo!” And as she spoke thus, she wrung her hands and spit on the unclean floor. I took a step back and listened, curious about the story but certain she was mistaken about something.
“…Let me tell you about your friend! He checked in yesterday, early in morning. I didn’t ask for money up front because he looked like an upright sort of fellow. It seems I’m too trusting. He said he was in Paris on business until next Tuesday. At all kinds of strange hours, he’d come in and go out. Then, yesterday afternoon, I went to my icebox, that just over here you see, and I found a trout was missing. What would he want to steal a trout for? Most bizarre! But that’s not all! . . . Last night, I could hear him crying all night in his room. He had come in late, very late! His clothes were rumpled and he was sweating and nervous. I eyed him suspiciously on account of the trout, but said nothing. He hurried past me and went straight to his room and began weeping and stayed like that the whole night. It was most shameful! I decided then first thing this morning I would go ask for the money for the room and suggest he find somewhere else to lodge. But when I knocked at his room, no one answered. I opened the door and found your friend had gone! He left without paying – his suitcase and clothes were gone. He also soiled the linen and tore the drapes down to build some kind of hut in the middle of the room. I figure he owes me six hundred francs counting all the damage. Then one has to think of that trout! I’d say seven hundred is closer to reality….”
I listened to the old hotelkeeper as she wrung her hands and spat and swore about my friend. I couldn’t believe my ears. Had he done all of that? I didn’t care about the fish but I thought of my old hardy friend crying all night in his hotel room. Then I fully realized that he had gone! That was the consequence of all of this! My friend had left Paris early that morning without giving me any word. But we were to eat together and plan our trip to the south to meet sweet Thémia and the beautiful Pénélope! How would I find him now? I turned halfway around as if to leave. I didn’t want to hear any more about the seven hundred francs he owed the hotelkeeper. Someday soon, I thought, he and I would meet again and laugh about that old hotelkeeper. She kept on…
“But don’t think he’s going to get away with ruining my hotel and leaving without paying!” she spat, “He signed the register!” With that, the old woman hobbled over behind the desk and withdrew a clipboard and pointed at it. “Philippe So-and-so, you see, from Monte Carlo. I have his name right here and I’m going to call the police. He’ll spend some time in jail for ruining my hotel!”
With these, the hotelkeeper’s words, I was brought to attention, as I find all talk of police to be vulgar. So she had his full name, and the town of his birth. Did she have the number of his residence? I could benefit from such information. She didn’t? Still she would call the police anyways and let them track him down. I couldn’t let her do that. Thus, forsaking all hopes to reunite with my friend that day, and hopes of future meetings with our delightful sisters, whom I knew to be basking away on some unknown southern shore; and feeling great benevolent altruism in my heart, the desire to help a friend, I spoke thus to the hotelkeeper – uttering not the truth, but weaving a crafty lie so as to free my friend from shame…
"Listen, Madame,” I said, touching her shoulder, speaking caressing words, “I can explain the incident with my friend. Actually, it’s my fault. I drove him up here from Monte Carlo. I’m a psychiatrist. Maybe you’ve heard of me, Doctor Bjørnstad – hailing from Stockholm. I’ve published many famous papers. You have heard of me? No, you haven’t? Well, I’m an old friend of Philippe’s family. Your initial impression was correct, he is an upright fellow – from a very old family. His father was a horse trainer for the Prince of Monaco. Anyhow, I have been treating my friend for severe depression for over a year now. He had been sinking deeper and deeper into a state of despair. It got so bad last January, that I suggested he take some pills – some lithium – to settle the affect. Well, he wanted no part of drugs. You see my friend has unshakable morals!
“…He refused the drugs, but his depression wasn’t getting any better. He would lie in his room for weeks, just thumbing the lampshade, groaning. As a friend, and professional who understands the efficacy of modern psychotropic substances, I decided to give him the lithium anyway. I told him it was simple magnesium. ‘You don’t have any moral objections to taking magnesium, do you? Uh, friend? No?’ So he agreed to take the lithium disguised as magnesium and immediately he got better…
“…Well,” I continued. I could see the hotelkeeper was starting to take great interest in my story. “All went well until last week when we drove up from Monte Carlo. You see, he had some business here. He was looking for an apartment for his baby sister. She’ll be starting college soon, and he’s a thoughtful older brother. So we came up here: I to treat patients, and he to look for an apartment. It turns out he wasn’t feeling good physically last week. He didn’t tell me about it, but went to the pharmacie complaining of headaches and hypertension. They sold him ibuprofen and some diuretics. Those don’t mix so well with lithium! But he didn’t tell the pharmacien he was taking lithium because he didn’t know he was taking it, you see. He thought he was only taking magnesium. You see where it’s my fault!
