Word count: 4151 (shorter than before), 4235 after edit
Chapter Summary: A day trip in the most romantic city in the world, and Boss and Assistant open their hearts to each other.
Chapter theme: Arrival of the Birds by the Cinematic Orchestra : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MqoANESQ4cQ
Despite her despair, Maxine kept an ear on the door, and when the slam on the master bedroom followed with Newt’s uneven footsteps, she undid the lock, siphoned her tears and hid the letter. Little did she know what was Newt up to. He took the letter he wrote to Dumbledore from under his pillow, and put it in his pocket, and then he came towards Maxine’s door.
“Max...” before he could knock, Maxine opened the door, and Newt stood there with his blue mackintosh on. “We are ready to depart... Rosie is doing really well and James says we can clear off now... if you don’t—want to stay a bit longer--” he hesitated and shifted his eyes from her to the floor.
“Actually no...” Maxine clarified, “I have had enough, and we can clear off real quick... ” She commented casually and patted on her suitcase, “see I’m already packed...” Newt was really surprised to see this.
“That’s it... no resistance, no persuasion, nothing?” he commented suspiciously.
“No... The splattering tumour really got me...” Maxine said and laughed out loud, “besides, don’t you have a ministry Christmas party to attend to?”
Newt stayed quiet for a few moments, and then mumbled “I’m not going...”
Maxine looked at him with an offended expression, “not going?... why?” she understood that something must be going on, and toned her judgmental face a bit.
“I am not good at public gathering and those kinds of things... people make me anxious.” Newt said without making and eye contact. Maxine pursed her lip as to suppress her smile, and then after keeping her mouth opened for a little bit, she smirked at Newt. She titled her head to make an eye contact with him, which he maintained for a second and then broke off; amused she commented “I don’t think that it does... I mean, you were great with the chaps out there...” she pointed towards the window, obviously towards the Dragon Handlers.
“They’re different...” Newt lowered his eyes, “they are not like other people... they are—they are special...”
“Do I make you anxious?” Maxine asked as her bottom lip wobbled with a suppressed laugh.
“No... No, of course not. You are one of the most brilliant witches of your age; you are great what you do. You are confident, hilarious and intelligent--” Maxine was nodding with an amused expression, really enjoying Newt scampering words to express himself. “—you are a great speaker, you don’t let other people dictate you, you follow your heart and I lo—like that about you.” He paused for a second, and then as if slapping himself mentally he admitted, “and you’re the best assistant I’ve ever got.”
“That doesn’t really signify that I don’t make you anxious...” Maxine said and folding her arms, and then suddenly she broke into a laughter, and it was so infectious that it affected Newt from within.
...
“Newt...” Maxine called while they were walking on the main road of the Carta Village, and Newt looked at her face to respond, “May I suggest something?”
“Sure, why not...” Newt answered with a good humour.
“If you got the time... if you are not too eager to just go to London just yet, can we catch the Portkey in the evening?” Maxine asked eagerly, while taking the turn to the back of that restaurant where they took the portkey. Newt didn’t answer and whirled along with Maxine in the same place; Rue de Rivoli, and looked at her with a curious expression.
“Do I get to know why?” Newt asked her and then hastily shielded her from the rushing Cugnot, by casting his hand in front of her and shuffling her at his back, “be careful... ” he mumbled.
“Nothing big... actually it’s really silly.” Maxine spoke while walking, “you risked your life and reputation and put up with my stubbornness when I insisted on going to Romania. No boss in this whole world will ever do that for an assistant, so I want to thank you.” Maxine said with a good humour, “by showing you my city.”
“I’ve been in Paris before—not my fondest of memories...”
“Oh c’mon Newt... ” Maxine came in front of him and grabbed his hands, “no tasks, no trails, no tracking this time... just simple day tour” she lowered her head to meet his eyes, “I promise, it will be a lot of fun... ” she veered again to be right under Newt’s gaze, “we could go to a lot of places, the Musee, the menagerie... I will show you all the cafes, and eat really delicious food... It’s almost Noel, and you can’t even imagine how both muggles and wizards celebrate here...” she straightened up and let go of Newt’s hand. Newt stood still for a few moments then finally giving in.
“Alright...” he threw his left hand up in the air, and Maxine smiled her usual smile.
“I promise you won’t regret it...” then they disapparated with a crack.
