In 1980, I returned to Paris to visit an old friend who was in need.
The doctor read the diagnosis. The shadow of despair came in from its dark corner and sat close. I was upset and too dumb to acknowledge what was being said. I had lived in his light and lovely air for over a year. My tears were a useless demonstration of anguish and different from those that recently heralded my second child’s arrival into the world.
Leonard lived in a small third-floor apartment at 4 Rue de Cerisoles St., a two-minute walk from the Champs Elysees. Leonard’s day began around 4:00 AM. Always the same way, he’d light his clay pipe and let the weightless veil of smoke hang over his head while he sat in his boxers on the edge of the bed for ten minutes.
He seemed to get by on very few hours of sleep, even those were disturbed. Although we were forty years apart in age, he was like a brother, teaching me about life, especially women.
Once his pipe had been sucked on for a few minutes, he’d walk over to the balcony window and open it to let the Paris morning air pull that weightless fog onto the street. Then, scratching his balls, he’d water the geraniums, caring less to peer over the ornate iron railings to see who might be passing below on the street.
His routine was changed only by the occasional voice yelling…maudite idiot!
He would re-enter the room, muttering the word ‘shithole’ in his broadest Flemish accent. Such a word from his mouth sounded beautiful.
He had a blond whore arrive at 6:00 AM every Tuesday. She had a youthful brilliance in her eyes and shining skin. He told me she was one unbridled heap of organs that demanded his gentle care. Bending her onto knobby kneecaps, he pulled her to a state of undress and deepened his belly over her back. Her heavy breasts fell splendidly.
For an hour, the whore sweat to Leonard’s obedience. Finally, Leonard shut his eyes, slipped off her back and sent her away before locking himself in the lavatory. There, he could think, be calm, and sniff the air.
Leonard saw things in an imaginative light, as only poets do. But, in truth, Leonard was never going to be ordinary. Born with the heart of a Chansonnier, he perfected his craft on mature women. Later, he wrote his poetry on the sidewalks, enticing the most beautiful women to stop. That was it about Leonard; they always did. For days after, they returned to read of themselves.
The force of faith and compassion, the idea that a miracle would happen, somehow kept me from believing the brutal reality.
Lying on his bed, his breath faint, he ushered me close. We had lived hand-in-hand through life’s monotonies and felt the warmth of the unexpected.
“I hear it all the time; how you’ll protect me. I don’t want or need protection. I’m ready to die.”
It felt strange to imagine other mortals were still working in banks, or doing endless laundry, making the occasional trip to a salon, or caring for delicate children.
An hour later, Leonard departed this Earth.
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