Once consulting with his map, he headed for the Louvre through the beautiful Jardin des Plates, by Université Denis Diderot and onto Quai Sant-Bernard. He walked along the Seine River, over the bridge leading to the Notre Dame Cathedral and toward rue de Rivoli. He had a quick but much-needed stopover for an espresso in the shopping precinct before walking all the way down to the Musée du Louvre.
The queue at the Louvre was huge, but now he knew to expect it. Dave took his time to look around properly. The enormity of the renowned structure housed some of the world’s best art—it was the least he could do. In front of the Louvre stood the glass pyramid. Dave had read that it was a symbol of contemporary art that was somewhat hated by many Parisians. It just doesn’t fit in with the historic building, Dave thought. He moved through the line, taking in the surroundings. When he finally bought his ticket, he entered the museum.
Tourists swarmed from one section to another. It was like a human ant farm: they were moving up escalators, downstairs, waiting in queues and looking lost. A map of the museum differentiated each floor by a specific colour and Dave walked to the one closest to him. It led into a vast area full of marble statues from ancient times, depicting mythical creatures and idealised human figures. They ranged from Roman times to the Renaissance. Students sat cross-legged on the ground, pads in hand, squinting and concentrating hard on getting their sketches just right.
Dave was somewhat underwhelmed. He thought he’d be more impressed with such incredible sculptures. Had Julia been there, she’d instil excitement in him with her infectious energy. She had a way of explaining art that got him interested, and it was fun how she’d get wound up about it. She was irresistible when she spoke passionately about a mishmash of colours that represented nothing to him. Dave’s lips curved into a smile, remembering some of their past visits to art galleries and museums. It was a weakness of hers to get wound up when Dave poked fun at her. She’d get angry and call him ignorant. He’d joke about it just to see her turn red. ‘You’re as arty as a plank of wood, Dave,’ she told him once. It was in remark to a comment he’d made about ‘Rembrandt’ sounding like a kitchen appliance.
So much art surrounded him that Dave had only the patience to gaze at each artwork for a few seconds. An hour later, he moved along to another level—the Egyptian and Persian collections. In a section just before the exit, and somewhat obstructed from direct view, a human form grabbed his attention. Dave looked up to see a white-marble statue of a naked man about his size, with one knee on the floor and his arm resting on the other. Fanned out across his back were wings like that of an angel. His shoulders were slumped, and his head was bowed down with an expression of sadness. The marble glistened, even though it was dated from over a thousand years ago. The statue was positioned high above the stairs, with its head looking down, as if the figure were watching visitors as they went.
Dave checked the description on a metal plate at its feet, but it was in French. All he could confirm was that it was an angel. The muscular features, facial structure, contours and ridges on its skin were all the work of a master craftsman. The lifelike statue looked like a perfect human form with supernatural origins. Dave was trying to work out the significance of this creation. He could imagine it perched atop a building looking down at humanity. Would it be counting our deeds and weighing up our worth? he wondered. Would it be passing judgement? Would it fly off at some point to tell God, ‘They haven’t changed?’
Dave felt suddenly repulsed and angered at the pile of marble. He hated the image it represented, the hypocrisy he saw in it. What kind of God would take away a life as young and beautiful as his wife’s?
‘Tell God to go to hell,’ he whispered and walked away to the museum’s Egyptian art wing. There, thousands of pieces, from mummified humans and animals to jewellery and pots were on display. The collection seemed to extend to a never-ending scale. There was just too much to take in and, even though it didn’t actually arouse much interest in him, he felt obliged to make an effort and see it. He was in Paris, after all. It was the thing to do, was it not?
Couples made up a large number of the visitors, both young and old, many of them honeymooners, he guessed. The feeling of loneliness that was settling on him was inescapable; he yearned for someone to share the moment with him. Someone like Erin should be at his side, he thought. He hated walking around aimlessly and was trying hard to convince himself that there was a purpose to this endeavour.
