Café du Pont Neuf, Wednesday
I did me a hot shower, the cold it went down along my body and the warm water it reinvigorated me the muscles. Gone out of the heavy doors of the hotel I stayed me, I forked the sunglasses and I ignited me a cigarette. I took a long mouthful of it. In front of me, a blonde girl with pair of white Wayfarer and the bonnets to the ears was making to dangle down the legs from the muretto where is sat. I looked at her for some. It seemed to wait.
I taken my road. To Paris I have always had the impression that it missed the civic pedestrian respect. Each walked completely lost along the sidewalk. More than to a calm walk, you/he/she would have been better to compare him/it to a run to obstacles. Nobody took care of him of whom had before or of forehead, rather than before or behind. The hurry was like master. The continuous one to cut the road or to push gave me on the nerves. As to London the circulation was damnedly precise and discounted, there was not here anybody rule.
The subway was saturated to the time of point. I changed a pair of trains before going up again to the Quai du Louvre. I went on the Pont Neuf and I touched the cold marble of the baluster. I caressed him/it looking downward at the Seine flow calm. In front of me, the Ponts des Arts. A bridge completely of wood from the great green iron arcades. I sigh. It belonged to the plan. It was morning, the sun had been being blunt for a few times over Ile de the Cité, really behind the bell tower of Notre Dame. It of orange tree every building that was found him of forehead. Paris had a different light.
I stayed me to the Café du Pont Neuf. The traffic on the long Seine was intense, but everything to regulate. I ordered a coffee and a croissant to the waiter, that never arrived. What besides it is one of the words for me more difficulties to be pronounced. I don't know why, but if it doesn't go out well me the first time I can also be calm that don't recover her/it anymore.
«Monsieur! Monsieur! A café et a corossan, him the vous plait.»
«Pardon?»
«A café et a corosan.corossat.cossosan.»
Nothing, by now it was lost entirely.
«Pardon monsieur?» the waiter again excused him approaching himself/herself/itself to understand better.
«A café.et un.corrossant» I told him trying to articulate well every word.
«Ah, a croissant! Oui monsieur.»
A boy in front of me timidly smiled looking out of the immense glass door perceiving my thin dyslexia embarrassment.
I crossed then the road, I climbed the Pont des Arts and I leaned out me from the handrail. While under of me it passed a long white boat, behind a scolaresca it advanced in line for two making a big confusion. I moved me so that to be the more possible to the center of the bridge. That was the place. I don't know as would have happened or when. But would have happened. There you/he/she would have burnt Don Chisciotte, romantically. At that time the heart missed a hit and you/he/she would not have recovered anymore him.
This way, without time neither space but with only a plain polish in mind, I crossed all Rue de Rivulets up to Place de the In agreement one, crossing the Champses Elysée and arriving under the Arc de Triomphe. Crossing million of eyes hundreds of faces. All equal ones, all different ones. And for every person that I went beyond I succeeded in imagining me a life. Each of them had a detail that made him/it only and interesting. There are then people that don't have anything to whether to do with the life, that you/they hold her/it dam in their drawers in the hope that one day can serve him. I had known so many of it. In to look at all those people I wondered me where you/they had put her theirs. Nobody seemed to have problems or I handed questions. Dignifiedly finding every time a place in the world.
To Paris there are very beautiful women and they always look you in the eyes. They have the red lips, the free loose hair in the wind, the open legs, the tall heels, the lacquered fingernails, the cigarette in mouth, the jail cell to the ear. The women of Paris are marvelous and the most greater part of them pretends not to know him/it. Walking with pressing footstep, I hoped in a smile, in a look, in an instant of heat. Falling in love me of each of them for five seconds.
For every person that passed I wondered me in what position of a hypothetical staircase of importance would be set. Who has more, who has less. Who can allow to serve shopping as Louis Vitton, who has to be satisfied with a sandwich from McDonald's, who drinks of hurry the cappuccino just taken by Starbucks, who eats the baguette before returning to the job, who sleeps for earth because a job doesn't have him/it or you/he/she has never had him. Or who, as I, am lost and you/he/she have found the way of losing him to find himself/herself/themselves.
In front of the Montmartrois the blonde girl with the white glasses he was always eating an apple with the legs to dangling from the muretto. It looked me enter and when I climbed on top of the staircases and I turned me she there was not anymore.
The war is over Page 6