Maxine and Newt strolled around Paris, from Louvre to Notre Dame, Eiffel tour to Musée d'Orsay etc. Newt was observing the muggle Paris with a wonder and fascination. He particularly liked watching sculptures in Louvre, and he almost lost himself in the magnificence of Renaissance art. It was fascinating to him that a man without any magic carved such beautiful piece of art out of marble. Maxine stopped on her tracks to let Newt space out on the art around him.
She watched with fascination how he forgot about his surroundings and drowned himself in the beauty of art, each time he came across an exceptionally beautiful painting or sculpture. She couldn’t get him to move past the entrance when they came to Notre Dame. He raised his face in his usual slant manner, and looked past his curtain of unkempt bangs. His blue-green eyes looked like his soul has left his body to assimilate itself in the beauty of the hallowed place. He fell on his face when a rude tourist pushed him to go forwards. Maxine obviously cursed at the tourist and helped Newt up from the floor, and for a fraction of second it seemed like Newt took a moment to come back to reality.
“Newt... are you alright, that man was a real son of a--” she swallowed her profanity, and looked at Newt, who was anything but attentive to her. He looked almost sad. Maxine at once understood his pain. He was enjoying the beauty on his own, in private, in secret, and the harsh reality broke him from his dream.
“C’mon... there are plenty of things to see in here... ” she stood Newt up with a comforting hand at his back, and spoke nothing. The entire time Newt was in a different space: vacant, sublimated and completely out of his body. His blue green eyes glistened with moisture and with the light inside the cathedral; Maxine spotted a thin rivulet trickling down his left eye. She remembered a single line from a sacred hymn she heard in Vienna long time ago, particularly one line:
Domine, labia mea aperie: et os meum annuntiabit laudem tuam*
It was a common way of the world that a man should never indulge into his emotions; Maxine thought herself it too, but then again, emotions shall be worn like clothes—the ones that suit one well: only a most beautiful soul can embody the emotions so beautifully. She saw his face, lit up from within like no misery could even touch him, like the statues or paintings of the archangels and she forgot that she had to watch the Notre Dame.
After they got out, Newt was in his own space. Maxine waited for him to talk to her, as they walked through the road of Montreal. After 10 minutes Newt spoke on his own.
“I’m hungry...” he looked at Maxine, and Maxine smiled at him; not her usual crooked smile, but a warm one.
“I know just the right place...” Maxine cornered both of them and with a crack, they apparated into another place.
“Where are we? This looks different” Newt was now speaking normally.
“Boulevard Saint Germain...”* Maxine answered and smized at Newt while crossing the street, “it should be around the L’ancienne Comedie”* they walked hurriedly dodging the bustling crowd on the road, holding hands, “and it should be around here...” they stopped in front of a low canopied cafe.
The sign read Le Procope*. It looked like a cosy cafe, perfect for an easy luncheon. Newt was afraid that Maxine would drag him someplace expensive and really intimidating, but this cafe looked relaxing enough. Maxine smiled at him, as if she could read his mind.
“At first I was thinking of Grand Vefour,* where I always go with my family when I am in Paris. But then I don’t want to ruin your day with hankering waiters passing you wine lists and dessert menus.” Maxine smiled and a hostess led them to a table. Fortunately one was empty near the window.
“This is far the oldest cafe in Paris, almost as old as Beauxbatons.” She laughed at her little joke, and sat opposite of Newt, and briefly glanced outside the window to the bustling road, “food is a lot cheap here, but the quality is really good.”
“Do you have muggle money?” Newt asked nervously, and she smiled easily, “of course, have almost two hundred Francs on me. Quite a cabbage, but we’ll be over way before it... excusez moi” Maxine called out and a waitress with neat hair and vibrant red lips like Maxine came towards them with a smile.
“Bonjour Madame and Monsieur, welcome to Le Procope” she handed them two menus “what can I do for you?” she spoke in fluent Parisian French.
“Well... I will have Onion soup with baguettes, boeuf bourguignon served on aligot with chunks of soft-roasted garlic in it and crepe suzette”* Maxine ordered confidently and almost forgot that she had Newt with him too, who was still struggling with his menu. She gripped the upper corner on Newt’s menu and tapped it four times; suddenly Newt became way more confident with his choice.
“Tourin without croutons, Cassoulet, and crème brulee.”* He said softly but confidently, following Maxine’s pattern of starter, mains and desserts.
“Will you fancy a drink?” the waitress noted the orders and asked in French.
“An espresso and--” Maxine looked at Newt, who answered “water for me...”, Maxine replied “l’eau pour le monsieur.”*
“Good... your order will be done shortly” the waitress left them.
