PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

“Do you remember Paris,” she asked?

“Yes, I remember it well,” I said.

“Do you remember the old man with the cello,” she asked.

“How could I not remember that – that old man in the moonlight, on the steps of the Sacré-Cœur, during the solstice – Yes of course I remember,” I said.

They were still using francs in those days, and we gave the old man five hundred francs just to keep playing the Cello – because the moon was coming up over the city. And I remember thinking, who in their right mind, could possibly want to be indoors – on such a lovely night as this.

And so he played and played the Cello – as the moon climbed up into the sky and got bigger. And it just kept getting bigger and bigger – as he strummed more and more furiously.

And we had two bottles of good Kirsch from Germany – and it was good good Kirsch. And when the old man noticed we had the two bottles of fine Kirsch, he decided to help us drink them.

“Aha Kirsch,” he said, “I haven't tasted of good Kirsch since the war.”

And with that I said to him, “lend me your cup.”

And he handed me an old earthenware cup made of clay, but with no glaze on it.

“Why is there no glaze,” I asked.

“Because I am of the earth,” he said, “and I like the taste of earth.”

“We are brothers then,” I said, as I filled his earthenware cup to the brim, topping-up my own squat Lima Tumbler at the same time.

“Drink from this” – I said, handing him my tumbler. “And I shall drink from this,” I said, retaining the earthenware cup for myself. “And tonight we are of the earth – and we are brothers,” I added.

The fine Kirsch made him reminiscent of the war days, and after a few warm and delicious sips – something sparkled to life inside of him.

And he began telling a story, of how his cart of processions had gotten blown-up in Luxembourg. His cart had gotten blown-up during an air raid, destroying everything he owned. But he escaped with his life – and that was happiness enough to be grateful for. But now he had to struggle back to Reims on foot, following a railway line. And he walked and walked as long as he could, before collapsing along the embankment from exhaustion. And just at that point when he felt all of his spirit going out of him and was completely defeated, he heard the slow and distant choo-choo sound of an approaching steam engine, coming down the line. And as it neared – the spirit of life suddenly jumped back into him. And as the heavy labouring engine came by, he sprung to his feet with his last crust of energy. And with that dying flash of energy, he stumbled after the train – waving it down in desperation. But the conductor didn't seem to notice, this small carcass of a man stumbling after the train. And as the train passed him by – and his last hope flew out the window, his exhausted lead-weight body, fell back to the embankment along the tracks again. And he just lay there on his back, in the soft clay soil, dry-mouthed and baked by sun, looking straight up into the sky – with nothing left, but a feeling of emptiness.

And as his soul began to fade into some faraway place, suddenly – there was a face hovering above him. It was the sooty face of the conductor. He had stopped the train a little ways down the track. He wasn't going to stop at first. But when he looked back and saw that man collapse into the clay embankment – he knew somewhere in his soul, this man would never get up. And he knew one day – that he would have to answer for this. And he also knew, that the war had made everyone hard. Even his own heart had become hard. But he always entertained the idea, that one day, after the war was over – he would find a quite place, and let his heart thaw out. But as it turned out – his heart thawed a little sooner than expected, and he stopped that train.

And because that sooty-faced conductor stopped the train, this old man was alive today – playing the Cello atop the famous steps of the Sacré-Cœur – up where the air is rare, in the aether of Montmartre.

But he never got a chance to properly thank that sooty-faced conductor, although he spent a great deal of time, looking for him after the war. But the old man with the Cello – on the footsteps of the Sacré-Cœur, knew a little something too. He knew – that every kind deed – and every good work, is never truly forgotten. But lives for all eternity – wherever there is beauty in the universe.

Because wherever there is beauty – there too, is the ever watchful eye of God. And with God, all things true and just and kind – are forever. And there are certain places in the world – where you can pull them down from the aether – at any time. And they never go away.

And when he finished the story, I knew the reason for the clay cup – and I raised it up and said “à un véritable ami – nous n'oublions pas,” which meant in English “To a true friend - we do not forget.”

And he raised his tumbler and said, “jamais ne nous oublions,” which meant in English “Never do we forget."

