Cold and Alone in Paris

The flat was even colder than usual. Jacques could feel a biting
draught through his worn cardigan. His feet were blocks of ice. All
that separated them from the hard bare stone floor was the remains of a
pair of slippers with cardboard soles.
His only lamp had just run out of oil, making it impossible for him to
read. The flat was lit by a lone candle, the flame dancing by the side
of his bed. His library though small was comprehensive and had provided
him with many pleasant evenings diversion in the past. It filled his
only shelf.
The neighbourhood where Jacques lived was bustling in the daytime with
flurried housewives on their way to market, and assorted buskers trying
to earn enough for their next meal. At 3 o'clock in the afternoon
children threaded their way in and out of the commotion home for
dinner. Jacques often used to gaze down on them all; the scene was like
a Monet painting, full of motion, noise and colour. Today there was
torrential rain. Oh how it poured down in November! Paris became an
echo of London - damp and impossibly depressing. Drains were filled to
overflowing, streets flooded within minutes - a city reduced to mulch.
Bodies, umbrellas, dogs, all out despite the weather. Mischief and
mayhem arose everywhere he looked. Jacques felt as if he was the only
person, removed from the raucous babble - as if the volume was turned
down on his perception of life. It was all relative though - he
pondered, after all on a long enough timeline, the survival rate for
everyone drops to zero&;#8230; that was something even he couldn't
escape.
In the evening people went home, shut doors and windows and quietened
down so as not to disturb 'Mme Cartier next door'. Who was she anyway,
this illusive soul who went to bed early, got up late and had hearing
good enough to differentiate between a scuttling mouse and a wandering
spider? There were four such characters in his building. They kept
themselves to themselves as long as there wasn't the familiar stench of
intrigue in the sullied air they all breathed. When such an occasion
arose they descended to the nearest caf? or bar in Sunday best, to
recount at length about how they had seen 'M Bernard with a young
lady'. Never did it cross their fervid imaginations that the young lady
was really his niece. No, she was his maitresse down from the country,
where she lived in some little hideaway that he had provided for her.
In their minds these scenarios always ended the same with a divorce,
and a marriage to prevent the birth of an illegitimate child into the
area. After all this was the 10th not the 18th arrondissement.
This particular evening Jacques sat in the moonlight listening maybe
for mice or for Mme Fauconnier to return to her flat on the floor
below. The ceilings were thin and she wasn't a reserved lady, unlike
most of the other occupants of the building. Madame spent her evenings
in the Chat Noir caf? opposite, drinking Grenadine and reminiscing
about old Paris with Pierre, the unkempt barman. Jacques had no taste
for Grenadine or the caf?, or indeed its clientele that ranged from
alcoholic tramps to bow-legged prostitutes. He imagined they thought of
him as a bit of a prude, with his hermitic ways, but what could one do
when they were the judge, jury, prosecution and defence in every local
case. Contrary to what they all believed, they were not all unique and
beautiful individuals. They were the same decaying organic matter from
the same compost heap of life; God's unwanted children, thought
Jacques! This was their life and it was ending one minute at a time. To
them self improvement was a useless myth of the Bourgeoisie, self
destruction was their only option. Jacques wanted to strip away their
illusions , their expectations of something perfect. Jacques believed
that one's belongings ended up owning one's self. His aim in life was
to never let the contents of his wallet define him. He wanted to see
things differently and that was where he was, pretty happy with his
life and content to let everyone else live out the preconceived ideals
of a generation raised on television.
Pets, for example - the attachment of every household whether urban or
rural. He never understood why people bothered. Why did they love and
disregard them at the local refuse site or flush them down the toilet,
why not recycle them. 100\% loveable, 100\% reusable. Today a question,
tomorrow another. Never an answer.
Suddenly Jacques realised it was pitch black outside. He had been
sitting for hours again. His feet were cold and he could feel the damp,
caused by the evening air. He sneezed. That was it, he set aside his
thoughts, got up, closed the old creaking shutter of his window and
went over to the stove to make a cup of tea. Naturally the gas pipe had
frozen up with the harsh November frosts. The electricity had been cut
off since the rent price for the apartments had gone up. No one, not
even the old gentleman upstairs was prepared to fork out 1500 F a year
for a bare light bulb to hang in the middle of the room, or for there
to be a live socket by the window - for the purpose of supplying an
electric heater or suchlike. The old coke stove still worked fine; as
long as you lit it each morning the flat was warm by lunch. He didn't
go out much; to church for evening mass at the cathedral on Christmas
eve but apart from that, minimal visits to the supermarch? - a place he
detested - weekly visits to purchase the necessities; tea, bread,
butter. He hated to watch those large ladies with seemingly seventeen
children strapped onto the chariot screaming for chocolat ou bonbons.
