CHAPTER 17: At Last La Plage

Melody and I are finally on our visit to Paris Plage. It is now towards the end of the season, so we are in luck and have spread our towels out on blue-cushioned lounges close to the river's edge.

"I have shaved my arms to come today," Melody mentions, darting her tongue out for little licks of her ice cream cone. "Have you ever really looked at the hair on your arms," she asks. Her tone is very serious.

"I pulled one straight and measured it. It was five centimeters long."

I don't comment and try to keep the expression on my face neutral. Not so easy when you're mentally thinking "Good God" and simultaneously converting centimeters to inches. Two inches!

I briefly muse how a little shaving of her legs and perhaps other spots might have been a good idea. Melody indeed is hairier than I would ever have imagined. It isn't noticeable in regular clothes. But, just as she promised, she is wearing a swim suit -- not quite a bikini but some kind of a two piece lame number she said she found at the flea market.

It is a little worse for wear in unfortunate areas and a bit see through here and there, but all-in-all, it could have been a disaster and it isn't. The gold threads in it shimmer in the sunlight.  She is the glitter queen of the Seine today.

To Melody's disappointment, I drew the line on this one and showed up for the outing in shorts and a t-shirt instead of a swim suit. But it's okay. She's excited to be here.

After all my trepidation, this is pleasant. The sun begins to relax my shoulders, ease the tension in my neck, make me remember why we came. We've taken off our shoes and the sand is warm and crunchy under our feet. If you lie back and close your eyes, it's possible to daydream you're in Cannes.

Melody sits up, arches her back and raises both arms, forming a graceful curve. She lifts one leg and points her foot in a perfect ballerina arch. And she begins to hum softly.

I am reminded that beneath the rough exterior she is quite beautiful.

CHAPTER 16: Thinking of the Color White

When Leo Tolstoy and his brother were children, they created a club with an odd and near impossible rite-of-passage. In order to become a member, one had to stand in a corner for 30 minutes and not think of anything white.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Were you ever married," I ask Melody.

"Non-non-non," she answers. "I never found a man I thought I could live with for more than a few months. Why a marriage? It only makes leaving more difficult. I didn't want a husband. I knew I didn't want children. I live content with my choices. Too much bother! Too much trouble!"

She blinks her eyes rapidly and makes an emphatic sweep of her hand in the air.

Ping. I realize there probably is no daughter named Natasha who has run off to Morocco. There evidently is no daughter at all. But why the story? Maybe it is just a story, somewhat like the Preacher's preaching. It just comes out.

She goes on. "Men are too hard to be with ALL the time. We must have a place of our own to get away from their demands."

I hear Virginia Wolfe cheering.

"They want you to do things for them. They want a woman to be like a slave to them and they don't even know it, oui? It is an assumed entitlement. Little Napoleons, all. They think that being born with complicated equipment gives them a right to everything, to always being the number one. We are complicated also, my friend. It is just not so obvious."

I had naively expected a simple yes or no.

"What happens?" she asks rhetorically. "What's this, where's that. Do you have any money? Is there anything to eat? Where's my comb? Oh boo hoo. Do they think we are their mamas, put here to take care of them like they are wee school children? Yes. Yes they do. I had a boyfriend once. He wanted me to iron a shirt for him. Iron a shirt? Now how was I to do that? We were sleeping under a tin-roofed shed behind a fromagerie with no buzz (the word

I've noticed she uses to mean electricity) no toilet, no water, no nothing. Iron a shirt? Ha."

"You iron your own shirt, I yelled at him. Find an iron. Find a plug for the buzz. You do it. It-is-not-my-problem."

"Ah. Did that feel good when I spoke those words," she says, stopping to

catch her breath. "Iron a shirt," she mutters indignantly, then snaps out of it, smiles at me and slyly winks.

I often wonder why I am so drawn to the fringe of society's wounded. Melody, the Preacher, Henry, Popeye, Priscilla. Is it to heal my own wounds? Does it really heal them or does it open them again, pick at the raw edges, make them begin to bleed. Just a bit. Just enough to cause pain. Everyone has wounds. We must be very gentle with each other.

The Preacher is shouting louder now. People are warning me to stay away from him. Even Bernie wants to keep his distance from him, a good sign to do the same. My Bernie always has exceptional instincts about people and I have learned to trust him.

When Bernie and I left the building yesterday, the Preacher was waiting outside. I realize he's unraveling too rapidly for my safety. I need to put some distance between us. Perhaps I've become too familiar with him and being comfortable with me has made him lose the facade of being cautiously polite.

It makes me sad. It generates a guilt that even I am betraying him just like everyone else. And just when he most needs help.

I'm beginning to feel a lack of respect from him, which makes me nervous. He is a tall, muscular and powerful man who believes he in on a mission from God. Now he even shouts at me.

One morning I made the mistake of saying, "Good morning" to him as I approached. It unleashed an endless and heated tirade on his part, ordering me to always say "God bless you" instead. Bernie immediately put his large body between us, a low rumble vibrating from his chest.

The Preacher's need to talk about God overpowers everything. He talks to himself. He hears what he is convinced is God's voice speaking directly to him, telling him what to do. I do understand that all the pieces are in place for potential disaster.

Yet I continue to feel what can only be described as a strong sense of his being -- an unspoken, unacknowledged and to me unacceptable intimacy, as if we knew each other before, long ago. Before Paris, before his God overwhelmed him, before all of it.

I have a strange sense that he too has that awareness of me on an unexplainable level. Perhaps the Preacher sees my wounds as easily as I do his.

Paris to Permit Women to Wear Pants

This just in from the Huffington Post.

A long standing law in Paris that forbids women to wear trousers, might soon be repealed, the Telegraph UK reports. Ten French ministers submitted a bill to parliament to get rid of the outdated law, which was put into place in 1799.

The law was amended several times: once in 1892 to allow women to sport trousers while riding horses and again in 1909 to permit them to wear pants while on bicycles.

French President Nicolas Sarkozy recently called on parliament to take a look at French laws that need reworking. The France pants ban is one of them.

CHAPTER 15: Paris Plage

Melody mentions the rumors on the street are that La Plage is going to open early this year. It's been unseasonably hot. We are sitting in the shade off Rue du Rivoli by the Louvre, hoping for a bit of a breeze to pick up and cool us off. Bernie is sprawled at my feet, panting heavily, his chest heaving up and down. Sweat runs down the back of my neck. I can feel it soaking the waistband of my pants.

