Hello, folks. How quickly 2012 has gotten away from us! The last couple of weeks went by so fast that I never had the time to post the last blog entry of the year. So without further ado, I present to you the final installment of quai-side excerpts from Mark Fitzpatrick's Paris novel, Very Few to Love. And also, an end-of-the-year photo of the setting by yours truly. Thanks again to Mark, for taking the time to specially select these passages for the blog. If you missed any of the episodes, you can always check back through the previous entries to get caught up! As usual, at the bottom of the page, you will find links to connect with Mark and more info about his work. Stay tuned in 2013 for more artists, writers, filmmakers, and musicians sharing their visions of the Parisian riverbanks with us. I wish you all a warm, happy, and healthy new year!
photo of the quai de Montebello by Leslie McAllister
IX
Down
on the quai de Montebello, we decided to splash out and buy coffee
and croissants, and ten Gauloises. I went up to the café to get
them. When I returned, Ludwig had appeared, as if he had smelled
breakfast from his dark hiding place under one of the bridges. I had
bought enough for him, somehow suspecting that he might turn up, or
that someone might. We’d bring enough to share, so that the next
time we were without, we would not be lacking in favours owed to us.
The
morning passed with rushing clouds alternating light and shadow over
us. A skinny Australian girl with blond dreadlocks and a ring through
her lower lip bought three of the small paintings. We didn’t even
lie to her. She looked through the paintings with a dreamy, serious
look on her face, paid me for them, then turned and said ‘Thank
you’ quietly to Viktor. She left holding them to her belly in their
paper bag, head bowed as if she had just received a sacrament. Viktor
pushed his hat back and smoothed his hair under it.
“You
see? There are some people and these paintings make sense, for them.
With her, I do not need to persuade her to buy them. I want to give
them. But you, my good business manager, you will not let me, eh? Now
go and get more coffees!”
A
little later, a Frenchman in a white jacket stopped to look at the
paintings. He talked a little to Viktor, asking where he was from,
where his work had been exhibited. He chose one of the larger
paintings, one with a riverside bouquiniste lurking beside a stall
that, instead of books, was filled with hourglasses of different
sizes. Browsing through them was a pale, plump naked woman all in
sepia, like one of the nineteenth century pornographic postcards come
to life. The man paid Viktor, nodding to himself, and strode off to
important matters. Delighted with the sale, Viktor decided to leave
me to it for a while, and play some games of dice in one of the cafés
above. Ludwig loped past and saluted me, and I was left to my
thoughts.
I
managed to sell two more of the small paintings, to some young
English girls that stopped to look. They spoke to me in halting
French, and I said little in reply, letting them go on thinking I
couldn’t speak English. When they asked where I was from, I said
Romania. On the next bench along, Gilles sketched a little girl with
blond curls while her parents looked on. He held his sketchboard on
his lap, wavering his charcoal over the paper, adjusting his position
before each touch, working it into smudges with his thumb. I wandered
over and took a brief glance over his shoulder, but quickly moved off
as he hesitated and flicked his eyes sideways at me. The woman
selling the beads smiled at me, and called “Ça va?” as I passed.
The young Italian couple offered me some cherries from a box, and
then went back to sketching the two fat Germans who were sitting
back-to-back on their bench. I thought about nothing at all, just
looked at everything, wondering how I could describe it. Words
tumbled through my head. For everything I saw, there were perfect
words, if only they could be found. I thought of my empty book, and
of words spilling across its pages. Each breath I took seemed to fill
my chest further, and quicken my heart for a moment.
X
Jill
took a breath, and stepped forward quickly and kissed me on the
cheek. She moved away and looked at me a moment longer, then slowly
went round the other side of the taxi and got into the back with
Lucy. The engine started. Lucy turned slightly, touched her fingers
to the window, and as she saw me, her eyes widened in faint alarm. I
could see her lips move as the taxi pulled away. It turned the corner
and was gone.
I
stood alone in the square, the fountain trickling behind me.
I
walked slowly then, drifting along, drained and light and thinking of
nothing. I went down the narrow streets, past closed restaurants and
dark shop windows. The sky was low and heavy, and when I reached the
river, mist still hung between the islands, beyond the bridges. Notre
Dame’s blackened, jagged mass loomed ahead of me. Viktor would
already be gone when I got back. Jill was gone, Lucy was gone. I
would go to the narrow, dusty room in the crumbling hotel, and sleep,
and then I would have nothing left to do but wait. They might come
looking for me, someday, but who would know where to look, or who to
look for? It wouldn’t matter; I was already gone. I could feel
myself fading, into silence, into nothing. I went down the steps, one
more time, to sit and feel the cold seep up through me from the stone
bench, to sit as yellow leaves dropped wet down from the trees, to
sit and try to hear the dark green water lapping below, on the quai
de Montebello.
Mark
Fitzpatrick is an Irish novelist living and working in Paris, France.
For more of
Very Few to Love, or just to send your regards, you can connect with
Mark directly at:
You can also follow
his new fantasy adventure novel as it unfolds on his blog at:
Photo of Mark
Fitzpatrick by Leslie McAllister:
