Sous le Ciel de Paris

Spinning, diving starlings wheel above the north-eastern end of the Pont de Bercy. As they swoop and soar they can see Paris stretch to the horizon. They see the boulevards, the estaminets, the hotels, the parks. They see the shining ribbon of the Seine that winds to the looming pile of Notre Dame, and beyond that the Eiffel Tower, majestic sentinel of the City of Light. They also see, or perhaps merely sense, the events that are about to happen. If they happen to glance downwards they will see other birds – raucous magpie and jay, tiny darting wren, chiffchaff, and the occasional treecreeper. As the starlings soar and dance to their unheard tune they may also catch sight of two tiny specks moving far below; a young couple arm-in-arming onto the bridge.

Let us descend to their level now; past the fleeting nuthatch, the blackcap, the crows and a rose-ringed parakeet that has perhaps strayed a little too far from the Jardin des Plantes. Past the red-gowned treetops, gold-glowing in the late autumn afternoon sun. Past the railway viaduct, where a Line Six train clatters along, its jaded passengers unaware of the lovers who stroll beneath their speeding feet.

The laughing girl is Margery Saunier, twenty-four, un mètre cinquante-deux, blonde hair cut in a short bob. She loves pain au chocolat, the Beatles, the colour yellow and the works of Dante Gabriel Rosetti. In addition to these, she also has a new love in her life. Take a look at the man whose arm she lightly holds. He is taller than her, just; his slightly too long hair constantly gets in his eyes, and his dark beard hides a firm chin. Handsome devil, isn’t he? That’s me, Luke Larien, Chicago-born but devoted to France and all things French, in particular to this beguiling woman who now holds both my arm and my fragile heart in her delicately curling fingers.

Hush, listen now as we cross the bridge – Margery is speaking.

“Non, non, non. Say it again. Moi j’suis d’Paname. Run the words together more. Slur more. Goodness knows an Américain should be practiced in slurring his words.”

“Mois. Je suis de Chicago. Why is Paris called Paname?”

“Your accent is atrocious. Luc, you do this on purpose!”

“I don’t,” I laugh, “I really do want to speak French. And you know that it’s Luke, with a longer and more open vowel.”

“Then I rename you Luc, for you are mine.”

“And I rename you amoureuse et commandante, for you are mine.”

She releases my arm and stamps her foot, mock-fury furrowing her brow and pouting her delicious lips. A fat pigeon, startled momentarily into flapping alarm, returns to pecking at the remains of a baguette dropped by an uncaring tourist. Laughing, we turn to walk along the Quai d’Austerlitz, admiring the spectrum of bronze and golden flame of the trees across the Seine. We do not notice that the starlings overhead cease their sweeping dance and arrow south away from the city.

We do not notice the fat pigeon clawed into a dark niche and devoured whole.

Beneath the vivid sun-butter cloud of Honey Locust trees on the Quai de la Tournelle we pause to listen to a declaiming philosopher who sits on the roof of a small boat moored here. Tiny yellow-green leaves drift down as the logician announces that the world has grown too complex, too diverse in thought and ambition, so that what rules in the stead of nature are a series of modern micro-narratives. He warns that the universe will not bear humanity’s solipsistic impudence for much longer. We laugh at his pointy grey beard moving up and down.

The Seine lulls tramps and beggars to sleep. We saunter hand in hand through a constant fall of golden leaves, gazing across the water at the tall white buildings on the island in the Seine. Myth holds that the Parisian sky is in love with the Ile Saint-Louis; when she smiles up at him he puts on his blue suit. When he rains upon Paris, it is because he is sad, and when he is resentful of the millions who also love the city he unleashes upon them his roaring thunder. The Parisian sky does not remain cruel for long, however, and asks for forgiveness with a rainbow.

From the murk beneath a sewer grating, glowing eyes the colour of arterial blood watch as I lay my arm about Margery’s shoulders and pull her close. She strokes my hip as we cross to Notre Dame.

“Je t’adore,” I murmur.

“Getting better, Américain,” she smiles, and pinches my ass, hard.

In the centuries-old shadow of the massive cathedral an accordion player and a guitarist commence an up-tempo rendition of ‘Sous le Ciel de Paris’. A small group of onlookers, encouraged by the smiling musicians, gradually begins to sing along. Margery and I join them, my atrocious French accent joining her pure voice as we sing of a melody that is born in a young man’s heart and flutters away into a Parisian sky. The dying autumn sun illumines Margery’s amber eyes with a million possibilities. I kiss her deeply as the song ends, holding her close. The small gathering bursts into applause, more for our love than for the musicians, and we join in with their laughter. Contentment fills the cooling air.

High above, perched upon an out-jutting gutter of the cathedral, an ancient stone gargoyle unwinds its grotesque tail and growls softly.

“Have you had enough?” Margery asks. “Shall we go back to the apartment? We could pick up fresh pains au chocolat at the Pâtisserie.”

I consider this. I very much want to undress her, and take her into the small bed in her tiny studio apartment near the Jardin du Luxembourg. A half hour walk beneath the lime trees that line the Boulevard St. Michel would take us there. I am fond of the Latin Quarter. Despite many modern additions, it still represents the Paris of an age gone by; the Paris of artists, writers and philosophers; bohemianism, counterculture and creativity. Picasso walked the streets of Montparnasse. Rimbaud, Matisse and Sartre bought vegetables in the Marche Mouffetard. Hemingway prowled the shaded alleys and bubbling fountains of the Jardin du Luxembourg.