Melody's shirt is missing several buttons and is soaked through to the point it looks as if she dipped it in water and put it on wet. I have a fleeting urge to take it off of her, wring it out and put it back on.

The smaller of the two Arcs du Triomphe, this one half the size of the Champs Elysee landmark, anchors the far end of the square and several people near us are in an animated conversation about the Diner en Blanc (White Dinner) which happened here last night.

Twelve thousand people descended flash-mob-style on this massive courtyard of the Louvre at exactly 9:30 p.m., all dressed in white, including fanciful boas and capes and summer straw hats and clusters of balloons and Venetian white masks.  Within minutes, they set up their all-white chairs and cloth-covered tables and opened picnic baskets filled with salmon and caviar snacks, miniature pastel macaroons and bubbling champagne.  Many of the tables were whimsically decorated with candles and white flowers.

It happens every year in Paris in a different public space, although last night was  the largest White Dinner by far. All very top secret and by invitation only. All very illegal. The location is kept secret until the very last minute when partiers gather in strategic locations and then receive instructions on where to proceed. Some even hire buses to stand by and then transport them to the spot. Bands play during the drinking, feasting and dancing. When the police show up, everyone traditionally pulls out white handkerchiefs and cheerfully waves them away. I'm told the police tooted their horns and just kept going last night. What else were they to do with 12,000 people?

The grand finale last night was the mass lighting of sparklers at 11 p.m., timed to coincide with the nightly lighting of the Eiffel Tower.

As I absentmindedly fan myself and eavesdrop on the conversation at the neighboring bench, Melody says, "I have an idea!" She holds up her index finger, surreptitiously wipes off the sweat beaded on her upper lip, then wags her finger at me. I notice she has another nasty-looking infection on her hand, a chronic problem. She says she gets them from her cat. .

"Let's go this year!" Let's go to La Plage when it opens. I've never had anyone to go with before." She smiles at me shyly.

La Plage is the creation of Paris' popular first Socialist and first openly gay Mayor, Bertrand Delanoe. It has been the summer hit of Paris since 2002.  A long stretch along the banks of the Seine is completely closed to traffic during August and then covered with 3,000 tons of trucked in beach sand ("golden sand," they always call it in the papers). They add palm trees in large pots and blue sun lounges and beach umbrellas. New attractions are added each year -- a climbing wall, cafes, a free library, volleyball courts, children's playgrounds, tai chi classes and lots of inexpensive ice cream carts.

There are diverse opinions about Paris Plage among Parisians. Some (mostly political opponents of Mayor Delanoe or those who are wealthy enough to vacation in the mountains or on the French Riviera ) think it is just a tourist ploy and would never go near it. Most love the novelty and repeat what the media says : "It's for all of us who can't go away for the summer."

It is French law that every citizen gets five weeks of paid vacation but many poor and working class of course can't afford to leave the city for that time and are forced to stay in the city during the hottest month of the year. They do complain bitterly.

"So -- what do you think?" Melody asks impatiently. And with that, I realize I've probably let this relationship go farther than I really wanted. I've let Melody have expectations of me. I've let her expect not just help but a friendship on a level that I'm not comfortable giving.

Yet she so much wants to go. "It's a great idea," I answer.

Then she drops the bomb. "I'm going to wear a bathing suit," Melody announces. I have to admit I feel a little shaken. Melody in a bathing suit may be more than Paris Plague or most anywhere else is ready for. I've heard Speedos and bikinis are the norm.

Melody lives in the moment more than most of us and it often makes her seem naive and childlike.  She is also somewhat haphazard  in her grooming and personal hygiene habits. It's just part of who she is, and it also relates to her economic status, which is barely-off-the-street. I think her little flat has only the kitchen sink for washing.

Yet understanding as I try to be, Melody in a bikini is a heart-sinking visual.

I once knew a homeless man in California who she reminds me of very much. He had spent his youth in Harlem but had been on the streets in Southern California since his 30's, and was now an underweight, elderly black guy with short grey hair. He had a surprisingly lovely singing voice and absolutely loved to sing. He would spontaneously sing for anyone. His favorite was "Old Man River" and he could really belt it out. What an endearing, gentle soul. He spent most of his days in the downtown San Diego Library, "looking things up." He actually came to our home a couple of times for potluck Solstice celebrations. The first time he just showed up at the door holding a single serving size of potato chips. I'd never seen him before. He said he had heard there was a potluck at our house and had taken the bus and walked several miles to get there. Another time, he showed up an hour early and sang for the entire hour until the rest of the guests began to arrive. 

To his great excitement, he found a social group of nudists. Before his first nudist picnic, he went to a thrift store and bought a gold chain necklace to wear. He thought if he was going to be naked at the party, he should wear a nice piece of jewelry. He also found a used game of Twister and bought it to take along to play with his new friends. The visual of Henry playing Twister wearing nothing but a gold necklace still makes me smile.

"But Melody, it's not as if there's really any place to swim," I say. "You can't swim in the Seine and that's the only water there, so what's the point?"  I happen to know there's some kind of a wading pool but I hope she doesn't know that as well.

Yet she remains adamant and even gets a bit pouty, the first I've seen this side of her. " I-do-not-care,"  she answers me, emphasizing each word equally. "It's the Paris Beach and I'm wearing a swim suit."

Then she adds she hopes I will do the same.

And what do I hope? I hope it will rain for the entire month of August.

CHAPTER 14: Sweet Honey on the Roof

Melody and I have seen each other several times since we first met outside the Pompidiou Center.  I like her. She has a compassionate heart. Her life has been filled with struggle yet she finds joy in the smallest things.

Have you ever noticed that some colors of nasturtiums aren't solid colors but inside the petals are deep burgundy flames bursting from the center? And if you eat the flower petals, they taste both sweet and peppery? Melody has.

Have you ever noticed the smell of coffee and the smell of a skunk are at first sniff almost the same but coffee remains at the same level of intensity and the smell of skunk continues to explode until your eyes are burning and your nose is wrinkling and the lovely initial smell of coffee is long gone? Melody has.

Have you ever noticed that the bugs children call rollie pollies -- pill bugs that roll into a ball if you touch them -- have eight legs and would therefore need four pairs of tap shoes? Melody has.