After another two hours of walking through the hallways, passageways and gallery rooms of the Louvre, Dave decided to end his tour. The place was simply too massive to be seen in one day, and he was in no mood for it anyway. His expectations of the Louvre were overblown. Mona Lisa would have to wait for another visit. The crowding had peaked, and he found it difficult to sit in one place without being bumped, nudged and having his view constantly obstructed.
Outside the Louvre, he took his map in hand and searched for the quickest route to the Boulevard St Germain, which would lead him to the Jazz Inn. Dave’s mood immediately lifted, and his eagerness grew with each step as he picked up the pace. Unfortunately, his fitness level was at its lowest point ever, which meant he had to take frequent breaks to sit for a moment and massage his leg muscles. The view along the way was worth every step; it seemed there wasn’t a boring or dull street in the city of Paris.
Dave noticed that the golden arches of McDonald’s outlets were a lot smaller than usual and much more subtle. He theorised that strict advertisement codes must protect the historic quarters from commercial pollution. He appreciated it—it allowed the authenticity of the city to be retained, and he found himself absorbed by it. The in-your-face billboards and giant posters, like those in Hong Kong, weren’t there to distract him.
The Jazz Inn was a little bar sandwiched between a church and a department store. The sign was a ‘J’ in the shape of a trumpet highlighted in blue neon lights against the backdrop of black bricks. The large wooden door of the old building was shut. Dave peered into the tiny barred windows but couldn’t see any movement inside among the piled chairs and empty tables. On the door, a schedule listed the local and overseas artists that were performing that week. It was his second night in Paris. According to the schedule, Leon Bernard and the Black Kats were to play all-time favourites starting at 9:00 that evening.
It was 7:15. Perfect, Dave thought. He had enough time to go back to his apartment, chill out and get ready for the evening. A small supermarché was conveniently located near his apartment—he thought he’d grab some wine and something to eat before he went back. He was appreciating the liberal attitude the Europeans took toward alcohol—it was sold pretty much in every convenient store he came across.
Cigarettes however, he’d noticed, were only sold at shops with signs displaying tobacco. He’d also noticed how prolific smoking was in Paris. It seemed that one didn’t light up due to addiction; smoking was a way of life. A social gathering didn’t seem to happen without smokers. It was simply part of their culture. He saw in all the cafés he passed that, from university students to conservative senior ladies, one enthusiastically sparked up while engaged in a conversation over politics, with a short black on the side or a glass of Bordeaux.
Dave picked up a couple of bottles of wine, scotch and Coke. The woman serving at the counter gave him a smile and held his gaze. She had her hair tied in a bun, revealing a warm face with a long, elegant neck. She took her time scanning his items, sneaking glances at him as she did. Dave was embarrassed; she was flirting with him, and he didn’t know what to do. He stiffened up. The woman was in her mid-thirties, his age, and apparently single. Dave tried to interact, but his goofy hand gestures and uncomfortable laughs made him feel like Mr Bean. His inability to speak French forced him to improvise awkwardly. This was the first time on his trip that he was meeting an attractive woman in a sober state, and it didn’t go well at all. He reminded himself to look at the phrase book he’d bought.
A drizzle chilled the
air outside and threatened to spoil the night, but Dave remained excited. At his apartment, after switching on the television to hear the sound of English voices in the background, he peeled off his clothes in a hurry, took a shower and dressed for the night before pouring himself a double scotch and Coke. A BBC news presenter ran through updates of the elections in England.
By the time Dave had downed two refills, he knew all about the current political state of the UK, as told by the BBC. It was 8:30 in the evening. When he leaped up, he felt a slight dizziness. The alcohol was circulating more easily now that he was on his feet. The sound of steps on the pavement outside his apartment indicated the beginning of nightlife. It was time to go.
Chapter 16
An unpleasantly familiar voice spoke out as Dave walked out of his apartment. He turned around and saw the man from that morning, waving at him, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He shrugged his shoulders in reply.
