I leaned back wearily in my chair and stretched my arms above my head, desperate to get some feeling back into my aching shoulders. My body felt as if it had run a Marathon, but my efforts on the screen did not match my fatigue. I found the mug of half-warm coffee on the desk and sipped at it, grimacing as the strong flavour hit my tastebuds. Snow worked trails down the frosty windowpane and I watched, making bets in my mind as to which one would hit the sill first. I was bored, and the day was still young.
I turned my attentions back to the glowing screen of the laptop, and read through the few lines that I had typed. I read through them again, cursed loudly, and deleted them with a quick stab of my finger. It had been pure shit, and I knew that as soon as I had typed it. But for the last couple of days shit was all I had been able to write. My muse, that mystical force that is supposed to embody all writers, had disappeared faster than a bottle of Vodka at a party. The screen of the computer looked up at me hopefully, humming softly as it willed me to get something onto it. I closed the screen shut with a snap that echoed around the apartment, cursed again, and looked out of the window once more.
The traffic moved slowly along my street, and from my vantage point on the third floor I could tell that there had been yet another accident in the distance. A truck had collided with something that I couldn't see, and had spilled it's load across the highway. In Typical Parisian fashion, the other drivers on the street hadn't bothered to utilise their intelligence or patience and find another route, on the contrary, most of them were sitting rigidly in their vehicles tooting their horns in a rhythm that almost became musical the longer you listened to it. Pedestrians trooped along in the slushy snow and blocked the sounds from their ears as easily as they blocked the chilled winter air from their bodies. Directly beneath me I could still make out the shouts of the bakery owner as he stood in the doorway of the shop and announced his wares to whoever would listen, and across the road two boys dressed in scruffy grey and blue school uniforms kicked a ball back and forth between the parked cars. Friday morning, not quite Eleven, and already my little district of Paris was in chaos.
I'd come here three months ago not quite sure what I was going to find. What I got was a city that lived on adrenaline and caffine and drugs and never stopped moving. Paris was a twenty-four hour party teetering on a constant brink of disaster; a time-bomb of barely restrained emotion just waiting to explode, and I was stuck right in the middle of it. Life was very different to the small town I had left behind in England, the kind of place where the accident that I was now looking at would make front-page news. Here, it was forgotten instantly, erased from the memory as quickly as one had the time to blink. I'd swopped quiet suburbia for inner city turmoil and I now had a constant stream of restaurants, bars, shops, outrageous clubs and general insanity a stones throw away from me at all times. Christ, a fifty-eight year old hooker lived two floors below me and I was only a few blocks walk from the original Moulin Rouge. All in all, you could say that I liked it.
The sound of creaking water pipes made me jump, and a moment later the radiator I was leaning on rattled heavily, the paint-peeled metal vibrating against my legs as hot water rushed into it. I sighed and let my gaze travel around the apartment for yet another time that morning. The place was a dump, but for this district of the city the rent was fairly cheap, and the building I was in most definitely had a certain kind of rustic charm and architectural decadence that I had been looking for when I moved here. There were three rooms. The first was a living area that had a microscopic kitchen pushed into one corner. It was in here that I had spent most of the spare cash that I had bought with me, getting an antique desk to work at, a decent couch and TV and some not quite threadbare rugs on the floor. In the bedroom I had nothing more than a huge cast iron bed and an oak chest that I stored my clothes in, with a metal rail to hang my shirts and suits from. The bathroom led off the bedroom and was tiled floor to ceiling with a heroic sized tub planted in the centre, and a toilet that was stuck in a corner almost as an afterthought. What attracted me to the whole apartment was the high ceilings and open space, Victorian plasterwork and huge windows that flooded the late afternoon sunlight across the floor like waves breaking on the shore. If I couldn't find the inspiration to finish my novel here, then I never would.
However, finishing it had become a problem during the last few days. My mind had lost it's thoughts and everytime I'd looked at the laptop I'd seen nothing but a huge literary wall infront of me, and I had no way how to get over it. I'd taken long walks around the streets, watched the places and people around me, but still nothing had come. I'd read magazines, taken long baths, watched the mind-numbing game shows that were a staple part of midday French television, even rented videos and sat through a bemusing afternoon of Pulp Fiction and Star Wars dubbed into French, but no blinding flash of inspiration came to me. And believe me, if the menacing tones of Darth Vader dubbed into a rustic Gallic dialect fails to inspire, then you know you're in trouble.
My stomach growled, reminding me that I'd had no breakfast, and I crossed to the kitchen and checked the fridge, but all I could find was a quarter of milk and a few tomatoes that looked as if they had seen better days. I didn't need much of a reason to leave my work and get outside into the cool air of the morning, and making a run for provisions was as good an excuse as any.
I slammed the front door behind me and pulled on my leather jacket as I headed for the elevator. As I walked down my hallway I could hear my neighbours arguing behind the walls; the woman who lived there seemed to have two forms of expression, silence and rage. She was tall and almost painfully thin, and on the few occasions that I had seen her she was always wearing the shortest of skirts which exposed the kind of legs that could almost break in a strong wind. Her hair was always pulled back from her face in a severe knot, and she would smile at me with a spiteful looking mouth that was quite obviously at it's happiest shouting abuse at the small man who lived with her. I had only seen him once, and he had peeked at me from underneath a cap before lowering eyes and rushing past me.