I often treat her to a bite of lunch at a cheap bistro and then we sit on a garden bench and just observe life together. I've seen many new parts of Paris with Melody -- hidden parks and areas where the homeless gather, tucked away from prying eyes of the public and more importantly, the authorities.

She tells me she has a daughter somewhere, a lovely girl named Natasha, who ran off with a boy named Igor. They were headed for Marrakesh, which is this year's favorite destination for young people. She hasn't heard from them for a long time and she wonders if she ever will again. I assure her that of course she will -- when Natasha needs something. Everyone calls their mothers first.

She misses her child but she doesn't seem to feel the pain and worry that most of us would. She has the nearly child-like trait of always believing the best will happen, even when faced with unusually grim realities.

She isn't homeless as I first thought, though she lived for months before I met her at Extended Hand of Tara, a Buddhist shelter for homeless women. Now she and her cat have managed to find a room in a run-down residence hotel in Les Halles, much like the single residence occupancies (SROs) in the U.S.

She invites me there for coffee and I am curious to see where she lives. The room is essentially bare. I'm not surprised, since all of her money must certainly go for rent. She sleeps on a small cot mattress on the  linoleum floor. Two straight wooden chairs and a narrow bench create a dining space. The small bench is covered with an unraveling blue towel that is draped over it like a table cloth. Scotch taped all over the walls are pictures cut out of magazines, almost all of cats and cat food ads.

With all the grace of a queen serving tea in a castle, she serves me instant coffee in a flea market mug. Her old gray cat sits on her bed and gloats over his glamorous new nest in his own place, while keeping his one and only eye pinned on Bernie.  I guess I didn't realize until now that the eye infection was in the only eye he has! Melody assures me again that he is healed and well now.

His color is almost exactly the same color as the blanket on the bed, which is the same one Melody had wrapped around her shoulders when we first met.

As we drink our coffee, she confides that she was once a dancer with the Paris Opera Ballet. Always in the corps de ballet, she hastens to add, and it was long ago of course. She tells me she still goes to the Paris Garnier Opera House to buy honey. It is the very best in Paris, she insists.

Jean Poucton, the now retired Prop Master got the idea to put his hives there many years ago after talking to a member of the Opera House fire brigade, who was raising fish in the basement. His five hives on the ornate roof of the building produce 100 kilos of honey each per year. It is packaged and sold in the lobby. She shows me a jar -- pale yellow, an irridescent jewel in a small glass container. The oval paper label has Poucton's signature and a sketch of the Opera House.

"The honeybee flies from flower to flower almost a million times to make just a pint of this," she tells me proudly. Then she pulls out an old worn copy of The Christian Science Monitor and reads to me:

"Paucton remembers the call from the 'Societie General,' one of Frances's biggest banks. The CEO's conference room was buzzing. One of his hives had swarmed, he realized, and he had to smoke the trespassers out of the bank's chimney. Only when a swarm goes into attack mode are bees dangerous...and when that happened in the Luxembourg Gardens they had to close the whole park."

Melody looks up from the paper and smiles that endearing missing both front teeth smile. "Oh yes," she says. "It's a challenge to keep bees. You have to overcome your fear."

CHAPTER 13: Love Locks Vanish From Paris Bridge

Dateline: Paris
Telegraph.co.uk


Almost 2,000 padlocks affixed to the Pont des Arts, the bridge linking the Left Bank to the Louvre Museum, mysteriously disappeared overnight. They were replaced with a multitude of single cut flowers and vines woven through the fence linkage. Local speculation was the flowers were trimmed from nearby gardens.


Paris' town hall had previously declared the locks an eyesore, but denied any involvement in their removal.


The love lock craze seemed triggered by pranksters who padlocked them to the fence then threw the keys into the river Seine.

#   #   #

CHAPTER 12: What Am I Allowed to Hope For?

Ques m'est-il permis d'esperer/What am I allowed to hope for? -- from the bathroom wall of Les Philsophes, rue Vielle du Temple

I can't sleep tonight. I feel restless and moody and the bed is too soft, too hard, too hot, too cold. My pillow is too large and too small. The blanket is too scratchy and too heavy and not heavy enough.

After tossing for as long as I can possibly bear it, I get up with a sigh, turn on the little light on my desk, put on my trench coat over my pajamas and wind my bright red scarf around my neck. Bernie tilts his head and looks at me with a question mark as I put on his leash.

In our neighborhood at least, Montmartre settles down fairly early at night. April in Paris tourists have come, shivered and gone, and the summer hordes have not yet descended on us. Our whole building seems to be sleeping. I can almost hear them snoring in unison, Pierre, BiBi, Heloise, the ghost of Msr. Snuff, may his sad furry soul rest in peace. Bernie and I nearly tiptoe down the stairs, through the lobby and out the front door.

It's misting slightly and a wet fog rolls in slow motion over the ornate old buildings and swirls around the empty squares. Cafe tables and chairs have been stacked for the night, umbrellas folded and put away.

The funiculaire is closed and we start down the steps which lead all the way down to the bottom of the hill. Someone is playing a trumpet in a flat high above us. Lonely single notes float up and down the scale and hang above us in the dark.

Our footsteps -- mine and Bernie's -- are muffled on the fog-wet stairs as we wander down the hill. I'm safe when Bernie is with me. His size and obvious protectiveness makes strangers leery of getting too close.

It's a totally different experience for a woman being out at night with a big dog versus walking alone. I wonder if men they have that basic freedom that we don't. Whether we are consciously aware of it or not, women spend our lives ever on the alert.

People point to Bernie and call out during the day "What is he?!" I usually shrug my shoulders and smile, pantomiming "Who knows?" Sometimes I answer, "Siberian Moose Herder." At night he can look especially menacing and people just cross the street.

Several blocks from home the silence is broken when someone up the dark street behind us calls my name. Bernie starts to wag his little stump of a tail. It is Nathan, half-jogging towards us, a happy smile on his face. "I knew it was you," he calls out. "I recognized Bernie!"

"What are you doing out so late!" I demand in surprise.

"I couldn't sleep. Just like the two of you, my friends," Nathan answers. I'm suddenly overcome with thankfulness that Nathan is still here. The first of May has come and gone, the songs have been sung, the flags have waved, the people have marched and Nathan is still here.

