November Rust

By Julian Gallo

Paris at the turn of the 21st century.  A New York City writer follows in the footsteps of his literary heroes only to discover the reality is far from the fantasy he pursues.  Falling in with a group of expatriate American artists, he soon discovers that things aren’t really much different  than they are from home.  When he meets Nys, a quirky Parisian sculptor, he believes she is the answer to all his problems.  But a tragedy is unfolding and he is unable --- or unwilling--- to see it.  Things suddenly take an ominous turn when the lines between fantasy and reality gradually become erased.  The past becomes the present, the present becomes the past and nothing is ever what it appears to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beat Corrida
• Release date: Sep 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781507090596

Julian Gallo

Julian Gallo lives and works in New York City. His poetry has appeared in over 40 journals throughout the Unites States, Canada and Europe. He is the author of 9 poetry books, "Standing on Lorimer Street Awaiting Crucifixion" (Alpha Beat Press 1996), "The Terror of Your Cunt is the Beauty of Your Face" (Black Spring Press 1999), "Street Gospel Mystical Intellectual Survival Codes" (Budget Press 2000), "Scrape That Violin More Darkly Then Hover Like Smoke in the Air" (Black Spring Press 2001), "Existential Labyrinths" (Black Spring Press 2003), "My Arrival is Marked by Illuminating Stains" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Window Shopping For a New Crown of Thorns" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "A Symphony of Olives" (Propaganda Press 2009) and "Divertimiento" (Propaganda Press 2009). He is also the author of 6 novels, "November Rust (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Naderia" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Be Still and Know That I Am" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Mediterraneo" (Beat Corrida, 2012), "Europa" (Beat Corrida, 2013), the short story collection "Rapid Eye Movements" (Beat Corrida 2014) and "Rhombus Denied" (Beat Corrida, 2015)

Book preview

"You start out with the sublime and you end up in

an alley, jerking away for dear life"

Henry Miller

La vie de bohéme

1

It happens, it doesn’t happen.  That’s the trouble with literature.  It is and it isn’t.  One never really knows for sure.  This is a symphony of chaos.  This is Beethoven drugged and beaten set loose on an unsuspecting audience not quite prepared to hear what he has in mind.  This is something to deregulate the senses.  This is something amorphous, something run amok but just might possibly ameliorate if one has the patience to stick around a little while.  That’s the one good thing about literature and it often serves as a seemingly impossible goal for those who wish to hand it down.  A communion of words and ideas for anyone willing to ingest it.

My notebook pages are stained with coffee rings and cigarette ash, rips and tears, and other unknown substances.  Battle scars for any fool willing to smash his head against the wall in an attempt to create.  In this notebook are the thoughts and musings of one man, coupled with hastily scrawled notes of good wishes from those I left behind who meant it but not without a smirk.  The more recent pages contain more hastily scrawled notes and messages, quick I Love You’s from one who did mean it but wasn’t able to deal with it properly.  Reading it, my heart grows heavy.  Reading it brings to mind how often things are not quite what they seem...

Last night Enzo was fucking Eliska non-stop and this made sleep nearly impossible.  Early this morning I finally had enough of dealing with my recent bout of insomnia and decided to take a walk despite the misty rain falling all over Paris.  My aimless wandering took me to the Pont D’Austerlitz where I look out over the Seine, amazed how fast a year can pass.  Over the past year I must have crossed this bridge a thousand times en route to Enzo’s studio from Jardin des Plantes.  Now I find myself standing here in the early morning hours, flipping through my dog eared notebook, reading scrawled notes about Balzac and his statue at the intersection of Place Picasso and Boulevard Montparnasse.  Yes, a year can pass very fast.  Despite everything, I still never loose le sang-froid as the French say.  After a while, one realizes more than ever that its suave-qui-peut! and it never is any other way.  Never has been.

Through the fog I see Nys walking towards me but I know this is impossible, as much as I’d like to believe it. We had spent many hours walking these streets, talking about anything and everything; other times in complete silence.  It was these silent walks that I miss more than anything else. 

A woman passes by me, but it’s definitely not Nys.  This woman is much older, carrying a small bag of groceries.  She smiles at me and keeps walking.  I light a cigarette and watch her continue on across the bridge until she disappears into the fog.  It brings a smile to my face but I’m not exactly sure why.  Despite everything, I’m still able to feel those moments of joy, the same joy that I felt the day I first arrived in Paris. 