‘What, mate? What do you want from me?’ Dave asked. The alcohol made him braver than he normally was, and he challenged the man with open palms as if to show that he could take him on. The chubby fellow puffed on his cigarette and tilted his head sideways as if he were eyeing an idiot. His expression made Dave feel like a fool. The man mumbled something and gestured in resignation.
The Jazz Inn’s sign pulsed above the door of the bar, and through its windows he could see that the place was packed. A bulky man with the standard black attire and long overcoat of a doorman nodded at him with a blank look and pushed the doors open for him. Stuffy, hot air engulfed him as he made straight for the bar. A band, he assumed Leon Bernard and the Black Kats, was playing in one corner of the crowded but cosy club. He could tell that the patrons were a mix of locals and tourists. The smell of stale beer and cigarettes permeated the carpet and woodwork.
‘Scotch and Coke, please,’ he yelled to the bartender, looking around excitedly. Was Erin here? Would he see her tonight? Around the bar and at every table conversations were in full swing, but he could not hear Erin’s voice. It was still early, he reflected. She may come later. I’ll wait, he told himself, taking a sip of his drink while swivelling his head from one end of the bar to the other and back again.
The lively music had the crowd in a frenzied mood. A couple of women danced drunkenly, oblivious to the world and entertaining onlookers with their audacious moves. One of them kicked her legs in the air and crouched like a Russian dancer, falling on her arse and taking her friend down with her. They laughed their heads off, and so did the crowd. It took them a while to get up, but no one minded. The partying went on, as did the drinking.
He tapped his fingers nervously on the bar and kept looking at his watch. He had a boyish smile on his face in anticipation of seeing Erin. What a surprise she’d get, he thought. It occurred to him to ask the bartender whether Vincant, Sam’s friend, was there. The bartender told him that Vincant usually showed up later in the evening but tonight he was out of town. He told Dave that he might be in tomorrow. It was fine with him; he was enjoying the music and didn’t mind being alone.
Dave waited, and the hours went by. It was nearly 2:00 in the morning when he staggered outside, drunk, hugely disappointed and with a sore neck from turning his head in every direction all night. Parisian streets were even more romantic at night, an ambience that added to his loneliness. He sparked up a cigarette and started walking in the direction of his apartment. Drunk in Paris: at least he’d accomplished something new.
‘Bloody hell!’ he suddenly yelled aloud in frustration. What was he doing? Chasing someone halfway across the world was crazy—and waiting around for her to turn up was madness. He might as well try to salvage what was left of the night and make use of his drunken state. He took his map out and searched for rue Mouffetard. It was close to home, and he’d been there during the day already.
Crowds of people were dispersed on the streets, which meant venues were closing for the night. Dave realised with disappointment that he would have to continue his walk all the way home. Rue Mouffetard was full of clubs and bars, but they were either closing up or not letting in any new customers. This area of town attracted a younger clientele because of the university’s proximity. Would Erin be among them? he wondered. He searched for her face in the crowd while manoeuvring through groups of students sitting around in clusters. Like him, they were unwilling to end the night just yet.
A local crêperie was doing good business serving fresh crêpes with honey and Nutella. It was an interesting combination, he thought. The explosion of sugar would be just right for sobering up. He joined the queue and ate while continuing his walk. Back at the apartment, he turned on the BBC for company again. He unfolded the couch lethargically and sprawled on the bed, his head spinning. He was too tired to undress except for his shoes. As the news anchor droned on about the financial markets, Dave passed out.
The next morning the clip-clop sound of heels awoke him. It was becoming his wake-up call. A headache reminded him of the previous night. After his usual routine of showering, dressing and breakfasting, he left his flat. To his relief, the fat man wasn’t around. Dave wasn’t up for any confrontations in his current state, regardless of what they were about. A young girl entered the complex as he walked out. She was a petite brunette walking a puny dog.