Within five or so minutes, the starters arrived, an onion soup, generously topped with broiled gruyere and crisp baguette and a plain but fragrant tourin. They spared no moment to dive in. the sun way softening from crisp white to egg-yolk yellow and the colder air only added to the comfort of the soups. Newt smiled between his seventh spoon, and Maxine, being Maxine spared no moment to interrogate him.
“What’s so funny, Newt?” she asked while pulling the spoon up, freeing the cheesy string from the soup.
“I never noticed, this is the first time you ever mentioned your family as Maxine Valois.” Newt answered, “Makes me curious about you...”
“I am flattered by your curiosity... and to be honest, my family isn’t half as extraordinary as yours.”Maxine scooped some of her soup.
“Really... what do you mean?” Newt asked her
“Oh you know... you and your children: Finn, Tom, George, Milo, Molly, Pickett--”* she smugly smiled and Newt laughed with her, “no, but seriously... I am curious about you.”
Maxine stopped for a second, then she looked at him again, “Newt, there’s something I must--”
“Your mains Monsieur and Madame... boeuf bourguignon served on aligot with soft-roasted garlic and Cassolet” the good humoured waitress put the dishes and collected their half finished soups.
“C’est ne pas Madame,” Maxine looked at the waitress harshly, “c’est mademoiselle...” the waitress stepped back with a flabbergasted face and perhaps with tears in her eyes.
“That’s a little harsh of you Max, shouldn’t have said...” Newt frowned again, while scooping a piece of duck, “what did you said?”
“She kept referring me ‘Madame’... instead of ‘mademoiselle’... I don’t like it” Maxine tore her face from Newt. Even though he knew very little French, he understood the difference between the two honorifics, and somehow it made him queasy.
“Maxine I am sorry--”*
“It makes me sound like my mother...” her face was less brilliant this time.
Newt put his fork down and reached for her hand that was resting on the table, gloved with magenta sheepskin. His knurled fingers gritted against the smooth leather, and Maxine looked up at Newt’s eyes; slightly looking at the right, avoiding the eye contact, but full of compassion and tenderness.
“I am your friend Maxine; you can tell me anything you want...” Newt said gently, and Maxine felt a stalwart firmness in his voice.
“You met her...” Maxine said softly, and Newt looked at her curiously, and then as if he understood he veered his eyes at the other side “so Audrey Page was your mother?”
“Yes... her maiden name was Audrey Page...” Maxine stopped in her tracks for a second, perhaps debating whether to unload to a stranger like Newt. No matter how hard she tried to get closer to Newt, something was holding her back, preventing her from getting closer to him.
“I never saw her in person...”
Newt waited for her to reply, his hand firmly on hers, never seizing to stroke gently.
“I was born in Marseilles, in my family estate, as I was told by my elf Lampito.” Maxine huffed, “she was an Englishwoman, a muggleborn witch from Edinburgh. She told me that she stayed till I was a year old, and then one day she disappeared. She cannot tell me anything else than that—when she speaks about my mother, she looks terrified.” Maxine gulped, as if swallowing her own tears. “But one day, a letter arrived when I was in school... ”
Newt looked at her most earnestly, trying his best to feel her pain.
“It was always addressed to me as “Ma chère” and only came when I was in school, perhaps in fear that if I was in my home, it would be intercepted. It was normal... always normal... “How are you”, “did you eat well”, “are you studying well”, “there is not a day when I don’t think about you”, at first they were written in French, the worst possible French you can imagine...” Maxine smiled with sadness, “and then, it was written in English... when I--” she stopped and veered her words “when I was old enough to understand... Newt, when she started to write in... English--” her eyes lost their usual focus, and became hazy and moist, “I felt like, I could see her soul... as if I could hear her speaking to me... and one day, she enclosed her image, she with me... ” she stopped her speech, her voice decrescendoing. She took a breath and started again, “last year another letter arrived; she wanted to meet me... here at Le Procope--”
“Did she come?” Newt’s voice was hoarse with his silence and withheld tears.
“She never did...instead I found something else--” Maxine looked at Newt’s way, “and it had her letter... it was attached with your book: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them” Maxine wiped her tears and looked at Newt with liveliness, “she wrote... ‘—do not wait for me darling, I called you to give you this book...’ I didn’t understand her... I was angry, because if I wanted to read it, I could buy it anywhere, but why she would give me this?” she frowned, “so I started to read it, on the spot... got scolded by the manager, but I would have him handled. I read all day and it was nearly closing time when I got to the very last page”
“What did she say?” Newt whispered, while keeping his eyes lowered.
