I imagined we
met in Paris. A quiet rendez-vous.
Sometimes I fantasise about these things. You and I. Out of the blue. Descending upon me slowly as an autumn sun in a carpeted melancholy of dry leaves.
Always discreet. Like strange dreams, they are covered
in mist with blank scenes and no line of thought. Yet, full of loving smiles.
I would pick
you up from the de Gaulle airport driving
one of those fantastic and stylish convertible Déesses. The French call it Goddess. Goddess of the road. Just like
you, they glide elegantly on the leafy boulevards.
I believe you see me as somewhat abstracted. However I ponder about these
details. Speaking of details, for my part, I would wear a pin stripe three-piece
suit with a fine red silk tie and brown brogues. I am sure you would approve.
Covering my eyes, a pair of American ‘Clubmaster’ shades so to not clash with
the period car and its black bright paint. All this because I always fear that
you think of me as a poorly dressed fellow. Or worst, banal. A tasteless bland
guy. Unremarkable like a lamp post. Inferiority complex, you may ask? Perhaps.
But believe me, deep down in me, I have a gentleman’s soul: sophisticated and
penniless. As for you, I could not imagine what dress you would wear. Like I
told you before; in my hazy dreams there are many blank scenes and a lot of
fog. But I'm sure you would be very elegant and sophisticated. No frills but a
great tenderness as I remember. I would carry the bags for you and offered my
free arm leading us to the airport exit. Did I mention being a gentleman?
We would drive
past the Arc de Triomphe, through the
Champs Elysées. If you so wished, of
course. Then I would take you for a stroll by the banks of the Seine. We could go picnicking to the
side of the Place du Vert Galant
facing the Pont des Arts. Later, a visit
to some old friends of mine at the Père
Lachaise and on our way back a stop by the Notre Dame. If you believe in some kind of supernatural being, you could
perhaps pray for those old friends. I doubt very much they would care about it.
Even if everyone says they are immortal. You must be thinking; what about the Tour Eiffel? Would you not, in your
fantasy, take me there? Well, I am sorry my dear but I am afraid of heights and
I do not wish you to see me behaving in any undignified fashion.
In the evening
we could eat in any bistro chique. For example, go to one behind the Marais,
in the 4e arrondissement. It has this
beautiful courtyard and serves vegetarian food, something rare in Paris. Or to
the Pharmacie and take a finger
licking salmon gravad lax. If you
prefer meat, we could eat pavé au cerf
avec sauce poivrade. For my taste, we would go to Aux Arts et Sciences Réunis. Just because it has a great name and
would go well with our meeting, don’t you think? Did you know that the word bistro has Russian origin? Voila, an excellent conversation starter.
Mind you, I also know how to socialize. I can promise you that I would be good
company and even, after a glass or two of vin
rouge, be able to make you laugh.
If you like
movies we could go watch a film noir
or a French comédie. After all, you
must be thinking, all this fantasy of mine is bad taste slapstick anyway. At
the end of the night we would walk the deserted streets of the city pretending
to hear a distant accordion playing an old chanson.
We would ignore the police car sirens and the dangers that lurk around every
corner. Shall we dance a waltz at Montmartre?
Good, I could teach you the steps if you like. It’s the only dance I know. I’m
sorry. At some point I would whisper je
t’aime just because I am a hopeless romantic. You would then leave abruptly,
without any further explanation, crying, down the stairs of the Sacré-Cœur and disappearing in the night
mist. I would walk alone and aim at the Café
Absinthe to drown my sorrows. The name carries with it a strange and
appropriate melancholy. On my way to the hôtel,
I would, perhaps, pick up a fight. Or maybe not. I wouldn’t care much by then.
The next day I’d
take the train back to nowhere in the Gare
de Lyon. Maybe you would observe me from a distance, hidden behind a
column, full of sorrow. Or you’d run next to the train to tell me something. I
do not know what. I know you would never say je t'aime aussi. You wouldn’t say anything and only watched me depart
in silence. Or perhaps, you would not even be there at all.
One thing is
for sure. We have never met. Let alone in Paris where I've never set foot.
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