Just at the bottom of the stairs, we hear a small child crying. In the building near the Metro, a little boy pulls back the white window curtains and stands crying and staring at us. Nathan gives him a little wave and points to Bernie. He watches us go by, but the sounds of crying follow us down the street.

The three of us continue together down the hill, heading in the direction of the Seine. To me, the river is the beating heart of Paris, dividing the Left Bank from the Right Bank, as it carries the history of the city in the water along the quays and over the bridges.

After she was burned at the stake north of Paris in Rouen, Normandy, Joan of Arc's ashes were thrown in the Seine. Have those ashes drifted south in the current and settled peacefully in the river's bottom sediment, forever a permanent part of the city? I'm sure of it. It's ironic. Joan of Arc was sentenced to an unspeakbable death because she wore men's clothes. It was just within the past month that the French law forbidding women to wear pants was removed. It took a long time, Joan.

Bernie and I automatically slow our steps a bit so Nathan can easily keep pace with us. Walking past a cellar bar, we hear a male voice shouting, followed by a sudden outburst of laughter and the clinking of glasses. At the sound, something scurries along the edge of the sidewalk. Something with a long black tail.

Off in the distance, a small dog barks. It sounds like a white toy poodle with a lace-edged ribbon around its neck and a matching bow over one little ear. Bernie's ears perk up and his head snaps in that direction. He gives one loud rumbling woof from deep in his chest in response then looks at me with an expression of perfect satisfaction.

A bit of a breeze swirls a patch of fog and rustles the tops of the chestnut trees. Then it is perfectly still again. I get a chill on the back of my neck, even wrapped warmly in the scarf my old friend in California knit for me.
Again, a rustle. Are those footsteps behind us? I sneak a peek back. So does Bernie. He lets out a low growl.

As we work our way into the center of the city, Bernie, Nathan and I have stopped talking as if on cue. Nathan knows shortcuts, zigging here, zagging there, finding the most direct path through the empty historical center until we make a diagnonal route directly to the tip of the Ile de la Cite and Henry IV's 1607 Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris.

On corbels that decorate the arches are 384 carvings of mascarons, masks of human faces, no two alike, each with distorted features or horns or beards made of grapes. The dim streetlight shrouded in fog highlights their shadows, making them more gargoyle than whimsical.

"There was a time," Nathan says, breaking our silence, "that so many people died in the Seine that viewing their bodies was a Sunday outing for the people of  Paris."

"Why so many deaths," I ask.

"Oh, accidents, murders,  mostly suicides, the usual, I guess..." Nathan muses.

Then he tells  me the story of the ecadavre feminie inconnu (unknown female body).  Now there were, of course, many unknowns, but this one caught the fancy of the public and she became the epitomy of beauty.

It started about 1900 when the body of a lovely young woman in her late teens was pulled from the Seine. On her face was a mysterious smile. She had no injuries so the mortuary ruled her death a suicide. They displayed her body for as long as possible and it became quite the fashion to go to the norgue and ooh and aah over her comeliness. Thousands of people filed past, but no one ever identified her.

In death she became not only the rage of Paris, but one of the most recognized faces in all of Europe. Before she was buried in an unmarked grave a death mask was created of her face -- and copied and sold thousands of times, becoming a staple on the walls of grand parlours and artist garrets and humble cottages across The Continent.

"Oh! But I just remembered. You know what she looks like!" Nathan says, with a sudden snap of his fingers. "Her face was used for that doll who teaches you how to bring people back to life."

"Who?" I'm confused.

"Oh, you know." He is excited. "Susie Annie, I think they call her."

"Nathan, do you mean Resusci-Anne, the one used for CPR training?"

"Yes! That's her!" he says. "That's our Annie from the River."

We fall quiet again. The fog is thicker as we walk onto the stone bridge and cautiously peek over the side. In the middle of the night, there is no one here but us. And whoever may be floating in the Seine.

I lean close to the water and whisper, "Annie?" Deep in the still water, I think I see the shadow of a face. It it Annie or is it me?

"I just wanted to see Fanny, " Nathan says quietly. It takes me a minute to realize he's talking about the Last Supper fiasco.

"I know you did. It's OK."

"Come on." He motions to the other side of the bridge. "Let's go across to St. Germaine and see if we can find an all night bar. Let's get sloppy drunk and walk home when the sun comes up. I may be old but I'm not dead yet."

And we both burst out laughing.

CHAPTER 11: Pompidou Parables

Ooh la la. Take me to the Pompidiou. The current exhibition there has us raving and since it's there until May 10, we are considering going on a daily basis. elles@centrepompidou has over 500 works by 200 artists, all from the permanent collection. It is a history-making show for women.

And listen to this lineup:
Guerilla Girls, who claim they put the "F" in feminist (I'm in! Just give me a gorilla mask!), Suzanne Valadon (here she is again -- Utrillo's mother), Nikki de Saint Phalle (the mosaic queen), Frida Kahlo, Jenny Holzer, Dorothea Tanning...

Suzanne Valadon

There's a rumor that the male artists have been banished to the basement for the duration. I don't think it's true -- we actually saw some hanging around upstairs.

The piece de resistance for me are the works by Diane Arbus. Bernie and I went together to see the movie Fur and he cried because he loved it so much.  After that, he wanted a fur jacket to wear around Paris, but I explained to him that all the fur we see is animal fur, not human fur like the one Diane had. And animal fur is not OK except on animals. Well, that's problematic, isn't it. He is, after all, an animal. Then I had to explain it has to be your own fur, not someone else's. He still doesn't get the part of how the fur gets off of one animal and onto someone else. I thought it best to leave that part vague. I think he assumes it gets shaved off like in the movie.

The first time I ever saw an exhibit of Diane Arbus photos was in New York. I was completely overcome with the magic of her work. I walked out of the gallery, went straight to a corner market, bought a disposable camera -- and immediately trained that cheap lens on every unsuspecting person walking down the street. Or even better, sitting on the sidewalk.

One young man caught my eye. He was sleeping on a corner, surrounded by hand-lettered signs. I took his picture and then spotted his cup. As I was walking over to drop some money in, a skinny young woman ran up to him and whispered something.

He dropped his signs and together, they both ran down a side street, first together, and then splitting up onto opposite sides of the street. It was so startling that I walked nearly into the intersection to watch them disappear.

