Un Reve(B. N. Randall) Un Reve

This is a very simple, short story. About a very pretty, young, and well traveled girl, on vacation with her family in Paris. The time period is inconsequential because Paris is timeless and so does not age in ways that matter. The glowing amber light that washes the city pure at sunset each night is the same. The dancing girls at the Moulin Rouge are still risqué, and bohemians still litter the streets of Monte Martre like so many individual pieces of art. The markets are still an amalgam of cultures, with the divine smells of poulet roti avec pomme du terre rising in characteristic spirals, like an offering to the gastronomic gods.

Profusions of colorful flora spill from fleuriste stands, each holding different promises. Some hold the guarantee of forgiveness, while others promise to convey true love. Still others are somber in their brightness, as a final way to say goodbye. Boulangeries still bake twice a day, the smell of yeast greeting you on the street like a kiss that says, "Come in."

Fashion is still owned instead of worn. Confidence draped like the finest fur. Coiffed hair and red lips, slim waists and cigarettes. Each street a fresh and ever changing canvas, with God's masterpieces milling about. Window shopping here, educating a child in the proper way to behave there. And a lover's spat down the way. The stone streets are still cobbled and an occasional organ grinder can still be found, if you know where to look.

The trees are still trimmed by hand on precariously tall ladders and lunch still takes two hours. Sometimes three if the wine is very good. So you see, Paris is Paris. And always will be.

But back to our heroine. Usually, an American in Paris is a rather atrocious thing, their Americanness sticking out like a weed in a finely manicured flowerbed. But Tiny had travelled so extensively, and so many times to France in particular, that she knew how to be Parisian. Her name was not actually Tiny, of course. But she was a petite child and the nickname had stuck ever since. Her real name was is of no importance. What is of import, however, was her magnanimous spirit that, combined with her natural leadership qualities and self-confidence meant that she constantly had what seemed to be a flock of people following her. Whether it was in life or just down the street, good friends or strangers. Of course, it helped that she was very beautiful. She was nineteen or maybe twenty. And on this particular trip she was with her mother, father, and paternal grandfather.

Tiny had always had a traveling partner, never venturing off by herself. But this trip, well, her grandfather wanted to go to a museum that Tiny had visited so many times its opulence had become mundane. And her mother and father wanted to go back to the flat to rest. Tiny wanted to do neither, feeling restless with the energy of the city singing through her veins like the lonely metro musician. So, feeling very brave and free and only a little uneasy, she left her family at the Tuilleries and went off to walk her favourite haunts.

It was late afternoon and the sky was clear with the promise of Parisian adventure. It floated lightly on the wind and blew through her hair, which was still warm from sitting in the sun.

Tiny walked from the Tuilleries to Notre Dame. Slowly, taking in everything and nothing in equal measures. Letting it all wash over her like she was a spectral creature, there only to absorb. But also very conscious of the eyes, some admiring, others jealous, that followed her "maiden form." She was corporeal and yet, in a beautiful dream. Passing by the Notre Dame with scarcely a glance, she crossed the bridge, turned right, and clapped eyes on her sacred space. Shakespeare and Co., like Paris itself, is ageless, defying modernity and conformity. Tumbleweeds and shop boys are the only things that change there. And the latter really seem to do nothing at all.

She didn’t go inside yet. After all, there was tradition, and it must be followed. Standing by the old green water fountain out front, she leaned against it and just looked. Her eyes roved here and there, taking in the familiar chipped paint and slanted writing on the dirty chalkboard. The old Bard’s head, hanging over the entryway with a look of challenging disdain. Profusions of flowers spilling from the window boxes and tourists walking out clutching books like precious gems. There are some places on this earth that, once experienced, pull and hold one to it like a gossamer strand of longing, erasing all self-control to stay away. There is then a connection between you and that spot, and it becomes more of a home than the house where you lay your head. It invades your dreams like smoke slowly creeping through the cracks and calls to you until you come back to it. For Tiny, this was Shakespeare and Co.

There were several bistro tables set against the storefront, and there she went, executing the second stage of her ritual. She had seen, and now she would experience. The overhang presented a lovely patch of shade, and when she sat, the bright yellow metal was cool against her skin. After lighting a cigarette, she pulled Hemingway out of her bag. She immersed herself in it for some time and then longed to say to someone, “What a perfect day for A Moveable Feast.” But alas, the plight of the solitary traveler is that one must keep one’s clever comments to themselves.

