It is night time at Rue Rambuteau. Almost eleven thirty at night (Sunday night). I’m sitting outside Café Au Pere Tranquille once again. It’s a beautiful night (has been such a beautiful day). The drizzle that fell for most of today has left for now but the pavestones outside the Forum des Halles still shine with the wet. The red neon sign of the Cafe Au Pere Tranquille reflects on the floor with a few remaining puddles there. The coolness of tonight’s air is kind, perfumed by the sweet smell of pipe tobacco, smoked from a table nearby. Each table is candlelit with a small, fat nightlight candle, sheltered from the evening chill within a glass lamp.
All is quiet but things are happening here. Take now for example; the clicking wheels of a suitcase are being dragged backwards across the flagstones surrounding Forum des Halles. This echoing noise fails to stir a man fast asleep in a doorway, camped inside a red, puffer coat (some bags beneath his feet). The song of a whistling man carries through the air as he walks home alone. Couples meander from all four walkways. Two Senagalese women share a joke as they walk, speaking softly as they pass us by. Their footsteps sound tired though, maybe aching, labouring home with long, laboured strides. As they disappear down towards Rue des Halles the sound of jazz pipes out for a moment, for the duration that an open-doored bar swings a glass portal open to the night and closes again to keep in the warm. As I write, an old man, passing by, stops and politely bums a cigarette from a couple sat at the table in front of me. They smile and oblige and the old man moves off into the night smoking. Giant street lamps gently sieve soft creams of buttered light down onto the pavement. Distant shops, near the Metro, glow in oranges and yellows. Many apartment windows are open, or asleep, some are watching television with their neon images flashing changing facades of cobalt blue within; some – one or two – are burning the red light. Sat on a street corner you can see many things.
A moped surges through the silence suddenly, scattering the skittles of stillness in midnight’s other hours. A woman sits upright on the bike, riding side-saddle, and is glimpsed for the briefest of passing moments: here, there, gone, with the sound of an engine rumbling along behind her. Then, the table in front of me, push back their chairs, stand up. They leave something on the table, take their cigarettes with them and walk around the small herb garden of plants that seems to enclose this outdoor patio. Black and white hold hands hold tight each other’s silences, and kiss warm lips of tenderness in this happy, velvet doorlight.
It is late. Cold air touches my face; drinking wine here has left my cheeks feeling flushed. Time for me to head back to my room, soon. Above me, the thick velvet violet of the night sky – illuminated by the surrounding streets here. Some buildings even have rooftop gardens closer than us to there. One star shines brighter than all the others. It shines so high and bright above this part of town. Wish I had a camera now. Wish I could capture this moment forever; I really do not want to go to sleep tonight. I really do not want this day to end. I love being here so much. Looking at that star I have just one wish tonight – just the one ask. And I make the wish. I wished upon that star. And as I begin to move away from my table, a small white dog, with a black sock in its mouth, trots out of the darkness, past the café, and heads down towards the Siene.
Breakfast this morning was unhealthy. Beautifully unhealthy as the coolness of morning breathed in. Espresso followed espresso. Then the pastries arrived: almond croissants caked in butter, soft (so soft) that the crunch was found with a rip and tear of delicate ease. Pain-au-chocolates melting in your hands, across each fingertip on point of contact; dissolving on the tongue once lips closed. Satin creams of goats cheese folded up into crunching envelopes of bread, put into place forever with a single press of a flat, steel knife. I sat and I ate and almost wished I smoked cigars for breakfast, too.
Across the Rue, on the building opposite, daylight crept over the giant mural of Marilyn Monroe (the Warhol version) painted there. It was raining. Lightly. I stood at a window and watched the Parisien rain fall for a while. Everything looked so nice in the drizzle (almost as you’d expect it to be). It left everything polished and shining for those who were already up and walking about, moving through this Sunday morning sheen. I caught sight of an old man laden with heavy, plastic shopping bags. He stopped by a set of steps leading up to the Forum des Halles, putting his bags down. He readjusted whatever he had to, picked up the bags back up and moved off into the drizzle. And daylight kept lifting, lifting the darkness of night so that soon, so soon, the Seine would once again run to the colour of absinthe until sunset.
Mid-morning. Sunday Morning. I am sitting at Café Bouledogue. I am drinking hot coffee and eating more bread on green, leather seats. This café is so clean, spotlessly clean and shining. Polished brass sings, gleaming mirrors shine. Light tiled floors are unblemished. Old wooden chairs. An aria of opera begins to play, leading each note and clef around a curling spiral staircase in the corner of this restaurant. A giant bottle of absinthe is shaped like the Eiffel Tower and sits behind the bar. The day has come to life. Two men behind the bar polish cutlery. They rise and shine each knife and fork, folding them up inside a napkin mattress. A waiter sets the tables. Then a young woman bounces in, breezes in with a mid morning smile, orders the happiest coffee I’ve ever heard. She chats to the men polishing cutlery. Her coffee is served in a white cup, which she holds close and takes with her. Bon journee! That’s what she said as she smiled all the way out into the mist and drizzle. Bon journee.
Midday. Sunday. The rain had stopped. I walked for an hour or so through the Cemetiere du Pere Lachaise. I travelled here by Metro (it didn’t take long). The first thing that strikes you is the sound of serenity; an echo of peace moved in the feint wind, lifting up all rolling leaves and shaking out the last drops of the morning rain clinging on to tree branches. Birds were singing. There was a funeral happening today at the Crematorium. Up ahead of me, as I entered, I saw lots of mourners in black gathered there, a hearse sat outside, full of flowers. As always, Pere Lachaise was busy with tourists. They come to see those who have been buried here alongside other Parisiens: Frederik Chopin, Marcel Proust, Carmen’s Bizet, Edith Piaf, Gertrude Stein and Jim Morrison of The Doors. Coming here can make you aware of the influence the arts play in the lives of those treasure them; of those who love the creative spirit in all its expressive fonts. The ability to feel and touch the humanity of living in this moment now, and to fashion it in a language or form that transcends so much limitation. The tomb of Oscar Wilde exudes a pink hue – an angel in statue covered in endless lipstick kisses and graffiti from admirers. So many write words there. One from Natalie quoted from the author’s own work; in ink written on his stone, “The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. Thank you.” Further along, on the simple tomb of Amedeo Modigliani someone had left flowers for the Italian artist. Someone, whoever, had come along much earlier and left a long, stemmed red carnation and a handwritten poem on his stone. The carnation had caught droplets of rain, which sat in the petals of burgundy quite still and round. The poem’s blue ink had long run free in the morning’s rain. The words had blurred but the poem remained.
Midnight. Sunday (moving to Monday). Alone with the stars in the night sky and the dreams in our heads and our hearts. The darkness at night never feels empty here. It is alive with music, with people, with meaning. And for a moment – the briefest of moments – the sound of jazz drifts out across Forum des Halles once again, moving along Rue Rambuteau as an open-doored bar swings a glass portal open to the night and closes again to keep in the warm.
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siesta del somewhere 