I decide to take a walk through the Jardin des Plantes.  Everything is wet and there is absolutely no sound other than the chirping of birds and the occasional rustle of the leaves as the breeze picks up.  A few people are out already.  A young woman walking her dog, a thin grey haired man out for his morning jog—-it’s Sunday, right?  I’m not even sure anymore.  If it were nicer, I’d pick up the American newspaper at the newsstand and quietly read it on a bench and try to keep up with events at home.  Spend enough time here and you can become completely cut off from it all.  Sometimes when I do read the American papers, I wish I hadn’t.  The news is always bad.  Instead, I keep walking.  Hunger has come on and I have a few francs in my pocket.  No better time to park my ass at a café, have something to eat and just while away the hours. 

Again, thoughts of literature enters my mind.  For someone like myself, Paris is a very literary city.  I’m sure it’s nothing of the kind for the average person here but for me, sitting at this café, I think of all the scribes I hold dear and think of those who spent their time in the cafés across Paris.  I think of Gide, Proust, DuHamel, Martin du Gard, Aragon, Breton, Green, Cocteau, Queneau, Sartre, Camus, Malraux, Muriac, Giono, Ayme, Cinxois, LeDuc as well as the Americans that had passed through here—Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Miller—-the list goes on.  There is an enormous amount of respect given to these individuals and for good reason.  I think of the times I spent in the bars and cafés in New York City and how completely different the atmosphere is there.  Not that it’s worse, but different.  A lot of youthful New York City bohos are utterly clueless but what the hell?  I’m a good ten years older than the average New York hipster and I no longer care about such trivial matters, but there was a time when I did and in hindsight, it’s hard to figure out why.  But that’s the nature of youth.  Trivial things seem so important.  It takes a great deal of effort and life experience to stand above it. 

The waiter brings me my café double and pain du chocolat with a smile.  Here is a man who’s already having a good day.  Here is a man who takes pride in his work.  I’ve met many like him over the past year.  Average working folk with minds like a whip. 

I am about to take a bite when I notice two American girls a few feet away from me.  They’re young, no older than twenty-five.  No doubt two college students on vacation.  They remind me of some of the American students I’ve gotten to know here over the past year.  I never see them anymore.  I can’t say that I’m too broken up about it.  Most of them were like the idiots I knew back at home.  They were mostly Enzo’s friends.  Like a lot of things in life, there are things which take hold for a while, almost to the point of permanence, then one day the bonds loosen and all things begin to drift away.  If there is one thing to learn in this life it’s that nothing is permanent.  Things grow, things die.  That’s just the way it is.  Nothing ever remains the same.  Everything changes, for better or for worse.  How true this was with regard to Nys.  From the excitement of first meeting her to how things eventually wound up.  Eventually, everything dies. 

After breakfast, I decide to take a walk over to the 14th Arrondissement.  I pause at the little hotel on Rue Gergovie and look up to the window of my old room.  There was a certain charm to that little room and there are a lot of good memories associated with the few months that I lived there.  It was a dump but for a little while it was my dump. 

From there, I walk the few short blocks to the apartment where Nys and I lived.  Standing by the doors to the the courtyard brings a heavy feeling to my chest.  Nys’s name is still on the directory.  Apparently the landlord still hasn’t gotten around to removing it.  Sadness overcomes me.  Nys has been gone for only a few months but it feels like an eternity since I last saw her.  To lose her was sad.  To lose her in the manner I did was a tragedy.

So as to what happened—-or didn’t happen?

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2

It is the first day of November when I arrive in Paris.  Gare Montparnasse in the freezing rain.  A few other sorry souls have just stepped off the airport bus behind me, scrambling to get under the bus shelter while the poor soul digging the bags out of the luggage compartment collects a few coins for his efforts.  The first thing I notice is the odd smell that permeates the air, reminding me a bit of the noxious fumes emanating from the sewage plants at the north Brooklyn industrial parks back home.  Seemingly a million miles away now.  A momentary wave of panic washes over me.  Did I do the right thing?  Only one day earlier I was sitting in a bar on Second Avenue saying goodbye to a few friends who up until the last moment were trying to convince me that what I was doing was insane.  Maybe, but I had to listen to my instincts. 

Trying to locate Rue Raymond Losserand on my map proved to be difficult as the rain has turned it into a sopping wet mess.  The bags strewn about my feet aren’t faring any better.  Tiny pools of freezing wet collected in the folds of the bags, running onto the sidewalk as if to baptize my new life.  The occasional gust of wind whips the rain into my face.  So cold.  No room under the bus shelter.  I watch a silver curtain drift across Avenue du Maine, across the toilettes, the recycle bins and the frail old woman trying to seek shelter beneath a saturated copy of Le Monde.  News of the day:  You’re Fucked, Pal!  You don’t know a word of French, you don’t have all that much money, you have no idea where the fuck you’re going yet you insisted on coming here in some vain attempt to begin a new life.  Probably not one of the smartest things you’ve ever thought of, right, pal? 