One more cigarette, she thought, and then I’ll go in. So, putting her beloved Hemingway down, she lit her cigarette, which would unknowingly become the catalyst to her first real adventure.

At the exact moment she drew in her first puff, two young gentlemen sat down at the table on the opposite side of the door from her, deep in conversation. Naturally, she looked over to evaluate them. Her assessment was favorable, as well it should be. American, but not overtly so. Bohemian, obviously, because they were rolling their own cigarettes. One tall and thin with neat, scholarly hair and a tweed jacket that had elbow patches. A fine face, wide smile, and Greek nose all came together to form a very pleasing effect. The companion was shorter and more muscular, with chin length hair that was wild and reddish brown. He epitomized the age-old image of the nomadic traveler with his worn clothes. A light smattering of freckles smattered across his cheekbones gave him a youthful air, and though he looked perfectly genial, there was something arrogant, or maybe just a little too self confident, in his eyes.

But, I digress. As Tiny was sitting there smoking, pretending to read, she was eavesdropping with all the might her ears could muster.

"To be an author you have to make poetry out of mud and death and love,” the tall one said. “You have to make good things better and the terrible things manageable. So that when people read what you've written they see themselves in it and know that it'll be okay. Heartbreak becomes a lesson and death, like Barrie puts it, the next great adventure."

"But don't you think that's idealizing things?” the wild haired boy retorted, “Making the mundane romantic and all that?" he asked, admiration and annoyance warring in his eyes.

Before she realized she was doing it, Tiny laughed. Both boys looked over immediately and one asked,

“Are you...are you laughing at us?”

“Oh! Um, no. Well, maybe a little. Mainly at you,” she pointed to the shorter of the two with her cigarette.

“Oh?” he asked, laughingly, “And why’s that praytell?”

"Well, that's exactly what it is. Making the mundane romantic, I mean. Because that's precisely what people want. Why do you think we read books, watch TV, or listen to music? It's an escape that either says, ‘this is what you want and can't have, but you can experience it here through someone else.’ Or ‘this is what you're going through and if they can do it, the actors or heroes or villains, then you can too.’"

“But don’t you think that’s corruption? A distortion of the truth?” he asked, smiling at the banter.

“Corruption is just a nasty word for having your eyes opened. Used by close-minded people who are afraid of the new generation,” Tiny responded pleasantly yet defiantly.

“I actually agree with her on this one Ted, sometimes people need to be lied to.”

“Oh they do, do they? And whatever happened to valuing truth?” the man named Ted asked.

“Please, that went out of fashion years ago. Decades ago, probably. We’re a society built on the lies people want to believe,” Tiny told him with a smile to take the sting out of her words.

“But that in itself is a truth, isn’t it?” the tall one asked.

“Why yes, it is. I myself happen to be rather old fashioned. I like truth.” She laughed softly as though at an inside joke. “I’m Tiny, by the way,” she stated and the lilting in her voice was like a sweet song.

“I’m Theodore, and this is my friend Robert. What are you doing in Paris?”
“Everything and nothing,” she said, “exactly what one is supposed to do here.”

“Well,” Ted laughed, “isn’t that poetic? Robert and myself are tumbleweeds here at the bookstore.”

“Tumbleweeds? Is that some kind of code?” Tiny asked.

“No,” Robert smiled, “it means we work in the store in return for room and board. Some of us sleep on the big benches upstairs and then there are a couple of private rooms in the connecting building.”

“Incredible! What could possibly be better than resting your head in a room filled with knowledge?”

“Well, a private bathroom, but I guess I can’t complain,” Theodore said. “Hey, we’re done for the day and were just about to go get a bottle of wine and head down to the Seine. Care to join?”

