This short story sprung out of two portrait sketches made in a Paris quarter last night.
We are in the 17th of Paris. Three men: the one with a problem, the one with a bag of tricks to solve problems, and the host who connects the other two. I am here by chance and out of curiosity.
The place is an authentically antiquated and organically eclectic flat in an old building on the corner of the old park. Dinner is a takeaway pizza from the restaurant below. The two men about the problem are conversing, cautiously and self consciously. To make it easier on them, I volunteer to go out with the host to pick up the food.
Down the spiral wooden steps and into the courtyard we go. The courtyard is surrounded by stables with original wooden doors painted pale-blue. The Host points at the doors with a sweep of his hand and says: “Behind these doors there used to be “coahs”.
I am trying to figure out what might be these things he refers to. He notes my blank expression and tries again, with a slight concern on his face: “Coahs”? For milk?
– Oh! Cows?
– Cows! – he cheers up, – excuse my terrible accent!
I begin mumbling something to the contrary but trail off as he carries on. Once upon a time, there was a cow shed here supplying the local area with milk. Now the stables are used as bike sheds, a garage, and a few that had been converted into small studio flats. Around 20 m2, to accommodate a bed, a tiny kitchenette and a shower.
– You know how much these cost now?! Three hundred THOUSAND euros. Three. Hundred. Thousand. Euros!
I repeat after him with a questioning intonation: “Three hundred thousand euros?” And he affirms: “Three hundred thousand euros”. We walk on and I bet that he, as well as I, is mentally checking if he got his English enumeratives right.
In the light of the received information, I briefly ponder, how much would his own flat be priced at, but abandon the thought. Numbers are neither my field nor my forté.
We walk a few steps to the pizzeria and he waves to a couple of middle-aged women at the table by the window.
– I know these people, – he explains. – I know many people here! This restaurant is like an extension of my place! – he laughs.
As he reveals more of the little details of his life style, that neatly confirm a few stereotypes one can’t help but fall into, I look at him and can’t help but float images of Don Kihot and of the knights of Monty Python in my mind. As he reveals later, he nearly died not once but twice due to health issues, and now his life is all about gratitude and the present moment, which shows well in his light, slightly childish demeanour.
We get food and ascend. The dinner is served while the conversation about the problem continues. I finish my meal and go get my bag with pencils and a sketchbook. My French comprehension is very limited, and the subject of these conversations is usually outside of my interest fields. Luckily, I discovered that sketching the diners kills two birds with one stone – gives me something productive to do while bringing relief to my company of the French acquaintances. I mind my business and they mind theirs.
The host’s angelic face captivated my attention even at the apéro. I longed to put to paper his clear features, and now I can finally do it. His stature is tall and upright. His brow untroubled. Granted, tonight is not about his woes. On the other hand, the man whose problems are the subject of this meeting looks suitably concerned and tense. I don’t comprehend enough of the language or the issues and I don’t need to. My focus is – the people, the correlation between what’s said and what’s expressed through faces and gestures. The energy of the interaction translated through the physical form. I am good at it. I am interested.
The evening is over. We walk through Paris, take trains, meander through the maze of transport nodes. I am here and I am not here. My body moves and senses the environment, my mind tells me the stories of people I met, the strangers I share the carriage with, the homeless guy sleeping on the marble floor of the station. It tells me the story of who I am in these encounters. All the while, there is another me, who silently witnesses this kaleidoscope of changing pictures, without a word, without a feeling. How did I get here?