The man in the magazine stand is looking at me, recognizing my folly.  He must have seen this sort of thing a million times—-some schmuck foreigner standing on the corner looking lost and confused, map in hand—-so many times now it probably doesn’t even phase him anymore.  He looks old enough to have seen many a foreigner depart from this very spot, making their way into the heart of the city with the same idiotic notions that I had come here with.  Just another dumb American not knowing where he’s going or what the fuck he’s doing.

Navigating the small streets toward the hotel proves to be difficult if not outright annoying.  The sidewalks are too narrow for one to pass another without having to go through a bit of a dance and the weight and bulk of my bags are not making things any easier.  Soaked to the bone, I find the hotel and check in.  The concierge is a nice, jolly lady who doesn t speak a word of English.  Trying to communicate with her is difficult and she laughs at my increasing frustration.  Eventually, I get across what I needed to and she hands me the key to my room. 

The stairway is narrow and it becomes a bit of a struggle to haul my bags to my floor.  There are no bellhops here.  It’s not that kind of hotel.  The hallways are no better than the streets and while trying to get to my room I had to share the narrow walking space with a blind Arab who was having difficulty getting his key into his door.  I finally step into my room while simultaneously dropping the wet bags to the floor.  I take a look around and again wonder if I had done the right thing.  I sit on the bed, slipping out of my wet coat, kicking off my wet shoes and part the curtains to look out the window.  Not much of a view, but who cares? 

I lie down on the bed, stare at the light fixture that hangs off the ceiling, the wires exposed.  No sounds outside except for the rain and the occasional passing scooter.  I had run away from everything and wound up in this cubicle of a room to pursue what seemed more and more like an act of pure insanity. 

I close my eyes, listen to the rain. 

My first day in Paris. Soaked, tired and totally uncertain of everything.

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3

Cartoon symmetry.  Relax. 

The ball is not in your court.  There is nothing you can do about anything except count the disappointments over and over again.  Something tastes fucking horrible, so rancid, so bitter that it even hurts to spit it from your mouth.  I am not one to lick concrete walls and claim it tastes like candy; rather I am one who will take a bite and recognize the chalk and the dust but savor it like most act before you think individuals.  No one asked me for anything, but I am riding the light to an unknown purgatory.  You should see the view from up here.  Mirrors are fractured and everything is sprayed all over the place.  I cannot pick up the pieces sometimes.  I’d rather them scatter in the wind and sprinkle into the gutters for dogs to piss on, for bums to pick up and take a nibble.  Ah, this quiet serenity.  It almost feels like swallowing darkness and belching it into an oncoming wind.  Yet I continue to move.  I continue to deceive myself.  Sometimes things will never be how you want them to be.  Just go—-go and pick up the pieces scattered about your feet and move on.

Never have I felt so strange, tired, lost.  The wheels of change spin.  Bound for glory but lost without a map...

November.  A month of ghosts.  I see them before me.  They are eyeless and crippled.  I see them gathered around the mouths of caves at the bottom of the chasm.  They are trying to warm themselves by the fire.  It’s useless.  They are the lepers of the universe.  They sit by the fire, warming their twisted, gnarled and sometimes fingerless hands.  The fire does nothing to warm them.  The light of the fire does not help them see.  I have walked among you O crippled, lame ghosts!  I have walked among you once too often.  I will not walk among you again.  No offense, guys, but I’m tired of the sky walk—-this God damn skywalk where the sun blisters my feet and the cold freezes my heart.  I come among you now as a specter among specters.  I enjoyed the ride while it lasted but I no longer have the stomach for it.  See you around, fellas!  I will not be joining you this time. 

There is much that I want to do, much that I want to say.  Sometimes digging deep into yourself can take a lot of work.  I’m not sure if I’m up to it at the moment.  But there’s something in the air.  You can almost taste it.  Outside, the rain is falling on a quiet morning.  My mind is elsewhere.  My heart is elsewhere.  Outside is virtual silence.  You can only hear the rain. 

A cleansing.  Nature’s baptism. 

Just looking for the muse, that gorgeous piece of ass who had promised to meet me here and get the ball rolling.  The glorious whore with the heart of gold who is said to never let anyone down who calls upon her.  Well, I need her right now.  I need her with her legs wide open, vagina moist, ready for me and unwilling to leave until I fucked her good.  I know you’re out there somewhere, my friend.  Can you hear me?  Do you know what I’m thinking? 