I swore loudly at the elevator, which was out-of-order once again, using one of the only French words that I was fluent in. The stairs were cold and hard, and as I hurried down them I could feel the cold air and street noise coming in through the open front door. As I stepped outside the bustle that I had heard three floors above was amplified tenfold, and a great wall of sound accosted me. The traffic jam was still in full swing, with Citroens and Renaults shuffling along nose to tail. A local paper boy was the only person seemingly benefiting from the chaos; he was going from driver to driver selling copies of L'Equipe, the best-selling sports paper. As he passed me I pressed fifty francs into his hand for a copy and tucked it inside my jacket.
Dodging through the vehicles, I crossed to the other side of the street and headed for the nearest brasserie, and as soon as I opened the door I was overcome with the smell of good pastries and fresh bread. There was the usual collection of intellectuals cluttering up the tables, smoking and drinking the blackest of coffee while they absorbed the works of Jean-Paul Satre and tried to look as if they knew what they were doing. When I first arrived in Paris I spent a good few days watching this kind of crowd with a certain bemusement, until it occurred to me that they were only doing exactly the same as myself. The pastime of watching people is almost an art form in Paris, and it's very easy to get sucked up into it. I avoided that these days by staying out of the cafes and doing my observing from my third floor window. Sure, it was still a waste of time, but I didn't feel so guilty if other people couldn't see me.
I ordered coffee and a couple of buttered baguettes to go, and threaded my way back out onto the street. The air was heavy with the smell of exhaust fumes and shouting, and I quickly made my way along the sidewalk until I reached the south-east entrance of The Garden of Light, which is a small but beautiful park bordering that bank of the River Seine. It's hard to get away from the extreme noise of the city, but luckily Paris does have a few parks dotted throughout the urban sprawl which provide some relief. At the weekend these areas are stuffed full to the point of bursting, as seemingly every Parisian swops his cramped house for an even more cramped space on the well-manicured lawns. You can't even pick up a football without hitting someone, let alone kicking it anywhere.
Luckily, on this bleak Friday morning in January, with light flurries of snow in the air, the park was relatively quiet. There were a few people on bicycles, and I passed an old man walking a collection of four of the biggest Dobermans I had ever seen in my life. He was dressed in the stereotypical Frenchman style; Black beret and blue and white hooped shirt. I'd always thought that image was a myth, but I often saw men dressed that way, and everytime I did it always brought a smile to my face. The French loved tradition, something I was quickly learning.
I walked quickly along the bricked pathways, through the gardens that would be sprouting life and colour as soon as spring arrived, and headed for the banks of the river. This area of the park offered great views over the flowing waters of the Seine, with some awe-inspiring architecture along the opposite bank, including the spectacular Notre Dame Cathedral. It was a place I often came to when I was trying to put some ideas together, and I hoped the combination of the scenery and coffee of almost mind-altering strength would do the trick for me this time.
When I leant against the iron railings that separated the path from the river I felt the cold metal instantly on my arms, even through my heavy coat. I tore into rough chunks of the baguette and swilled the delicious dough down with equally delicious coffee. One of the best things about living in Paris was that food was treated with the highest of respect, even the most simple of items such as the bread I was now eating. In France, food is almost a religion and the top chefs are treated as Gods, with connoisseurs from all over the world coming to worship at their restaurants. It might be a crowded and insane city, but some things more than made up for it.
As I gazed out across the Seine I became aware of someone pressed up against the rails about ten feet to my left. I turned my head and saw a woman dressed in a long black coat looking down into the water. Her hands, clad in expensive looking gloves, were on gripping onto the railings and her mane of long black hair fell forward around her face. From my vantage point it looked as though her shoulders were shaking, and I wondered if she might be crying.
Almost as if she had read my mind she looked up and at me, and as her hair whipped away from her face in the breeze I saw two things. Firstly, my assumption was correct, there were indeed tears in her eyes. Secondly, those eyes were set in the middle of one of the most beautiful faces I had ever seen. Her skin was pale and as smooth as soap, with full cheekbones that were flushed with winter colour. She had a delicate nose and a mouth that was very slightly open, and even from my distance I could spot ice-white teeth. Lips the colour of rose petals dipped in blood. It had been a long time since anyone had taken my breath away.
I realised that I was staring at her when her expression changed and she frowned at me.
'Pardon, Madame.', I said. I continued to mumbled in the native language but my incompetence stopped me.
Her expression remained unchanged. 'You don't speak French,' she replied.
'Not as well as you speak English,' I said.
'You were looking at me?'
I nodded. 'I thought you were upset. I didn't mean to stare.' I fixed her with my best smile.
Her face softened, and she removed one of her gloves and started to wipe at her eyes with small fingers. I fished around in my pocket and found my handkerchief, which thankfully was clean, and crossed over to her. She took it with a small smile and dabbed a corner of the cloth delicately around her eyes. Now I was closer I could smell the merest hint of perfume, subtle and expensive, and I noticed where small flecks of snow had gathered in her hair.