It took Tiny approximately two seconds to decide that yes, she did want to. And why not? In Paris, you had to capitalize on the moment and take it for all its worth, because that’s the magic of the place. It takes a commonplace day and turns it into a memory worth having. She followed Robert and Theodore into the communal kitchen where they grabbed some plastic cups and a bottle opener, then gave her a quick tour of the rooms. They made their way to the nearest grocery where they bought one bottle of red and one of white wine, which Tiny tried to pay for, and the men denied. Both were cheap, and both sure to be delicious. Hemingway once said that, “In Europe then we thought of wine as something as healthy and normal as food and also a great giver of happiness and well-being and delight. Drinking wine was not a snobbism nor a sign of sophistication nor a cult; it was as natural as eating and to me as necessary.”

Tiny, being an advocate of “happiness and well-being and delight,” carried one of the bottles delicately, as though to her it was a promise or a symbol of things to come. The sensation of the cool glass bottle against her fingers was like a tether, grounding her to the earth, making her aware of each footfall against the pavement. She felt wild and free and daring being on her own. Simultaneously intoxicating and invigorating, it was, pure and simple, freedom. And there is nothing truer than that.

Finally settling on a prime location a little past the Quai de Montebello, they set up camp against a piece of concrete that slanted at the perfect angle for reclining. They could hear the rustling leaves from the tree-lined boulevard above them, a mixture of honeyed secrets and elegant dancers, like they were showing off the beauty that draped them.

Robert uncorked both bottles as a companionable silence settled over them. Canal boats filled with tourists drifted by, with little children waving out. To their left was Notre Dame, ivy stretching down the stone wall toward the water. Ted filled the plastic cups with wine and passed them out, raising his own he said,

“Here’s to being high class,” and they all laughed, touching their rims to the others. They sat and smoked and drank while the sun denied them its direct light by continuously hiding behind the drifting clouds. They talked about the places they had been, ideas and dreams, existentialism and the Angle of Repose. Robert spoke of the flat he wanted to rent, a tiny one-room attic with ceilings so low he could barely stand up straight, but that had a window overlooking the Eiffel Tower. Ted discussed the book he was writing and Tiny told them about growing up traveling the world. There they sat, the three bohemians, aware of the real world, but reveling in the one they had created for the moment.

Halfway through the second bottle the light began to fade. There was a small cemetery of cigarette butts between them, a testament to good conversation, as the act of smoking is second nature when deeply involved.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Theodore asked Tiny. He was the more forward of the two, and though the handsomer, Tiny rather favored Robert’s unpresuming demeanor.

“I’m not sure. It’s my birthday, my parents are probably planning something.”

“What? Well, that is something to be celebrated. What do you say to going out with us tonight then? Rob and I know this little place, Le Reservoir. Live music and very old bohemian French, you’d love it I think.”

“I’d love to. I’ll have to go home first, shall I meet you back at the bookstore?”

“Sure, it’s eight o’clock now, should we say nine thirty?” Ted asks.

“Perfect. Then I bid you gentlemen adieu for now. And thank you, for everything.” Tiny walked away feeling buoyed by the afternoon, almost giddy in her liberty. She walked to the Notre-Dame des-Champs Metro with the Mairie d’Issy line, switched at Concorde and took the La Defense line to Franklin. D. Roosevelt near the Champs Elysees. Taking the tiny two-person elevator up to her family’s flat, she thought about the resistance that would meet her when she mentioned the plan to her parents. Her enthusiasm faded a bit at this, but her determination held strong.

Ironically though, everything went smoothly. She propositioned her parents, promised to call and be safe. “You’ve always been a good girl,” they said. “You deserve some fun, and it’s your birthday. We trust you to make wise decisions, if you trust them, so do we.” So they ate dinner in amiable conversation, and then Tiny got dressed for the evening. She made her way out of the apartment in a strictly Parisian look. On bottom she had rust colored cigarette jeans and scuffed calf high boots with the sock tops peeking out. On top she wore a bandeau bra with a loose long sleeved and slightly sheer button up, artfully drawn down to reveal one shoulder. She wrapped a scarf several times around her neck and swept her wavy chestnut hair to the side. The whole effect, though covered, was extremely lascivious.

The air was cool and sweet and darkness had not quite set as she walked up to Shakespeare and Co. Ted and Robert were sitting at the bistro table where they had met earlier in the afternoon.