A cigarette is burning in the ashtray beside the typewriter.  I know you’re out there somewhere.  Can you see me?  Are you even thinking of me?  God only knows.  I am sitting here in this dimly lit room wondering.  I know you’re out there, my friend.  I know you’re out there somewhere...

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4

The only thing that seems to matter to me now is living.  There is so much in the world to experience that I’ve been unable to sit still.  There’s a whole world out there and there isn’t time to sit around and brood over the nonsense most people I knew were plaguing their lives with.  I write these words with a burning desire to take life by balls and drag it around as I see fit.  Today, I am willing to take a long drink from the cup of life.  The time has come for me to spit in the face of convention—-to get back to my roots so to speak.  There was once a time when I looked at the world as if it were my oyster.  For far too long I have been looking at it as a rotting clam.  I no longer have the desire or the energy to take things too seriously anymore.  It’s all a frightening game and I no longer feel like rolling the dice.  There are way too many people out there these days who lack a sense of humor or more importantly, a sense of the absurd.  They see the world as a ballroom to do their death dances in.  The music is growing redundant and slowly out of tune.  It is a twisted symphony in which the mad revel in their loss of hope and their lack of heart.  It is a concert filled with bad notes, screeching violins and flat voices that crack when they reach for the high notes. No, this composition was written by some sadistic Mozart or some diseased ravaged Beethoven.  This symphony of theirs was written with the cramped, twisted fingers of an invalid and with the heart of an embittered old man on his death bed waiting for the final beat to close his puss filled eyes for good...

5

The room I’m living in is small but clean.  It isn’t exactly a palace but it’s good enough to sleep and work in.  It took me a long time to get used to having to use the bathroom down the hall and have to share the shower with the rest of the tenants on the floor.  Some of them are vacationing here, others live here.  A woman and her two children, who are up at the damnedest hours yelling and screaming, live in the room across from mine. I’ve gotten used to it by now. The first couple of nights were unbearable but she’s a quiet woman, minds her own business and I do hear her trying to keep the kids quiet. I don’t know if it’s for my benefit or whether its so that she doesn’t get asked to leave. Nevertheless, I don’t really hear them anymore so it doesn’t make a difference either way. Let the little bastards yell and scream all they want. I should just be thankful that I have a clean room, a roof over my head and enough money to last a good while before things start getting desperate—-something I’ll eventually have to think about. 

There are seven other rooms on this floor.  I’m in room 4, at the corner. The room overlooks the intersection of Rue Gergovie and Rue l’Ouest and I have spent many an hour just sitting at the window watching life go by.  Such a far cry from my old dump in New York. This room, though smaller, is a lot cleaner and you can actually get some air. There is nothing  in it but a small desk, a bed, a closet and a curtained off area with a sink and a bidet.  I didn’t know it was a bidet when I first got here and I had been pissing in it for some time. It was when I had to take a shit did I realized my mistake.  Needless to day, the concierge was in hysterics over this for days. I notice now there’s a sign on the hallway wall indicating where the toilet is. These quarters are certainly not for everyone but it’s cheap. Eventually, I plan on getting something more reasonable but it’s not in the plan at the moment. I miss having all my stuff around. I brought nothing but the bare necessities. I did this in case this whole thing didn’t pan out and I decided to return to New York at a moment’s notice.

In room 3 lives the blind Arab who I saw when I first got here. He’s a quiet man, keeps to himself.  I call him Blind Azabat.  He doesn’t speak a word of English and I can occasionally hear him trying to find his way around the hallways in the middle of the night.  One morning, I caught him trying to enter the linen closet.  I stood there watching him, amusing myself until I  eventually took him by the arm and helped him to his door.  How he manages to get in and out of this place is beyond me. 

Room 2 are a vacationing couple from Germany.  They don’t speak to anyone, keep to themselves.  I’m not sure who occupies the other rooms but I know Room 8 resides a beautiful dark haired woman who I saw leave the shower one morning stark naked.  I haven’t gotten a chance to talk to her yet.  One night I debated whether I should just knock on her door but I couldn’t work up the nerve. 

The only other face I see every day is the sour pussed Indian woman who cleans the rooms.  I don’t know her name, but I call her Smudge because the markings on her forehead always seem to have been smeared.  She isn’t the most pleasant woman.  I know she doesn’t like me.  Whenever I see her she’s always giving me dirty looks.  I could give a fuck but she does do a good job fixing up the room when I leave for the day. 

I am here on a wing and a prayer.  I know in my heart of hearts that it’s a crazy romantic ideal and as soon as the money runs out, reality is going to bite me hard in the ass.  For now, I’m not thinking about it.  Now I am looking out the window onto Rue de Gergovie at the pharmacie across the street, watching an old woman struggle with her shopping bags and her umbrella.  Right now, I am counting my blessings and hoping that at least those will have more worth than the limited amount of francs in my pocket.  I know I did the right thing.  I had to get away from the life I was living in New York before it killed me.  So far, so good.  I look onward and upward...