This afternoon, however, I am not of a mind to succumb to the comforting embrace of history. I am inclined to prolong the exquisite anticipation of Margery’s body. This evening I wish to look to the future, to what may become of our relationship.

“I’m enjoying the river,” I say, simply. “Let’s walk along it a little further?”

“Oui, OK.” she agrees, smiling and taking my arm as we turn away from the Boulevard St. Michel to continue along the bank of the Seine. We will manage without our pastries.

Inside the pâtisserie that we have eschewed, a pool of thick blood creeps across the tiled floor, oozing around smashed glass and soaking into the scattered remains of croissants and baguettes.

The evening quietens as we amble along the gentle curve of the Left Bank. There is no birdsong now, and none fly across the plump disc of the setting sun. At the Pont Alexandre III we glance up at the gilt-bronze statues that top the seventeen metre counterbalancing columns of the bridge. The Fames, they are called, beautiful women restraining winged Pegasus, and ablaze with gold in the rays of the setting sun.

Mesmerised by their glory, we fail to notice one of the stone lions below extending its claws.

The gaunt skeleton of the Eiffel Tower welcomes us beneath its reassuring permanence as the world’s light finally dips below the skyline. The few clouds that sail in the Parisian sky move from peach, through apricot, to a blood-red. Street lamps flicker and come on, casting an ochre glow.

A crack opens in the pavement behind us. Soft, guttural snarls emerge from the darkness beneath the earth.

“Psst! Monsieur! Monsieur!” A small man, as old as wizened time and dressed in a moth-eaten overcoat and tattered sneakers, stands close by the path that leads to the ticket booth. By his feet sits a golden box, ornately carved with flowers, and what is, perhaps, an angel. I can just make out the words ‘Ultima Manet Spes’.

“Not today!” I tell the man. I do not want to allow anyone else to intrude upon our private world. I want this evening to belong to just we two. “I have no change,” I lie. The ancient narrows his eyes and licks his cracked, thin lips.

“I think I have seen such a box before,” Margery frowns, staring at the elaborately designed casket, no more than a foot square, that squats by the man’s ragged footwear. Her grip on my arm tightens.

“Where?” I smile. “What is it?”

“I do not know. It escapes my mind.”

“Shall we speak to him?” She nods, her bangs trembling. We take a step towards the gnarled, bent figure. His eyes brighten and he beckons, claw-like, eagerly and urgently.

“Le temps est venu,” he hisses, revealing yellow-grey teeth. “La fin du monde est proche.”

“What did he say?” I ask, although I understand perfectly.

“The end of the world is here,” Margery translates.

“Oh, he’s one of those,” I sigh. “Come on, I’m not in the mood for lunatics. I want to kiss you at the top of the tower.” I drag her away from the man, who continues to call after us.

“Non, partez pas! Sauvez-vous! Je suis psychopompe! S’il vous plaît, regardez dans la boîte – sauvez-vous de la catastrophe qui approche!”

He speaks so quickly that most of it is lost on me, but I can see that Margery is shaken by the encounter with the hunched little man. In the cramped elevator that carries us to the high observation platform, she shivers. I hold her close. Her warm breath tantalises the skin of my throat.

“What is it, cherie? What’s upset you?”

“I… ” she whispers, “I think I know where I have previously seen a similar box to that of the old man.” I look into eyes as clear as the autumn night. “There’s a painting by Rosetti. He painted Jane Morris, his friend’s wife, as Pandora. The box of the old man looked exactly like that held by Pandora in Rosetti’s image.”

“This bothers you? He was merely a beggar with an old box, trying to scam a euro or two.”

“Je sais pas. No. Yes. I don’t know.” She is trembling in my arms. I kiss her forehead. Her skin is cold.

“Look, if it makes you feel better we’ll speak to him when we come down.”

“Oui. Please, could we? That will settle my mind.” Her mouth curves upwards slightly, and she relaxes a little.

We step out onto the observation platform and gaze across Paris. Beautiful Paris, City of Light. The bowl of the sky is now almost completely dark, but the streets below are awash with illumination. I hold her close in front of me and nuzzle her neck as we admire the city lights that sweep iridescent to the horizon, sparkling with life, like the years I imagine unfolding in our future. Then slowly, section by section, arondissement by arondissement, the lights of Paris wink out. Even the lights of moving vehicles disappear. Margery catches her breath.

“What happens?” she gasps.

“I don’t know,” I say, holding her close against me. My chest feels tight. “Power cut?” I suggest, although I know that cannot be, for what power cut ever affected traffic?

Below us Paris is completely dark. Now that they have no competition, the stars look down on a silent black city, waiting as they have for an eternity, as if they are holding their breath. My love turns and buries her face in my sweater. I feel her heart thumping against me. One last moment of blissful peace, a deceptive tranquility, the calm before the storm.

Far, far below us, the screaming begins. Roars and primal howls echo out of the darkness, accompanied by terrified shrieks of horror and agony. We cannot stop our ears to the tortured screams of people being hunted down; men, women and children being eviscerated and torn apart. All we can do is listen to the howling, the rending snarls and the screams of the dying, and watch the darkness. Watch as the world ends, and wonder what was in that damned box.