“Nothing....” Maxine smiled vacantly, “nothing was there... she wrote nothing, and that was the moment I decided to leave my job... to work for you.” Newt slowly removed his hand from hers. They didn’t eat the whole time, and their meal was cold.
“And Newt... I haven’t found a greater peace with myself” she smiled gratefully at him. “Excuse me... could you heat up our meal?”
...
“And there’s one place I want to take you...” Maxine paid the bill and came at the crossing of Saint Germain, and hid behind a shop, “and I swear this would be our last destination in Paris...” she smiled and apparated with Newt at the middle of a bustling street.
“I know this place...” Newt’s face lit up after seeing something he knew, and he turned to Maxine, “isn’t this Champs-Elysees?”
Maxine smiled at his way, “I am afraid no, this is Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, this is the fastest route to our destination. C’mon this way...” Maxine grabbed his hand and almost ran towards the pavement where countless of fancy shops aligned, proudly and smugly as if enjoying the prying eyes of the pedestrians for their luxurious glory.
“Max... what are you doing...” Newt enquired, half-amused and half-worried, as Maxine almost dragged him to one of the shops.
“It is pointless to travel in Paris if you don’t shop here... it won’t take long, I promise” Maxine reached for a door labelled no 22, which was a squarish, gray shop with sleek black and silver window panes, titled Lanvin*. The door chimed open as both of them entered into the shop.
“This is a bad idea... I don’t want this Maxine, please let’s go out...” Newt said with an alarming voice, looking around and seeing expensive clothes and bags and shoes as the lightly perfumed interior registering into his mind despite his discomfort. But Maxine was a stubborn woman. She bowed as one of the shop assistant with crisp, clean uniform and cloche hat greeted them. Maxine just spared one mischievous glance at Newt and then instructed the shop assistant to bring suits for her boss.
“I am looking suits for my boss. His colours are Aegean blue, brown and mustard. His style is comfortable, practical and low profile.” Maxine answered crisply, while another woman was kind enough to make Newt sit down and handed him a glass of champagne. Newt, as nervous as he was, downed it within a second, contemplating whether to run away or scold Maxine, but as her boss, both would be inappropriate. He did not believe in insulting or reprimanding his employees.
“Oui mademoiselle...monsieur puis-je vous mesurer?”* the shop assistant approached Newt with a measuring tape, and Newt stood up from his stool as if he was being electrocuted.
“No thank you, to whatever you are saying... Maxine, please can I get out of here?” Newt yanked Maxine’s arm and pulled her at the side, “why you are doing this...?”
“Please, Newt... please let me.” Maxine implored softly, “I want to do this for you. I know it is intimidating and certainly very demeaning that a woman is buying a suit for you--”
“You know I regard for those concepts as little as I regard Grindlewald...” Newt impatiently interrupted.
“—but listen to me—listen!” Maxine grabbed his shoulders, “have you seen your tweed suit? It is frayed and battered... I saw you struggling a lot in Romania with them... I believe there are several frayed patched under the arm—NO!” Maxine stopped, “it’s no excuse that you should be poorly dressed when I, as your assistant is always dressed in silk and leather. It is most unkind of me to point it out” Maxine answered sternly, but then the heat in her voice melted “think of it as a Christmas Present... please?”
Newt paused for a few moments, hesitating and squirming, but finally giving in, observing Maxine’s sincerity, and it was well worth it. She smiled at him most brilliantly.
After trying a bunch of tweed, cotton, silk and wool suits, they found a nice desaturated bluish algae coloured suit, quite similar to his previous one, but way more polished. It was accompanied with a plaid mustard waistcoat and a thin bow tie. To top it off, a rich brown double breasted mackintosh was added.
Newt looked himself in the store mirror, and Maxine slowly walked towards him and stood at his back. “See... you are a great man. Now you look like one...” Maxine smiled at him, crookedly, as if she was devising some wicked plot, “I can’t decide who is most polished, you or Theseus.”
Newt looked at her briefly, with an inquisitive eye, as if to ask “what do you mean?”
“Oh, let it go... you know you have to attend the Yule Party, or else Theseus will lecture you to the end of the world.” Maxine walked towards the counter to pay the bill, “I have worked with him for four years, and when he is upset or disappointed with you, where he comes to rant? Me... When he has a problem... he comes to vent on me... ‘Maxine, can’t believe Newt did this’, ‘Maxine, I can’t believe he didn’t come to dinner ’... sometimes I believe I was his personal therapist.”