“…He started behaving strangely after that, cold sweats, bizarre outbursts. I watched calmly to see if it would pass. Then he told me yesterday over the telephone about these diuretics he was taking. I grew alarmed! I said, ‘Stop taking everything except your magnesium, do you here? We’ll meet tomorrow for breakfast and discuss your health, etc., etc.,” . . . Well, had I been more responsible, I would have rushed over here to help him immediately – but you see I got distracted by some other patients. My poor friend was just having a drug reaction, good lady! And he didn’t even know he was taking any drugs! That’s a victim, for you!”
“Oh, I see, I see…” the hotelkeeper gushed, pressing a moist cloth to lidded eyes.
“I am ashamed about the whole thing,” I continued, “but you should know that all that madness, his crying in the night, building a hut on the floor with the linen, the trout . . . all of that was just a reaction from the medication. He really is to be pitied, my friend.”
“Oh, I do pity him!” exclaimed the hotelkeeper, growing ever more soft to my well-constructed tale. “You are a good man, doctor!” she said to me, “A good man!”
“I’m afraid I could have done better in this situation, my dear woman. And you and your poor hotel suffered as a result.” I reached then into my pocket and withdrew the roll of paper currency and began to count it out. I had brought less than I thought. “Listen,” I said, “I don’t have seven hundred francs with me. I have some euros, rounding out to about four hundred francs. I can come back with the rest....
“That’s alright,” the hotelkeeper murmured, taking the money I held out for her. I pressed the bills in her hand. “No, that’s alright, please. I’ll just take the four-hundred francs. Don’t worry about the rest. I just hope your friend Philippe gets better. He is a poor man. I knew all along he had a good heart, a real honest soul, etc., etc., I knew there was something wrong that wasn’t his fault. The medicine explains it all....” And with these her words, she took a firm black pen and crossed his name from the hotel registry, soaking the paper with black, until there were no more records of his having ever stayed there at all. While she acted thus, I thought to mention the trout again; but realizing no more good could come from that, I kept silent and bowed my head. After, I thanked the woman for her understanding and watched her press again the moist tissue to her tear-swollen eyes.
“Goodbye, Madame.”
Out on the street, I headed my way down to Saint Paul. I crossed Rivoli and was soon at the river.
Hot is the breath from the mouth of heaven!
It was early still, but the clear sun was sweltering as it soared towards its zenith. Such blue skies. I wished that I’d sleep. My eyelids felt as thin waxy membranes sealing the hermetic jar that was my body, empty save for a dry and jingling fruit pit in the bottom – how one feels hollow the morning after a sleepless night!
I wandered up the quai on old Île Saint-Louis. In the brightness of day, some workers could be seen lifting planks with a crane to construct something on the river bank. It made me think of that Porte-Tonneau that had started this whole affair. The men dropped the plank and it clanged on some steel chains. When one hasn’t slept, every sound shoots through the ear like a stinging needle – horrible sound – or stinging nettle? French laboring men; and look here, a prim new mother pushing a babbling babe. Should I just go back, I wonder, and try to sleep the day? I had every reason to feel miserable about the circumstances. Perhaps one day I would run into Philippe again by pure chance, at a time when he wouldn’t be losing his mind. We would actually get to travel together. He would lead me to where those clever girls are cached. Hidden away, prideful Pénélope and Miss Thémia! How much farther they were from me now, with Philippe too, their old protector, that ancient gate-keeper, gone astray, gone a-wandering in the mental peaks and valleys in the shadows of madness.
“Too much lithium, Philippe!” I laughed aloud, “Too much magnesium! Ha-ha!”
An old woman who was munching seeds nearby turned around when she heard me talking and laughing maniacally to myself. She had been sitting by the river. I took my hat off and bowed to her. No, impossible… I had no hat on my head, just the clear yellow rays of the sun dancing in my hair…
“Look around me!” I cheered, “What a beautiful day!”