Moving on, just half a block away, an obviously drunk old man was staggering in circles on the sidewalk and another man was roughly trying to push him down. As the police arrived, it became chaotic and the police began pushing both of them. I was convinced it was a case of police brutality. I squatted down on the sidewalk myself, taking photos between the legs of bystanders.

Then, I realized my interpretation was a bit off.  The police were trying to get him to lie down and keep the other guy off of him. When they got him all the way down, I saw blood all over his shirt and pants.

When the ambulance arrived, I started asking questions. The old man had been stabbed -- by the young woman who took off with the street guy while I was photographing him.

The Pompidou Center is near Les Halles, an area that was originally the outdoor market area of Paris. In the mid 1800s, it was called "the belly of Paris."  Every time we come here, it triggers the memory of a rather unpleasant experience witnessing a French prostitute, her teenage daugher and a potential client when we first moved to Paris and were exploring this neighborhood at night.

The Center took six years to build, covers five acres with seven levels, and has colored tubes on the outside for the building's mechanical systems: green/plumbing, blue/climate control, yellow/electrical, red/safety devices.

Inside is an enormous public library and the Musee National d' Art Moderne, the largest modern art museum in Europe. There are even public lounges in sun drenched atriums, virtually created for afternoon naps.

After spending hours at the show today, Bernie and I sit down for a bit outside in the Place Georges Pompidiou in front of the museum.  A woman watches us from near the fountain, then moves over and sits near us. There's a cold wind today and she has a gray blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The stitching in her shoes has come undone and the little toe on her right foot is sticking out. She smiles, which softens the lines of her face, and I can't help but notice her two front teeth are mssing. It gives her the disarming look of a six-year-old.

"Do you speak English," she says.

"Yes," I answer.

"Perhaps you know someone who can help me," she says, in heavily French accented English.

Now anyone who lives in Paris knows that's how the Gypsies approach anyone who looks the least bit American or British. They all start with the same "Do you speak English" question. Then they hand you a printed sad story about a sister in the hospital, or hungry children. The first time, even knowing better, you may give them some money. But it becomes old fairly quickly and the same story doesn't seem so sad anymore. Even if it's true. But this feels different.

I quickly learn her name is Melody and she has a cat. She has approached me because Bernie is with me and she says she thinks I might have a kind heart. The cat is hungry. The cat has an eye infection. Melody has no money to help it but she loves her cat very much. Do I know anyone who can help them?

I agree to meet her here at noon tomorrow and I'll bring some cat food and see if I can get some feline eye ointment. As Bernie and I head for the Metro, I think, "Why me?" and then I think, "Oh well, why not me."

CHAPTER 10: Reading Bernie's Mind

To live in Paris and not speak French remains problematic. Bernie and I probably speak the same amount of French. Like me, his first language is English. The difference is (and this is significant) no one expects him to speak French. With me, however, people make certain assumptions.

Those who see me every day -- shopkeepers and neighbors -- frequently think I must have picked up a smattering of French during the time I've lived here beyond merci beaucoup and Champs Elysee. So do friends and family in the States. And they are all wrong. I continue to rely on the kindness of strangers to help me navigate life.

It's that rr that sounds as if they're gargling. I've never been able to gargle and I can't do that rr sound either.

It's the dropping of the final consonants all over the place and the nasal a and o and e. It just zings out of the mouths of the French. When I try it, it twists into an embarrassing Midwestern twang. Even though I left Ohio when I was eight.

I have a theory that a facility with learning languages is directly linked to acute hearing. Neither Bernie nor I claim that.

Bernie, however, despite his encroaching deafness, is extrememly verbal. Especially at night. He grumbles and groans and yips and sometimes sounds like he's talking in his sleep. He twitches and pulls his top lip back in a snarl and his legs move in such a fast run that I'm afraid he'll fall off his sofa.

It's the March full moon tonight, also known as the Moon of Winds. The lost ones who live in the firefly fish in the Seine are  murmuring to each other tonight. And Bernie is so loud he wakes me up. I lie in bed, listening to the wind blow and the fish tell their stories and my dog talk in his sleep. And I realize he's speaking French.

CHAPTER 9 : Almost April in Paris

CHAPTER 8: Say Goodnight, Nathan (Part Five)

And so it begins. Nathan's Last Supper. I realize that if I really focus on why we're having this heart warming gathering I won't be able to do it at all. We're in unexplored territory, aren't we. Will everyone cry and Nathan comfort them? Or will Nathan cry and everyone comfort him? Should it be festive? Should it be somber? Should it be a potluck? (Sorry. A small joke. Potlucks are not a big hit in Paris.)

I'm beginning to get giddy. Paper napkins or cloth? Tables for eight or for four? Centerpieces? Entertainment? Costume party? (Come as who you want to be in your next life.)

I actually love to have parties and haven't entertained since coming here. I find myself beginning to generate some decor and food enthusiasm. I could create a program and make candleholders and dye special tablecloths.

Wait! Red flags around the room for May Day! A small Lily of the Valley bouquet for each guest. Background music of labor movement songs and perhaps a rousing grand finale of everyone singing The Internationale. I'll have to make songsheets of the French lyrics.

L'Internationale

Debout, les forçats de la faim

La raison tonne en son cratère

 Debout, les damnés de la terre

C'est l'éruption de la fin

Du passé faisons table rase

Foule esclave, debout, debout

Le monde va changer de base

Nous ne sommes rien, soyons tout

: C'est la lutte finale

Groupons-nous, et demain

Sera le genre humain :

And in English:

Arise, wretched of the earth

Arise, convicts of hunger

Reason thunders in its crater

This is the eruption of the end

Of the past let us wipe the slate clean

Enslaved masses, arise, arise

The world is about to change its foundation

We are nothing, let us be all

: This is the final struggle

Let us group together, and tomorrow

The Internationale

Will be the human race :

I guess he isn't backing out. The next time I see Nathan he gives me a list of who he wants to invite. There are 30 people on it -- friends in Paris and other areas of France, two in Marrakesh, Morocco, two more in New York City and one in Spokane, Washington, and the rest spread out across Europe, including Fanny's great-nephew in Geneva.

I agonize over what to say to them. Finally, I write myself a script to follow and start with friends in Paris, which I hope will be the easiest. With the very first call I can see I'm in trouble. The woman, Jeanne-Claude, speaks English but she thinks this is a practical joke. When at last I convince her that it is real, she bursts into tears and hangs up on me.