Newt stopped for a second as he walked out of the change room, giving his clothes to be packed. He looked at Maxine till she noticed him looking at her way, “what is it Newt?”
“Do you love Theseus, Maxine?”
She looked at Newt for a second and then broke into a contemptuous laughter, “why did that occur to you that I might love him?” she asked with her arms folded.
“Please answer me, do you love Theseus?” Newt asked a little more firmly, a little firmer than usual, Maxine was taken aback at Newt’s demeanour, and answered with her eyes cast down “I never gave it a thought... now can we go?”
“I have done everything you asked me, and I demand to know it... do you love my brother?” Newt asked Maxine while stopping her by holding her right hand. Newt didn’t know what she was thinking, but something was stirring in his mind that he might have asked something she cannot evade, “tell me do you--”
“No...” Maxine answered in a small manner and then turned towards Newt, forcing a smile, “no... I don’t” she said and then looked at the south towards the Place du Concord, walking alongside Newt through the Rue Royale, with the Lanvin package in her hand, “I don’t believe in those sorts of things.”
“You don’t believe in love?” Newt asked while looking at her face, he always felt compelled to look at her face whenever she spoke, because he found her voice incredibly deceptive.
“In romantic love, no.” Maxine answered strategically as they came at the crossing of Rue Royale and Champs Elysees, “what is it supposed to be? Two people suddenly realise that they love each other and the whole world suddenly seems insignificant to explore? People less important... self care less important?” she smiled shrewdly, assuming that Newt wouldn’t know how to answer it.
“No...” Newt answered softly, walking alongside Maxine, straight towards the west, “no... Love isn’t supposed to be like that. It is a sense of security you feel when you look into another’s eyes, it is the power that motivates to push your boundaries to better yourself, it is the power that makes you selfless, as if you are them...”
“Comme si tu es eux”* Maxine mused on her own, and several moments past as they marched towards the west, coming closer and closer to their destination. After leaving behind the long park at their right and countless Parisian socialites and tycoons on the avenue, strolling and driving around perhaps in the most glamorous road in the world, they were now very close to their destination.
“Do you have someone with whom you feel that way?‘ Maxine asked Newt and looked at him. His face was looking at the sky, drinking the liquid rays of the sunset. first he didn’t answer for some moment and then he looked at Maxine briefly and then at the setting sun, “yes...“ he answered softly, but confidently, “I do...“
After that, both of them didn’t speak for some moments. The bright gray winter sky was shivering in the last weak light of the sun and its face gratefully reflected all the colours of pink, red, purple, copper and gold as if it was saying thank you to the sun for keeping it warm.
Finally they found themselves standing at the bottom of the Arc du Triomph, a magnificent circus of eleven roads, beckoning them to pursue each and every single one of them. They both lifted their face and the sky, and Maxine with her absentee husky voice mused “— Bienheureux celui-là qui peut avec amour, Saluer son coucher plus glorieux qu'un rêve!”* and then looked at Newt who was staring at her way, trying to understand the foreign words, “it means, ‘Fortunate the one who can lovingly salute, His setting, more glorious than a dream’ “ Maxine turned towards the setting sun, and then to Newt, “you remember the second week on my job... when you say, good things are fragile? Well you were wrong...” she looked at the sun, “good things are abnormally common, they are so close before your eyes that you don’t realise they were there, you only realise when they are gone.”
“And yet you believe that you don’t believe in love?” Newt looked at her way, smiling. His blue-green eyes sparkling hazel in the sunset, like molten gold under a thin film of black stained glass, concealed from the world.
“You believe I am a Romantique?” Maxine asked Newt with humour, as she gripped her fur scarf closer with the chill north wind.
“No...” Newt calmly said, “it is still too early to decide.”
Tags: @my-current-fandom-is
I had a lot of fun writing this. I love travelling but I have never been in many places, and I still daydream about travelling the world. Regardless to say that I have never been in Paris. I wrote this literally with google images and google map opened in tabs.
I hope you caught some hints, however I cannot press any more details. I don’t like conventional love stories, the ending seems forced. Although I am no pro, but I try to keep it realistic. I don’t know how far I am successful.