‘Hello, how are ya?’ his question came out in such a bogan Aussie accent that he even surprised himself.
‘I am good, thank you.’ The young girl replied in English. She spoke politely but didn’t stick around for a further conversation. It was Dave’s first contact with a resident in his native tongue—a good start, but maybe he would try it in French the next time. ‘Make a little effort with your language, will you?’ he mumbled to himself.
Street traffic was lively, and students congregated in cafés. The air was bustling with energy on his third day in Paris. Areas to visit were marked on his map, and he was up for something different today—the Jewish quarter of the Marais district. The throbbing in his head had subsided somewhat but still caused him grief. He caught the subway to a stop at the Place de la Bastille, where he had his first coffee of the day. He realised he’d been constantly on the move since arriving in Paris—there was a lot to see and do.
The flow of life around Place de la Bastille required a moment of reflection. The July Column was a historic marker, and it demanded to be properly absorbed by the casual passersby. He read on his map that in this very spot once stood the notorious fortress prison Bastion de Saint-Antoine. It was stormed and later demolished during the French Revolution. The course of a nation had been altered right here, and it was permanently marked in the country’s timeline.
Now that the sun had penetrated the clouds and warmed his skin, it was a good day for a walk. The closer he got to the Jewish district, the narrower the streets became. Small buildings housed trendy boutiques, patisseries, craft shops, tea salons and dozens of cafés. He knew this was the Marais when he saw rabbis strolling down the cobbled streets and stopping occasionally for a chat with the shop owners. Dave found a cute little boulangerie among the shops. He was drawn to the bakery by the sight and smell of fresh baguettes and the delicious-looking chocolate éclairs. I must have one of those, he thought as he gawked in delight.
The bakery was apparently run as a family business, with the strong father at the helm and a stern mother directing her well-brought-up daughters and two sons in the shop’s kitchen. Dave ordered a chocolate éclair and sat down the minute a chair became available. The dessert felt like a piece of heaven melting in his mouth, satisfying all his taste buds at once. The bakery’s walls were decorated with Jewish memorabilia and posters of Jerusalem.
Dave’s attention was fully absorbed by the éclair. Such a delicious treat wasn’t meant to be gobbled up so quickly, so he ordered another one to fully savour. He munched on the second one slowly, taking in every bit of its flavour. One particular poster on the wall close to the kitchen took Dave’s attention: a print of a dog chasing a car. The picture i
tself wasn’t what had caught his eye, but rather the Hebrew writing below it. He stood up when he realised where he’d seen them before, and approached the counter with his mouth still half-full. The words appeared to be the same as Erin’s tattoo.
‘Excuse me. Can you tell me what that means?’ Dave pointed to the poster and swallowed. The young girl serving behind the counter turned to Dave with a puzzled expression.
‘I do not understand Hebrew. Sorry,’ she replied and shrugged her shoulders.
‘Does anyone else know?’
‘I think my brother put it up there because he likes the picture. It’s not supposed to be there.’ The girl rolled her eyes, and her attention was diverted by another customer. Dave’s curiosity was left unsatisfied.
‘Chasing life.’ A soft voice behind him drew Dave’s attention. An old man in an old-fashioned overcoat was looking directly at him.
‘Excuse me? Did you say something?’ he asked to make sure that the elderly man was addressing him.
‘Not many of this young generation know Hebrew these days,’ the man said in his hoarse, accented voice. ‘They put stuff up like this without knowing where it came from or what it means. The words under the picture mean “Chasing life”.’ The man pointed, took out a handkerchief and dabbed his mouth. Dave noticed a number tattooed on his exposed wrist, the ink discoloured and stretched.
‘Chasing life?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, that’s what I said.’ The response was like that of a teacher, clear and direct. The man’s English was very good and there was a hint of Germanic in his accent. The lines on his face were etched deep, like words in a novel—each one telling a story. His deep-set blue eyes conveyed a sadness and yet he had a presence that suggested a character of resilience and strength.
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