I dutifully follow through with the calls. It takes days and I dread each one. There is shock and tears and anger and demands for explanations that I don't have. They all eventually end up calling Nathan himself which was the one thing we were trying to avoid. But he tells me everyone is coming. Even from the United States. And the locals are bringing their dogs.

I don't remember that I ever really said yes to this whole thing, yet here I am in spite of all my sadness and reservations. Stuck in suicide party hell.

Where to have this supper keeps me awake at night. Bernie stares at me with sympathetic eyes and tentatively wags his stubby tail. He can tell I'm upset.  Nathan's place is too small. Our place is too small. Nathan suggests a private room at a bistro or cafe and he casually mentions he has just one food request: no meat. In the heat of the moment or hours or days, I forgot he was that rarity -- a Parisian vegan.

Bernie and I wander all over Paris trying to find an appropriate place. Most are too expensive. A few are too small. Paris is a meat-eaters heaven, full of coq au vin and foie gras and crackled duckling.

In the time since he decided to do this, there's a change in Nathan. He stays home more; he stopped singing. When I ask if he wants to go to an art exhibit or see a film, he says no. When I ask if he wants me to continue with this Last Supper thing for him, there's an irritable edge to his voice that I've never experienced before. Where has my friend Nathan gone? He is gone before he is gone.

I do find a place that is in Montmartre and specializes in vegan and vegetarian food. They have an outdoor terrace that is open for the season and yes, we can have it for May Day.

Bernie and I walk over to see it on an especially fine spring day. After all the emotional gloom, our spirits are up and life seems lovely today. Bernie has a little skip in his step. The air is balmy, that just-right temperature that is pleasing on your skin, nearly sensuous.

The city is filled with glorious blooming trees. Window boxes are crowded with flowers from spring bulbs -- tulips and daffodils and hyacinths send out a ripe intoxicating scent that makes you want to stand in front of them and bury your head in their blossoms. After weeks of a physical heaviness and  a palpable weight in my chest that never goes away because of the impending goodbyes, today is good.

On several street corners I spot Gypsies selling lilacs. Their patchwork multilayered long skirts and headscarves contrast in some surprisingly pleasant way with the lush purple and white of the long-stemmed lilacs in overflowing metal buckets. The children of the flower sellers play in and among their mothers. Their shrill shrieks and laughter echo through the plazas. The women are wearing their urban faces -- stern, almost surly. The rumor is they still live in hidden caravans just outside Paris.

At the sudden trill of a police whistle all scatter and the corners are empty of women, children and lilacs within seconds. The lilac bushes are blooming along streets all over Paris. I wonder idly if the women have just walked up and down the streets clipping the flowers to sell at the corners.

Just before we get to the cafe on Place du Clavaire, a narrow cobbled street in the center of Montmartre, my phone rings. It is Nathan.

He was feeling a little shortness of breath so he went to his doctor. What did he say? "By the way, Doctor, in a couple of weeks I'm going to kill myself. Nothing bloody or unseemly. I'm just going to fast. Would you like to come to my Last Supper?"

In France, the terminally ill have a legal right to die with dignity. Nathan is not terminally ill. He's not even sick.

Evidently the doctor was so alarmed that he called Nathan's residence and of course they told him that he couldn't do it there. They would call the police long before he was gone.

"May I do it at your house," he asks. "Absolutely not." I answer.

"Oh, I didn't think you'd say yes," he says with only a slight touch of annoyance. "Listen, I'm just going to forget the whole thing. I want to be around for Bastille Day anyway. Just call the list of people we invited and tell them I changed my mind. "

CHAPTER 8: Say Goodnight, Nathan (Part Four)

When Nathan finally arrives, we walk a couple of blocks over to another outside cafe.  Nathan motions to a secluded corner table, saying, "Let's sit over here. This is about a private matter."

We sit facing each other at the round black wrought-iron table, Bernie sprawled between our feet. After we order, Nathan reaches over and takes both my hands in his. I feel a sudden queasy feeling. I don't like this. Nathan looks too serious.

"My dear friend, I have a favor of great importance to ask of you," he begins. "Of course, Nathan, whatever you need," I say. I will never again respond so impulsively.

"I have decided I am ready to leave this world and move on to see what is ahead in the next one,"  he says. I think my mouth literally falls open in astonishment.
"Well, just what does that mean!" I spurt out, louder than I intended.

"I am saying that I have decided to die. You don't need to help me. I would never ask that of you. But I do want a going-away party. Let's call it Nathan's Last Supper."

At that, I burst out laughing, sure by now that he's teasing. Then I realize I'm the only one who thinks it's a joke. Nathan remains very serious.

"I plan to stop eating and drinking," he continues. "I read that only takes a week or so and it's relatively painless."

I feel a sudden rush of rage. I'm furious with him. "You can't be serious. Stop this right now! What would ever make you talk like this!" I shout at him in bewilderment. A few people at tables over by the sidewalk turn and glance our way. 

"Because I'm done. I've done everything I ever wanted to do. Well, almost everything. The few things that are left, I'm never going to be physically able to do anymore anyway. Will I ever climb Kilimanjaro? No. Too late. Will I travel on the Orient Express? No. I've lost interest. Will I work in a health clinic in Bodghaya, India? Absolutely not. I'm too old. Will I make a significant impact to save the world, to cure hunger, to house the homeless, to end corporate greed and begin a world-wide culture of compassion? No. I've done what I can. That's it. I'm done.

"But, Nathan..." He interrupts me. "No, no. Listen to me, " he says "My Fanny is gone. My old friends are gone. I am not depressed. This is a rational and well thought-out decision."

He tells me that he and Fanny were in complete agreement on this, and thought they would go to Pamplona, Spain for San Fermin, the Running of the Bulls when the time came. There is only a simple wooden barricade separating the screaming crowd from the bulls and runners. They could crawl under the fence, hold hands, and run directly towards the rampaging bulls. The chance of being gored would be about 100%. However, the flaw in the plan quickly became obvious. Gored, yes. Killed, only maybe. What about the risk of just a serious injury. A spinal cord mishaps, perhaps.  Not the ultimate goal. Plus, San Fermin is only during ten days in July, so spontaneity would not be an option.

Then they decided to go the fasting route. They would sit in an unobtrusive place in a hotel lobby for days, and not eat or drink, and just sort of fade away gracefully. Eventually someone walking through the lobby would notice there were two dead people on the sofa.