And he took a big swig of the fine Kirsch from the tumbler, clearing it to the bottom. And I took a big swig and placed his empty clay cup on the steps of the Sacré-Cœur.

“I return to you – your earth,” I said.

“I celebrate my earth – with you,” he said, tipping it toward me to be filled again. And I filled it, and having switched vessels – filled my tumbler also. And I refilled my girlfriend's tumbler as well, who quietly took a back seat – listening to a conversation between men.

“And let us toast the sooty-faced conductor – that saved your life. Or this brotherhood tonight could not be possible – and this night could not be so beautiful”

And we toasted and laughed and talked some more.

“And do you remember the way we talked – when the world still meant something to us,” she asked in the present moment, as we reflected.

“Yes – I remember it,” I said, and added, “But there is always a chance that I am not remembering correctly.

“I don't always remember it either,” she said, “But that's why I have you,” she added, “To remember who we are – and to remember who we were.”

“It's beautiful when you think of it like that,” I said, “Two vessels that live alongside each other – one filling the other, when the one becomes empty.

But then we returned our thoughts – to the old man, playing the Cello atop the famous steps of the Sacré-Cœur – up where the air is rare, in the aether of Montmartre.

And we began to remember how that old man – after a few cups of fine Kirsch, started crossing himself like he was inside church. His eyes were closed and he was mumbling something. But neither one of us, could discern what he was mumbling. It was the private language of his soul.

And while he mumbled, his old worn-out body was framed by the big white light of the Basilica all lit-up behind him, and that in turn was framed by a big giant moon. And framed by the light of the Basilica, which itself was framed by the the light of the moon – it seemed there was a halo around him. It was a halo from another world.

And then suddenly, his eyes opened, and we could understand him, “Avoir Dieu. Toujours avoir Dieu,” which meant in English “To Have God. Always to have God.”

Then he took another sip of the fine Kirsch and said in English, “Why do you not make love
to this woman – who sits here quietly and patiently with you. Do you not see how she loves you. Are you really a man without reason – to be spending your precious time of this earth, with an old man like me. You are both young – you are alive and new. Fool you are – to be wasting such a precious night as this – not making love all night long, till the morning strangles you with light. Dear young man – Time is a butterfly, and you must catch it before it flies away.”

“No – my dear friend, we are not wasting our time,” I said, “On the contrary, we are spending it in the best way that we know how. And we are filling these hours in Paris – here above the city, in the best place – in the best of company – building memories that we will cherish forever.” And I added, “Nor will the sun show it's dirty face over Paris, before I have made love to this woman half a dozen times.”

And now the old man smiled from ear to ear and said, “Young – yes, but maybe not so foolish after all.”

I laughed and topped-up his old earthenware cup, saying “let us a bit more Kirsch – before we part. I can't think of better company to have it with.”

“And I am happy to your company also,” he said in English, and then added, “I will play one more before I sleep – to wake the world alive for you.”

And he had saved his best for last. It was my favourite Cello piece. He took another sip of fine Kirsch – and then suddenly straightened-up, as if a lightning bolt from Zeus had struck him. And picking up his bow, he began playing Bach's Cello Suite No. 1 in G major. And suddenly – the night was transformed – and the notes and moonlight melded together – and I flew off over the world, with my heart in a flutter, holding your hand.

And my heart flew away – as I held you in my arms, above the gleaming edifice of Paris, as the old man played the piece with all of his soul. And it effected something deep inside of us... the notes, the beauty of the city, and the gorgeous moon hung like a jewel over the Sacré-Cœur – up where the air is rare, in the aether of Montmartre.

And those notes – and that place – and that old man, became a part of who we are – and how we kissed, ever afterwards. And that night we made love to each other – as if shot out by a cannon from the fires of Jupiter.

And the way we made love that night, became a permanent part of the way we held each other. And a permanent part of the way we made love, ever afterwards. And those notes and that night – went with us, wherever we went thereafter. And they have always been a part of us. And will always be apart of us. Because I still hear those notes – and I still see that old man – and I still swim above the twinkling lights of Paris, whenever you kiss me.

And I have not forgotten – that most important piece of wisdom, that he laid upon our lap...

Time

is a butterfly

and you must catch it

before it flies away.

~/~