One of the little terrors would occasionally bump into him at the bread
counter, fall over, and start crying as he stared back blankly into
their weeping eyes. What did they think it achieved, the maman to whom
they always seemed to call would rush over, hoist them up, apologise
and scold the child for wasting time. Bravery against the
defenceless.
Jacques remembered why he was standing by the rusting stove and lit
the newspaper that protruded from the centre of a pile of unused coke.
It hissed with a flame and started burning away. He filled the chipped
enamel kettle and sat it on the tilting lid to the stove. He had bought
that kettle when he moved in thirty years previous nearly to the day.
It had been raining that day also. He rubbed his hand over his cheek
casually. He needed a shave, he hadn't shaved for a couple of days now.
Maria, his sister, would have been shocked to see him so bedraggled.
She worked in Lille, caring for the victims of house fires and similar
disasters. She used to tell him ''Jacques, you never know who you
really are until you have all your worldly possessions taken from you'.
He had few possessions and felt he knew himself well enough. After all,
he had been living with himself for the past however long. He always
surmised that Maria was one of the people who truly seek from life and
are therefore constantly disappointed. After all, if you want for
nothing how can you be upset when you don't receive it? He had meant to
write her a letter after Easter but his arthritis had become so painful
during the floods that he could hardly move his hands, let alone write
a letter.
He turned back to the stove, the kettle was nearly boiling over, the
lid jumping up and down releasing puffs of steam and spots of water. He
balanced the old kettle on the side of the stove. What a shame it was
that tea came in those neat bags now. The economy was that loose tea
had become so expensive. So difficult! M Demers had been forced to
close his shop when the supermarch? had arrived. Once he had relished
shopping in that treasure-trove of exotic delicacies. Everything was
kept in ancient tins and sturdy wooden boxes; the oranges were wrapped
in tissue-paper. But most of all he had savoured the aroma of freshly
ground coffee that had always hit him as he pushed open the stiff door
of the shop.
Funny the things you remember, but at least he remembered those things
- special things, some people seemed already to have forgotten them.
The tea - he was getting side tracked again with memories. The kettle
had slid back onto the hob and was again singing away, and
bubbling.
Damn, the handle was too hot! Jacques always forgot to pick it up with
a cloth. He looked down at his hand; a little pink now on the palm from
the thin aluminium handle. His hands looked old. Those hands that had
written numerous essays, sketched thousands of pictures, fought for his
country. Fought - well he served two years in the army even though
there wasn't ever an actual war, enduring training, that was pretty
gruelling. Hands - they were wrinkled, chapped and shook a little in
the cold room. There was a little coke dust from the stove on his
fingers. He rubbed his index over his palm leaving a grimy
smudge.
Today, he thought&;#8230;&;#8230; could be special, there was
something. What date was it? The 16th November&;#8230;&;#8230;
no, the 17th. That day set off an alarm in his
mind&;#8230;&;#8230; come on think! Maria's name day was in June,
when was his? Oh, yes December some time. What then? It was his
birthday, and no sooner had he realised this than he was pouring
boiling water all over his small table. Luckily he was able to mop up
the mess and fill his only cup; it stood steaming with a grey coloured
teabag - one of those with the label on a piece of string. He watched
as the water infused with the bag and a swirling brown pattern started
to appear.
It was his birthday! Well&;#8230;&;#8230; he thought for a
second then reinstalled himself in the armchair next to the window. It
had stopped raining - he could smell the damp streets and the scent of
parks full of battered flowers. Another year gone and what had he to
show for it? How had his life changed since last year? How much more
did he really know about himself? He hadn't ever been in a fight, or
even an argument that amounted to anything. For bravery against the
defenceless&;#8230; He was confused again. All the rules in the
world only serviced announcements. If you can know and not fear, you
can live.
The sky was a pale lilac streaked with pink and blue. He couldn't see
it. The shutters to his soul had closed. Pigeons gobbled outside his
window. Mme Fauconnier's door slammed. Her footsteps echoed down the
stone steps and out into the street. Now the whole building stood in
silence. Jacques sighed.
In the hall below, a flake of distemper floated down through the
stairwell and came to rest, along with many others, on the tiled floor
of the foyer.