…And should I have been sad about that Porte-Tonneau after all? . . . That failed device that led me to a chance encounter with the phantom of an old friend who would flit by like a shade in the underworld, carrying in his knapsack two tender lovers, fair-skinned sisters. Look at these laboring men hoisting their planks. And beside them, another man, a stonecutter, was chiseling a stately sculpture erecting itself proudly on riverside square. A horrible sound his chisel makes! Never mind, look at the people wandering around in the sunshine. Look at these little shops with open doors. Watch the trim ladies step in and out with their shopping bags, gabbling like schoolgirls. It was no mistake to have spilt that wine. Look at the life I am a witness too now! It was no horrible thing to have found my old friend. Good that I was able to clear his name from the hotel registry. Just four-hundred francs and a fabricated tale – a story contrived with genius, I must admit, after so long without a good night’s rest. Someday Philippe and I will laugh about that. “Good friend! Do you remember that batty old hotelkeeper up near Bastille?” . . . “Yes, friend!” . . . “Ha-ha!” . . . “Ha-ha-ha!” . . . “Great lives we live!”
Now, please just stop your chiseling, monsieur stonecutter. It’s hurting my ears! No, do not stop. Keep on with the busyness of life. Keep on people! Look at you all and let me just try to explain the sheer joy of being alive in such a world as this, a place where we are all running around doing things, just for the pleasure of doing things: cutting stone, hoisting planks, buying clothes and learning crafts so that we may inspire passion in others; to make others sing in the morning and cry with joy. Why, how great it is that in this world, people don’t lie around doing nothing, but rather work and strive – all of this work being done, building rafts and towers and bridges, constructing statues and the like . . . and the most wonderful part about it, is that no one knows why we do it! Look at this man counting the money in his wallet. He wants to take a sweet woman to dinner tonight. Maybe they will go dancing. She is off somewhere getting ready now, buying a new belt. Everyone is working, creating things, I have my papers back at the room gathering no dust but shining with the heroic songs I penned last night while the trees in the parks were sleeping. Look at us all running around working and creating things, and no one has a damned clue as to why we do it. We just do it and praise what we do, and the good ones don’t just praise it, but they sing it and dance it and rejoice in it – yes!, the great ones have no regrets for collapsed plans or lost friends, rivers of spilt wine and abandoned hotel rooms. Us great ones praise everything we do and everything we live and experience and never feel like anything is not sacred or is unholy. Ours, in this new era, is the ultimate joy to live. It is while we are at play that we are free. It is what the crazed philosopher wanted when he banged his elbows on the piano, jabbering to old Dionysus who himself was busy rolling on the rug with two nymphs. I have now walking up along the river Seine, myself not jabbering but singing, not serenading old bearded Bacchus, but rather white-armed Calliope with her milky breath. She, I knew, would help me arrange all of this as soon as I returned to the room to which I hold key on a quiet street in Saint Germain. But before I would reach that room, I would come to spy a pretty girl strolling along the quiet quai on the Île Saint Louis. She was wearing a linen dress and well-coiffed hair and had amazingly full lips. I approached her…
“Pardon me,” I said, “Mademoiselle…” and went on to address her using the polite vous rather than tu. I feigned the voice of a stranger, unfamiliar with his surroundings, who may accost someone to get help and directions. I said…
“Pardon me, Mademoiselle. Do know you the area?”
“Mmm, yes,” she smiled, ready to help me with directions.
“Good,” I said, “It’s good to know the area.” And that was all. I started to walk off, quite pleased with myself. The demoiselle seemed confused at first, and then she laughed a charming laugh and motioned towards me, obviously wishing to continue the conversation…
“Do you know the area?” she asked with a wide grin.
Yes, I did know the area, and I told her so. I then made some comment about how surprising it is to see so many people in the streets on a Monday; whereupon she informed me that it was not at all a Monday, but rather was a Friday.
Clever girl! This I did not know!
“Well,” I said, “if this is Friday, then we have a great evening planned! Come to our party tonight. You will be an honored guest. Only… you’ll have to wear different shoes.” I looked down at her feet. She was wearing some fashionable heels that resembled hatched turtles scampering around.
“You don’t like my shoes?” she said, startled, pressing a surprised hand to her flourishing breasts. “They are Cavalli shoes!”
“They look like hatched turtles who are scampering around.”
…And so the conversation went on, as riverside prattles often do. Finally we said farewell until tonight, and bid and happy goodbye, kissing cheeks. And did she have a name? Yes, she was named Chryseis. Of all names to be called!
“Goodbye, Chryseis!” We kissed cheeks a second time and off I went, cantering with pleasure. What a glorious time of day! I had no clue what time of day it was, but I knew it was a glorious time. A season of victory was on the horizon. Being so muddled with lack of sleep, I didn’t know which season we were in, nor which was approaching, but I knew it would be one of victory. And if the god who shoots arrows sends plague in the coming days, or on this evening’s feast, I will take the beautiful Chryseis on a sturdy ship; or better, up a mountain to where great beasts roam, and I will offer her to a monk; we will burn goat’s fat, and I will accept no payment for my happy work.