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6

I’m growing more and more comfortable here.  I haven’t felt so calm, so at peace for as long as I can remember.  It does get a little lonely though, I admit.  So far, meeting people hasn’t been easy, though a friend of mine did give me the number of a guy named Enzo who lives here.  I’ve just been a little reluctant to call him.  I’m not sure why.  My friend Alberto in New York says Enzo is a stand-up guy.  He’s like us, he says, which he isn’t one of the East Village or Williamsburg boys.  That alone is enough to put my mind at ease. 

The last month has been a very big learning experience for me.  I’ve gotten to know the city very well and I’ve been getting some writing done.  The manuscript I brought with me is about the only personal item I took along.  I don’t have much to show for the time I’ve been here, but it’s more than was getting done at home.  I keep telling myself to just stay the course.  Life is good here, so far...

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7

Rue St. Denis at night reminds me a lot of what Times Square used to be, only it doesn’t even remotely compare to its unique sleaziness, seediness, nor does it have the same piss stenched alleyways and scab ridden crack whores the latter was infamous for.  It’s as if it’s a small town imitation of it. By comparison, Rue St. Denis is just a small side street but it is here where the peepshows, sex parlors and prostitutes mingle with the tourists, the shopping and the citizen just trying to make his or her way home from work.  The men stand in the doorways trying to entice you to spring for a few francs to see a bit of ass or a bit of pussy—-trying so hard at times, they seem to virtually drag you in by the ear.  It’s an honest living, I suppose, but even these men don’t seem to have the same brutish quality old Times Square denizens. 

It is along this street that I was accosted by my first whore on the very first night out and about.  She was standing in front of a clothing store named, aptly enough, My Pussy. 

"Americain!  Vous aiment bonne baise our ce soir?  Je puis vous faire le sentir vrai bon seulement vingt francs et moi vou baiserons dur, Americain.  Regardez ces seins!  Voulez le secer?  Voulez sucer mon chatte?  Vingt francs, Americain.  Sucez-moi, baisez-moi je ne vous decevrai pas."

I didn’t have a clue what she was saying but judging from her eagerness to get my attention, I kind of figured it out.  She wasn’t a bad looking whore—-tall, slender, blonde.  She could have been a librarian or a school teacher if it weren’t for the skimpy dress she was wearing.  There wasn’t anything remotely sleazy about her in fact and for a moment, however brief, I actually entertained taking her up on her proposition.  Looking at her in that dress, the full breasts, the deep curves of her waist, the flat stomach and perfectly shaped legs, I wondered how she hadn’t frozen her ass off in that outfit but one has to do what they have to do, I suppose. 

I looked up at the sign of the clothing store, lingering a bit, toking on my cigarette to give her the impression that I may be interested.  I replied with a simple,  "Non.  Merci" and continued on.  She didn’t like this one bit and as I walked away I heard her say,  "Quetes-vous un pede, Americain?  Ma chatte assez non bonne pour vous?  Ma chatte est tres humide pour vous." 

I turned, waved and kept on walking, laughing out loud at this point.  She didn’t give up.  I heard her heels clicking on the sidewalk behind me.

"Vous ne connaitrez pas une bonne chatte si vous voyiez un, Americain!"

You had to give her an A for effort.  Too bad I didn’t know what the fuck she was saying.  That didn’t stop her mouth from running, though.  She must have followed me for a good two blocks, ranting and raving, before she finally gave up. 

Whores are plentiful in this area and sometimes I make regular excursions just to look at them.  I never been with one nor do I have any plans to be with one.  They’re the same here as they are anywhere else in the world and I have no plans catching anything.  Nevertheless, it’s interesting to watch how they work and sometimes how easy it was for them to bag a guy.  Almost effortless.  It isn’t difficult to see why.  Some of these girls are absolutely beautiful.  It’s a shame that they have to waste themselves out there the way they do.  It’s the same old story.  They got to get their junk somehow. 

Tonight I find myself on this street again.  My friend Enzo (I finally called him and met him a week earlier) had wanted me to meet him at the café where he and his friends usually hung out.  He wanted to introduce me to them.  They were all Americans who attended the Universitáire de Paris along with Enzo.  Enzo was in Paris to pursue his art.  He’s a painter and he’s been studying painting at the university for quite a few years now.  He’s originally from Sheepshead Bay and he left New York for pretty much the same reason as myself. 

I couldn’t take the whole fake bohemian trip anymore,  he told me.