“Hello, little birthday girl,” Robert said, standing up and greeting her with the customary bise, kissing her on both cheeks. “You look stunning,” he added with a somewhat shy smile. He was wearing dark jeans with loafers, a t-shirt, the same tweed jacket from earlier and a trilby hat.

“Indeed you do,” Ted said, “And happy early birthday.” Ted, who had on jeans, boots, and a button up with a sweater over it, bowed over her hand in the manner of old with a jocular expression.

“Shall we?” Tiny asked, laughing, and they walked the twilight streets, people already smoking out on the curb in front of cafes and clubs. Some people were still enjoying after dinner aperitifs at the bistros and there was an accordionist on the corner playing La Vie en Rose. They finally happened upon a little back alley, dark and devoid of character.

“Welcome to Le Reservoir,” Rob said as he opened the door. Tiny entered with a skeptical look that was immediately transformed into a broad smile. The lighting was low, the aesthetics eccentric, with candles and lanterns everywhere. Young, fashionable people milled about, some were dancing, others just talking or drinking. There was a small stage at the front of the room where the band was playing soft French music.

“What do you think?” Ted asked.

“It’s beyond perfect. I adore it,” Tiny told him. Rob found a small table with a view of the stage while Ted went and got drinks. Placing it in her hand upon returning they clinked their glasses and all said simultaneously,

“To being high class,” they grinned at each other and Tiny took a sip of her drink. She had no idea what it was, but it was delicious, sugary sweet but powerful in its burn as it made its way down her throat. Friends of Ted and Rob found their way to the little table throughout the evening until what was once three became about ten. And Tiny was the center of it all, the beautiful American birthday girl. As the night wore on, the music got louder and the room grew warmer with all of the bodies. Periodically they would go outside, laughing through the haze of smoke in the cold night air, warm with the alcohol.

When they were back at the table after one such excursion, they found that someone had ordered champagne. Glasses were passed around and another toast was made,

“To Tiny!” they all shouted. And she laughed, reveling in it all. She sat there, closing her eyes to take everything in. Her stomach twirled pleasantly, her cheeks were warm, she felt the vibration of the music in her bones, and the hum of voices surrounding her. Everything was a dream, a beautiful, painted escape. Youth and beauty collided, nothing mattered, there was only the truth of the moment, suspended delicately in the balance of yesterday and tomorrow.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder and she opened her eyes to find Rob holding his hand out.

“What?” she asked, thinking he wanted something from her.

“Dance with me you silly girl,” he told her, more liberated now with the alcohol.

“Oh, alright then,” she said and stood up, still in a dream state. Champagne spilled over her fingers as she set the glass down. They made their way to the dance floor with his arm around her waist. They moved about with abandon, carefree and focused on one another. Robert grabbed her around the waist and spun her in toward him so that her back was against his front, bent down and whispered in her ear, “You are a very intriguing girl, you know.” And then he spun her away again.

“You are quite the enigmatic gentleman yourself,” she said, as she moved up close to him again. The tempo of the song remained the same but their dancing progressively slowed until they were practically stationary, silently wrapped up in the echoing beauty of the other. Everyone else moved fluidly around them and they were the sun, lighting up the entire orbit with a clean white desire. This was it, why she was there. It was everything and nothing all at once.

Tiny tilted her head up to look into Robert’s eyes. They smiled at each other, “struck dumb by their own brilliance,” as someone once said. And then he drew her in even closer and kissed her. The perfect kiss. He wound one hand through her hair and held her head while the other was clasped tightly at her waist. His lips were soft against hers and a deep warmth emanated from them both. He tilted his head and deepened the kiss and she could taste the champagne on his tongue. Her hands were splayed against his back, drawing him closer and anchoring her to the moment. They swayed there for what could have been moments, minutes, or eons. The muted atmosphere pressed in on them, making the temporal eternal in its freshness. And that was it. As though in an instant Tiny had achieved some thing, indefinable, that she had not known she’d been searching for. It tasted like saying goodbye to adolescence and welcoming a delicious freedom. It was childhood dreams mixed with adult desires. It was adulthood reached in a glowing amber room with a beautiful boy in a perfect moment that could never be replicated. William Faulkner once stated that “time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.” For Tiny, the clock had come to a halting stop. Time was brought to life in its infinite splendor, and it was everything, and nothing.

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