On a whim, while visiting New York, Nathan and Fanny decided to do a bit of a dress rehearsal at the Chelsea Hotel on 23rd Street . After all, how many literary/musical/artistic giants have lived and/or died there?  Surely there would be room for one old couple in the lobby, enjoying the ambiance for their last few days. They dressed in clothes that would be comfortable to wear waiting it out until the end. In the lobby, they settled in a corner near the front window, just out of direct sight of anyone at the hotel desk, especially Stanley Bard, the manager. "Poor Stanley," Nathan said. "He's gone now, replaced by some corporate entity."  Nathan and Fanny sat and enjoyed the art on the walls, and the big fireplace and the woman hanging on a swing from the ceiling. They watched the drifting cloud of strange humans and dogs flow in and out of the lobby. At one point, Leonard Cohen walked out with a woman who got into a waiting black limo. They both had little smiles on their faces. He had on his hat and strutted somewhat jauntily. She had hair all akilter with feathers sticking out of it and lots of bangles and jewelry. "Now that I think about it, " Nathan said, "didn't Cohen write a song about that?"

They listened quietly to see if they could hear the ghosts of Dylan Thomas, Eugene O'Neill or Thomas Wolfe. They even looked for the apparition of Sid Vicious, who reportedly haunts the elevator. "You no doubt remember that Sid shot Nancy in one of the rooms there," Nathan muses.

Before long, they began to realize that instead of being as anonymous as the sofa they sat on, their hope for all of this, they were instead the focus of subtle attention.  Employees and residents and people just passing through stared at them and Bard himself peeked around the corner and took a look. After an hour, they decided the dress rehearsal was over, a total flop. There was no way to die incognito in the lobby of the Chelsea Hotel .

"Now Fanny went ahead and left without me," Nathan says. "And I want to go too."

Stories aside, which remind me of why I love him, I tell Nathan, "Well I simply won't hear of it. And I won't help you in any way. You must understand that."

"This is the only help I need. The Last Supper! I want to have a gathering of friends the night before I begin my fast. I hope you will help me plan this dinner and invite people for me. They should know why they're coming, of course, but it can be a wonderful evening."

He has set a date to begin his fast: May 2. He wants to be here for one last May Day, when vendors all over Paris sell bouquets of Muguet, sweet Lily of the Valley. It's a custom that dates back to 1561, when King Charles IX of France received a Lily of the Valley as a lucky charm.

But for Nathan, the real significance of the day is the massive May Day parades, with beating drums and soaring sounds of trombones, banners, flags, and a general free-for-all throughout the city in celebration of International Worker's Day.

He abuptly pushes back his chair with a jarring screech, stands up and sings proudly and loudly:
   Workers of the world, awaken!
   Rise in all your spendid might
   Take the wealth that you are making,
   It belongs to you by right.
   No one will for bread be crying
   We'll have freedom, love and health,
   When the grand red flag is flying
   In the Worker's Commonwealth.

He ends with a flourish, tipping his hat and executing a sweeping bow. Morning coffee cups temporarily frozen in midair, clink back down on tables as the other customers laugh and applaud. When he sits again, Nathan smiles a bit sheepishly and says, "Joe Hill. Wobbly. What better day for Nathan's Last Supper than May Day!"

CHAPTER 8: Say Goodnight, Nathan (Part Three)

As we hustle back out the door of Cafe Lulu, a sudden flash of radiant yellow, so close it brushes Bernie's back, startles us both. A small bird, no bigger than the palm of my hand, hits the square glass pane in the cafe door and falls to the ground. We aren't the only ones who see it. Near the sweet jasmine is an old black tom cat, eyes glued on the bird, sitting as still as if he has already been stuffed.

It is obvious the bird is only stunned. Its tiny heart is moving the feathered chest so strongly that I can count the heart beats.

I sit on the ground and Bernie groans for his old joints as he lies down next to me; we form a protective barrier between the cat and the bird.

Then I realize it isn't just the bird, the cat, Bernie and me. Standing on the sidewalk watching us is the Preacher. He doesn't move until I smile and wave. Then he slowly walks over and sits quietly on the closest bench. It is a comfortable silence. I realize this is a strange and some tell me even dangerous friendship, but I am as drawn to him as if we were together in a past life. I heard he was recently evicted from a store for preaching inside and from a bistro during the rain for taking off his shoes and trying to put layers of their paper napkins inside to keep his feet dry.

Suddenly, "Sometimes I scare people," he announces in a low voice. When I nod in agreement, that's all it takes and it all comes spilling out. He speaks in a monotone as if reciting something he memorized years ago and has repeated over and over. He's lonely for someone to talk to. People avoid him. That's the way it is for the homeless. In the caste systems of most any society, they are at the bottom.

"God tells me to preach," he says. "The house where I grew up, I heard a voice talking to me all the time. It scared me. I thought there were ghosts in the house. My parents had me in and out of hospitals trying to find out why I heard the voice. Now I know who it was. It was God. God was telling me to preach. As soon as I started preaching I was healed. One time I went back to my house and knocked on the door. There was a woman there. I told her I wanted to go inside and see if the voice still talked to me in there. She wouldn't let me in. She closed the door and wouldn't let me in."

With this, there is a subtle change. The longer he talks, the louder his voice gets. Abruptly, he shouts, "Spare the rod and spoil the child!" It just bursts out of him like a cork out of a hot bottle. People walking by jump and quickly look away. Bernie stands up with a low, almost imperceptible rumble deep in his chest.

Then I remember why we are sitting here. I look over, but the bird is gone and the cat is gone too.  It's okay, I tell myself. The bird flew away and the old cat just lost interest.

CHAPTER 8: Say Goodnight, Nathan (Part Two)

It starts with an 8 AM phone call. It is Nathan.

"Bonjour. C'est important." He insists that we meet for coffee. Now.

Nathan suggests we meet at Cafe Lulu, just around the corner from his place. I've never heard of it, but it's easy to find and Nathan assures me that dogs are allowed inside so Bernie can come as well. It's a pleasant walk. Maybe I should get out in the early morning more often. Entire flocks of birds are chirping their wake-up calls, cats are doing their morning yoga stretches and looking for sunny spots. The air is full of the rich and intoxicating scent of pink jasmine which sprawls over the brick wall next to the front door of the cafe. A young man in a white apron is outside sweeping and washing down the curb, a regular morning ritual in France.