It was refreshing to meet another New Yorker—-a New Yorker with mutual acquaintances.  That first night he had been there with his friend Justin.  Justin was a contemptible idiot and I couldn’t understand why Enzo was even hanging around with him.  I didn’t like him from the moment I first laid eyes on him.  I usually trust my instincts.  I consider myself a pretty good judge of character.  The thing that turned me off the most was his brooding, pseudo-aloofness, the disease many New York artists suffer from.  He’s a painter as well and he came here around the same time that Enzo did.  Justin is one of those East Village boys, right down to his cropped dyed hair, cargo pants and those ridiculous clown shoes he wears.  Everything he said, every gesture he made, was for effect.  Never without his sketchbook, he often stops whatever he’s doing to quickly sketch something and make such an event out of it as to show everyone around him that he was an artist. 

I can still hear his voice from that first meeting, that fucking affected voice with its pseudo-perfect diction that’s supposed to be the accent of the intelligentsia, droning on an on.  All he seemed to care about was what women thought of him.  He kept talking about this girl Tanya.  Tanya this and Tanya that.  Who the fuck was Tanya and what was so special about her for him to keep going on and on like that?

She’s just a fucking cocktease, Enzo explained to me.  She likes to hang around all the artist guys.  She fucking toys with them all the time, get them to like her and then she fucks with their heads.  She’s in one of my classes.  She likes to hang around.  I don’t mind her so much, though.  She’s cool and all but don’t get involved with her and whatever you do, never take her seriously.  This prick here is in love with her.  All she had to do was bat her eyes and touch him now and then and he’s tripping all over himself for her.  I keep telling him to just take her with a grain of salt but he never listens to me. 

Come on,  Justin replied.  She’s hot!  She’s very intelligent too. 

She’s something else,  Enzo said bitterly.  "That’s why she’s always pissing off every fucking guy she meets and still goes with that schmuck of hers.  Justin can’t understand why she’s dating this soccer player.  A French guy.  Justin is an artist, see, and she’d be better off with him.  This dick doesn’t see the writing on the wall yet but he will." 

Justin would just sit there, take Enzo’s abuse and doodle in his sketchbook looking more determined than ever to get what he wanted.

The café where Enzo hung out wasn’t too far from Centre Pompidou, Paris’s equivalent to New York’s Museum of Modern Art.  I see Enzo sitting there on the terrace with Justin and two pretty girls.  Justin is practically hanging all over the nicely shaped brunette who I figure is Tanya.  The other girl is a short haired blonde, sitting beside Enzo not really saying much of anything, staring off into space. 

I was wondering where the hell you were.  Let me introduce you. 

I saw what Enzo meant about Tanya.  You get this vibe from her, one that immediately sends up the red flags.  I also see why Justinl lusts over her.  She radiates an extreme sexuality.  She looks like a good fuck, in other words.  There’s also something about her eyes that tell an interesting story.  Either this girl had been around the block a few times or she had perfected the art of making everyone believe so.  My gut instincts tell me that it’s probably a little of both.  I already sense a little bit of trouble just from the way she looks at me.  I remember Enzo’s words:  A cocktease . 

Barbara is a bit of a mouse.  You coould tell that she was probably fairly sheltered growing up, those these days, especially these days, looks can be deceiving.  There’s something about her, too, though I can’t quite put my finger on it.  She seems very reserved, very unsure of herself.  I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the two were the direct opposite of my impressions-—Tanya being the prude and Barbara being the whore. 

I take my seat around the table.  Enzo is already in full swing. 

"....and that was that.  I just couldn t take it anymore.  You know what I had to go through just to get anyone to even look at my work?  I wouldn’t mind at all if they had rejected me after seeing what I got to offer.  I couldn’t even get my foot in the door!  I’m telling you, it was all a plot.  They had something against you if you weren’t from the right  area.  The assholes who run the galleries never took you seriously if you didn’t either live in Williamsburg or the East Village.  A guy like me coming from Sheepshead Bay?  Nothing but a fucking Guinea to these pricks.  You had to kiss the right ass, live in the right neighborhood, have the correct politics—-it was all a bunch of horse shit."

The conversation was plentiful and alive.  Tanya wanted to know the differences between Paris and New York.  While Enzo and I compared notes, the girls looked on in amazement.  They seem genuinely shocked at our depiction of it. 

New York City is like a can of bees that’s unable to be opened. I tell them. 

Justin hadn’t said much of anything.  He keeps his nose in his sketchbook trying to capture Tanya.  It was obvious that he lost interest in any of this talk.  His attention was solely on Tanya.  We remain there until closing time then take a leisurely stroll all the way up to Montmartre to Tanya and Barbara’s apartment. 

