This morning, there was a strange silence in my street, and it didn’t bode well. Indeed, I live in Paris’ near suburb and today should have been run here a semi-marathon. Every year, on this particular Sunday, I’m awaken early by a rock band playing loudly to encourage all participants. This morning, within this deafening silence, I could hear the chimes of St Cloud’s church, however far it is. What a symbol! What sadness!
Four Line 9 métro locations
A diagonal, one after another
Right where Armageddon struck
In the night of carnages
These stations were
A safe heaven
And Line 9 trains
The city under shock
Line 9 still runs
We’ll resist these assholes!
Lily’s arrival had many effects, one of which being old Mr. Me having to answer to her curiosity. Since the moment old Mr. Me and May Linh had first agreed on the contract I had written, we each respected each other’s silence. We had that capacity to spend a lot of time together, every evening on the porch for example, with hardly saying anything. It was enough that we were there together and I could ogle her. Indeed, her nudity and the silence, other than the jungle’s infernal ruckus, were like an oasis.
That one evening, we were eating on the porch and I think both of them had done the cooking. They were both nude, of course, but I found them particularly beautiful. Lily had changed the radio station. The radio used to be tuned to classical music, and May Linh had chosen the station. But now, after May Linh had played the piano all afternoon, it was now Lily’s air time and she was playing American oldies: rhythm & blues, Motown, jazz, what the Americans left in their wake in this southeastern Asian country, I guess.
Sometimes, people ask me.
“Why are you being an asshole?”
They ask me that because I’m often terse in my statements, using brutal words.
“I’m not being an asshole” I say.
“Ever heard of the Nautilus?”
And then I remember.
I was a child in a small French town during the war and one day, allied bombed out our neighborhood. I was already used to sirens and bombings but this one was real close this time and my father, for once, relented and took us down to the cave.
“This one is for us” he said.
Charles kept talking about “them Americans”. As if he wasn’t one of them.
Charles was American. Though the Hawaiian type, he was American alright.
After two tours of duty in the land of Davouds’ and a deserved vacation in the continental US, his wife was now returned home, in Hawaii, back to work. Charles was making it back to Bushistan, again, the next day.
So, on the way, he figured he could stop over for a night in Paris, France.