Domine, labia mea aperie: et os meum annuntiabit laudem tuam: a line from Allegri’s “Miserere Mei Deus“. It means “God, open my lips and my mouth will speak out your praise”. I believe that Latin and Greek are part of normal wizarding curriculum as most of the spells are written in them. Most of the French (religious ones) I believe have some Catholic upbriging, and even though Magic and Christianity don’t go together, some hymns here and there is inescapable.
you can listen to the track here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H3v9unphfi0
Boulevard Saint Germain: a street in Paris. (13 minutes and 1.9 km south from Notre Dame, but they apparated)
Rue L’Ancienne Comedie: a road that is connected with the St Germain, where the restaurant Le Procope stands.
Grand Vefour: It is a five star restaurant in Paris at Le Beaujolais, approximately 2.7 km at the North from St Germain, famous for serving Royalty
Le Procope: oldest cafe in Paris, established at 1665 (if I am not wrong), famous for affordable food. I realised that if wizards knew about muggles, they would know very old and traditional establishments of theirs.
“ Finn, Tom, George, Milo, Molly, Picket “: she was referring to Newt’s creatures.
Onion Soup: it is most famous French soup made of caramelised onion, beef broth, and broiled with baguette and soft Alpine cheese (Gruyere, Camembert, etc)
Tourin: a rich garlic soup, often served with croutons
Boeuf Bourguignon: a rich beef stew cooked in red wine, which originated in Burgandy region (hence the name ‘bourguignon’)
Aligot: a cheesy mashed potato, served as a side or a main, made with Tomme d’Auvergne cheese and famous in south of France. Usually it is not served as Maxine wanted, but she has an extravagant taste.
Cassoulet: Cassoulet is a rich, slow-cooked casserole containing duck, Toulouse sausage (spicy pork sausage, like a French version of Chorizo) and white beans.
Crepe Suzette: Crêpes Suzette is a French dessert consisting of a crêpe with beurre Suzette, a sauce of caramelized sugar and butter, tangerine or orange juice, zest, and Grand Marnier (a very posh cognac)
Creme Brulee: also known as burnt cream or Trinity cream, is a dessert consisting of a rich custard base topped with a texturally contrasting layer of hardened caramelized sugar.
l’eau pour le monsieur: Water for the gentleman.
“Maxine I am so sorry--“: Newt is perhaps afraid that Maxine was offended that the waitress assumed them husband and wife.
Lanvin: Lanvin is the oldest designer shop opened at Champs-Elysees. It is also the first brand to produce Menswear as Haute-Couture. Although it is in 22 Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, which is 2.6 km north-east from Arc de Triomph.
monsieur puis-je vous mesurer : “Sir, may I measure you“
Comme si tu es eux : “Like you are them”, Maxine is echoing Newt’s words, with a bit of sarcasm.
— Bienheureux celui-là qui peut avec amour, Saluer son coucher plus glorieux qu'un rêve! : I have already mentioned the meaning, so I am not going to do that again. The line is from Charles Baudelair’s Le Coucher du Soleil Romantique (the sunset of romanticism)
In Le Procope I dined:
Sitting alongside six americans,
we ate as philosophers of old, kings, too,
dined and ate and drank and
spoke French as we did that day;
ancient history alongside us, never wavering,
never departing and we took it all
in. We Took Everything handed to us,
We Spoke our weary French we
spoke with awe and love
we consumed all —
we learned of Napoleon, the Great Emperor of France,
artisan of his times, succeeded by none, not
really. we saw his cap, placed as collateral for his meal, we
saw his cap. we saw Voltaire’s writing desk, situated near
the toilets and I felt a tear slide down my cheek.
I have never felt dust rest so heavily upon my soul, never
touched history in the flesh, never known it was possible to
approach the great minds of yesteryear in this
life time. There are portraits everywhere in Le Procope
portraits of famous gentlemen, kings, queens, philosophes, and
then there was me — stoic as the Greeks,
pensive as the seas that stretched wide, and wider than all —
this distance from Greenville to Paris, 6th arrondissement,
four-hundred years ago…
Le Procope, il me manque. J’espère que je peux te
voir encore, dans l’avenir. je vais marcher sur les rues, les rues
sombre et vivants avec plus d’histoire dans les briques que toutes les
États-Unis. Mais, maintenant, je vais pleurer parce que j’suis pas là-bas.
j’suis pas avec le peuple que j’aime.
Maintenant, je rêve de vous, la France, vous tous. Je rêve —
mais je craint que je ne retournerai pas. Que je mourrai avant la
chance.
Alors, je vais retourner. Je le sais. Je Vais Retourner.