Montmartre, with its pimps, thugs, prostitutes, clubs, bars and cafés nestled against and within old winding cobblestone streets.  The girls lived uphill on Avenue Junoit.  To walk these streets, or more accurately, to climb these streets, are a definite challenge after a bottle or two of wine and a pack a day smoker.  The stillness of the night made me lose focus on the conversation and totally immerse myself in the spectacular view from in front of Basilique du Sacre Coeur.  The Eiffel Tower illuminated in the distance, the Ferris wheel at Place de la Concorde, and in the far distance, bursting through the horizon like a giant erection, the Tour Montparnasse, which only serves as a reminder how far I am from my room.  How the hell would I get back if the Metro wasn’t running? 

I had heard all the stories of Montmartre, the place where Toulouse- Lautrec had immortalized in his paintings.  Walking these streets, you get a sense of that time and the decadence that the tiny painter had experienced.  Passing by the Lapin Agile only reinforced that feeling.  It’s come a long way since then.  I can’t say I know it well enough to know what the hell goes on here at night but if downhill is any indication (as well as the sprawling graffiti along the stairways), I don’t want to be out on these streets for too long.  I can’t believe that such a beautiful place could be so dangerous. 

I was brought back into the conversation by a smack on the ass by Tanya. 

You still with us?  she asks. 

Just taking this all in. 

Well don’t go walking around Pigalle at this hour.  It’s not safe.  I always make sure I’m home by this time.  It can get pretty rough.  It’s not so bad up here, though.  You don’t want to venture too far from up here. 

Why did you choose to live here? 

I lived on campus with Barbara for a while but after we became better friends, we decided to get our own place.  It’s a nice place.  We’re almost there. 

She keeps giving me that inquisitive look.  She’s intrigued with me, sizing me up to see if she can play the game.  The look is trouble but I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to fuck her.  Her hips, breasts, ass, beautiful eyes—-sexuality oozing from every pore.  I keep telling myself not to play into her game. 

Enzo told me a lot about you,  she says.  Tells me you’re a writer? 

I’ve been working on something for a while now but I’ve been spending too much time walking around and not getting enough work done. 

So you came here with the idea of becoming a writer, huh?  Surprise, surprise. 

I laugh.  That and among other things. 

Something bad happen to you?  Like with Enzo?

"Not particularly.  Just wanted something different.  New York wasn’t feeding the head anymore.  I lived there all my life and as much as I love it, I just had to come here.  Something was pushing me to come here." 

You leave behind a lot of friends?

A few but I never had that many friends.  Not true ones.  I did leave behind someone very special to me, though.  She’s going to meet me here in the summer when she gets off work.  She’s a teacher. 

A girlfriend? 

No.  Why do you ask?

Just curious, she says, putting her arm around my waist.  Have you met anyone since you’ve been here? 

I can’t speak French.  Makes it very difficult. 

I couldn’t speak it either when I first came here.  I can speak it reasonably well now.  Maybe I can teach you sometime. 

Say something for me. 

"Puet-etre un jour je baiserai le merde hor de vous.  Vou amient cela?"

Tanya!  Barbara shouts, appalled.  What the hell is wrong with you!? 

Tanya giggles mischievously. 

What did that mean?  I ask. 

You’ll find out one day,  she says, pinching my waist between two of her fingers, then runs off to giggle with Barbara. 

Enzo shakes his head, says,  Watch out for that one.  

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8

...and this is where I tried to depict the duality of man and the whole esoteric realm that we sometimes wander into.  It’s really a nightmare when you think about it.  Our whole lives are spent wandering and wandering into this perpetual abyss and there really isn’t anything we can do about it.  This is what I tried to show with this particular drawing, the use of light and shade.  The light is for hope and the shading... 

This is Justin trying to explain one of his drawings to Tanya.  She’s looking over his shoulder, her face planted firmly into the sketchbook, as if she’s trying her best to get Justin’s juices flowing.  Justin is on a roll and I couldn’t keep from laughing at this ridiculous charade.  I also couldn’t help hearing him out.  The more he talks, the more interested Tanya seems to be in what he has to say.  She can’t take her eyes off him. 

We are now in Tanya and Barbara’s apartment.  It’s very small, not much bigger than my room.  The only difference is that there’s a small loft space above which is about large enough to hold a bed and a dresser.  A small wooden stairway takes you up there.  It looks as if it were hammered together with a couple of planks of wood.  Whoever had this apartment before them, apparently turned attic space into a makeshift bedroom.  The main floor is no bigger than a bedroom with a small kitchen area.  There’s barely enough room for the five of us. 

Enzo and Barbara are on the couch watching television.  I’m sitting at the little dining table watching Tanya hang all over Justin. 

I look at Barbara sitting on the couch and I tried to picture how she and Tanya got along.  They seem so different from one another.  The two of them come off like little bohemian Barbie dolls.  They can’t be older than their early twenties but they seem much younger than that.  I am at least ten years their senior but it feels much more than that at times. 

Tanya is looking at me while Justin continues to rhapsodize about his drawings.  Soon, Justin is done and makes his way into the kitchen to get himself a beer.  Tanya calls Barbara over to her, whispers something in her ear.  The two burst into giggles then look at me again.  I catch Enzo’s glance.

The girls are sitting against the wall whispering to one another.  Tanya begins kissing Barbara lightly on the neck, just below the ear, then starts playing with her hair.  Justin steps back into the room, sees the girls fondling each other, stomps back into the kitchen. Tanya looks at him,  continues to kissing Barbara’s neck, occasionally allowing her hands to roam over Barbara’s breasts.  I begin to wonder if Tanya is doing all this for my benefit, trying to get a rise out of me, or whether she’s trying to antagonize Justin.  Either way, it’s quite amusing. 

Enzo seems to have had enough of it all and climbs the small staircase to lie down on the bed.  I go into the kitchen to get myself a beer.  Justin decides to open to me.  I catch him mid-sentence. 

...and it drives me fucking crazy to see them like that, you know?  I’ve known them for a while now and I really dig Tanya a lot.  I’ve been trying to get with her for as long as I can remember.  All she wants to do is be friends.  Friends!  Imagine?  I’ve done so much for her and all she wants is friendship!  She tells me that she doesn’t want to ruin the good friendship that we have but she has no problem hanging all over Barbara.  Look at them! 

Tanya and Barbara are making out now, their lips parting to engage the tips of their tongues.  They are clearly oblivious to our conversation. 

I can’t believe that she would rather fuck Barbara than fuck me!  Justin continues. "She said she fucked Barbara once.  Wanted to experiment, she said.  Can you imagine?  Apparently she isn’t too worried about ruining that friendship!" 

I thought about splitting, taking a walk around the neighborhood.  I’d much rather take my chances with the pimps and the thugs than having to listen to this bullshit. 

Tanya really is a great girl, he continues.  "We’ve gotten very close over the past few months.  She’s been going with this guy, a soccer player she met in school.  Marcel. A real fucking jock.  She can’t get enough of him. She tells me that she broke up with him a few days ago, that all he cared about was hanging out with his soccer buddies and didn’t pay enough attention to her.  I could never understand what she saw in that guy.  They’re so incompatible!  He’s a fucking hooligan. Imagine a girl with Tanya’s intelligence and talents wasting her time with a guy like that!  I don’t understand it. Tanya’s into culture.  Besides, what does he have that I don’t?  I’m glad she finally broke up with the prick.  This is the third time since I’ve known her." 

Justin looks as though he’s going to cry.  Looking over at Tanya, all I could think about is the kind of shit Justin must be putting himself through.  I know exactly how he feels.  I’ve been there many times myself, as I’m sure many guys have.  If Justin ever did eventually hook up with her, he’d be just as miserable and all he’d do is bitch and moan about how fucked in the head she is.  Granted, she’s a major piece of ass but that’s no reason to put up with her bullshit.  She is extremely sexy and desirable but her head is something else altogether.  A good fuck simply isn’t worth the baggage that would come along with it.  Justin would fuck her and fall in love with her, then he’d be hooked and Tanya would have a field day with him, keeping him insecure, jealous and off balance most of the time.  Guaranteed.

Tanya is touching Barbara’s thigh, working her fingertips towards Barbara’s crotch.  She’s eyeing me now, no doubt trying to gage my reaction.  Justin is practically having a coronary, clearly disturbed by their little game of girl play. 

Such is the life of a boho.  La vie de bohème...

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9

When I was a kid, my friend Tad showed me that if you look directly into a street light through the branches of a tree, the branches tend to bend around the light and form some sort of spider web-like pattern.  Since then, I always stop to take a look, especially during the autumn and winter months when the trees are most bare.  I find myself doing that this evening while walking home through Montmartre’s quiet streets.  The leaves have not yet completely shed but the branches still do what Tad said they would do.  I hear no sound, not even a passing car, an airplane, a whisper, nothing but the hiss of the leaves blowing in the autumn breeze.  I scrape my foot along the sidewalk just to reassure myself that I’m not going deaf, the silence of the evening is so peculiar to me.  It gives me a moment to stop thinking about things too much and just watch life as