Inside, the cafe is tiny, dark and windowless. I shiver and wish I'd brought a sweater. This is a virtual cellar. Trying to get used to the dim light, I miss it at first. I'm more focused on checking the empty tables for Nathan. Then I see it, close enough that I could reach out my hand and touch.

Along one wall is a glass display case. Inside are the bodies of eight stuffed house cats.  The shelves are covered with smudges that look like paw prints. The case is dusty and so are the cats. Their coats look moth-eaten.  This must be the work of an amateur taxidermist.

It is simultaneously compelling and repulsive.

Peering more closely, I feel a near elecric shock of recognition.  Stuffed for eternity, his back arched and mouth slightly open is Ella Mae's cat, Msr. Snuff.
Tufts of his hair are missing. Cobwebs hang from his ears and whiskers. His golden glass eyes stare out at Bernie and at me without blinking.

Oh, merde.

CHAPTER 8: Say Goodnight, Nathan (Part One)

The Greens -- here called Les Verts -- led a spirited demonstration by Montmartre residents on Sunday, protesting the damage to the city air from the constantly increasing traffic. Bernie and I noticed advance signs posted on phone poles and fences and shop windows over the last couple of weeks.

The morning of the protest we got up early and hurried down the hill. All the streets leading up to the Butte were blocked with lines of people and wooden barricades to keep the cars, trucks and tour buses at the bottom. White sheets painted with green acrylic saying LET PARIS BREATHE! were hung across the barricades. Even the Open Tour double-decker buses were turned back at Rue d'Orsel. The tourists had to get out of the buses and take the funiculaire or walk to the top. I heard later they complained bitterly.

People were driving up to our barricades, declaring they were Montmartre residents. When we didn't let them through, the shouting started. One woman even jumped out of her car screaming directly at Bernie and me that she thought we were pro-choice. It's sometimes hard to get, isn't it? A brain glich or a personal obsession? We had to laugh. Bernie laughs in a low woo woo woo grumbling sound.

The two of us stayed at the Rue Lepic barricade for most of the morning, enjoying the excitement and comraderie. Just for this gala affair, I found an old green shirt and cut an armband for me and a bandana to tie around Bernie's neck. Our friend Nathan was already there, nonchalantly leaning against one of the barricades when we got there. He had printed out the Let Paris Breathe slogan in a fancy font on his computer and then duct taped it to the front of his nice blue dress shirt. A green silk scarf was knottted jauntily around his neck. He looked very bon vivant.

Nathan was one of the first people we met when we arrived in Paris. He's a rare character and I love him. He has been a leftist activist for years. Every year he becomes more eccentric, and of course that's one of the reasons we're friends. When we first met, he lived in an apartment close to ours. Now he lives in a foyer soleil, which is a sheltered apartment for those over 60 on low incomes, with shared services such as a laundry. Retirement homes are a rarity in France.

The top of his head is smoothly bald with a few large freckles and his hair that fringes around the edges has gone from salt and pepper to gray to white over the last two or three years. His eyes have a faded milky look, the tell-tale sign of cataracts. As his arthritis and whatever else has progressed, his walk is slower and he leans slightly forward like an old tree bent by constant high winds. Yet with his familiar tweed jacket and black beret, the essence of Nathan never changes. His skin remains unwrinkled, as if he has somehow been protected from stress and worry. Nathan. The eternal optomist, full of cliches that he truly believes.

Bernie and I often encounter him in the very place where we first met -- on a bench in the Place du Calvaire, overlooking the most exceptional view of Paris. It's a regular stop and rest spot for Bernie and me, complete with lovely old shade trees, several benches and a drinking fountain. Nathan calls it our "stoop and rest spot." It's not in the tourist guidebooks so they usually don't find it and it remains a quiet getaway for locals.

Nathan was afraid of Bernie at first. He's never had a dog. Never wanted one, he insists. The day we met, Nathan and Bernie walked stiff-legged around each other. It's a male thing, I guess. Bernie ignored him after that, but as we spent time together, they warmed toward each other. Bernie began to wag his short stump of a tail at Nathan's approach. Nathan began to smile when he saw Bernie coming. Eventually, they admitted to being downright fond of each other and Bernie is just as happy with his big old head on Nathan's feet as he is on mine.

Nathan and Bernie and I go on small jaunts togther every once in a while -- a stroll along the River Seine for a French vanilla ice cream cone from one of the carts, or to the Place du Tertre for lunch at an outdoor cafe. Yes, it's a tourist haven. But it's also fun and the people watching is excellent! Our favorite is the cafe with the red and white scallop-edge umbrellas, just because it's cheap if you know what to order,  looks so festive and it's in the middle of the cluster of artists who fill the square to sell their paintings. Bernie is quite a hit with the waiters there. They fuss over him and offer him all kinds of exotic leftovers as they clear tables. He always leaves them an extra tip.

Nathan's family emigrated to the Bronx in New York from Russia when he was three. He insists that exactly on his 21st birthday, he flew to Paris and never went back except for brief vacations. Here he met and married Fanny. She died a couple of years before I got here.

Nathan is gregarious. He collects friends the way other people collect tea cups or porcelain figurines or pretty blue glass to display in the window. He has a joie d'vive that's intoxicating to be around. He spontaneously bursts into song or does a little soft shoe dance routine, balancing on his cane and then twirling it with a grand flourish! He seems to know everyone and have a wonderful time of it. That's what made what was about to happen so shocking.

CHAPTER 7: Bernie in Love

There is also a young woman, but she doesn't seem to interact with the rest of the group, to talk with them or sit with them or even look at them. Bernie and I see her almost every night during our walks, usually somewhere near the Basilica. Bernie always spots her first. I've noticed as soon as we get near her usual places, he begins to look for her.

Her hair is choppy short, no doubt a do-it-yourself haircut, and is probably brown but is always in various stages of blonde tips and dark roots. It's hard to say how old she is. I would guess she's in her late teens or early 20s. She's slender, average height -- maybe 5 ft 5 inches? -- and delicate.

She's shy, almost like a wild deer, ready to bolt at anything. But she and Bernie have a crush on each other, so she's a little more open with me becaue of him. She tells me her name is Priscilla.

I look for her every day, and if I don't see her, I worry. I think of her on rainy nights and wonder if she's found a safe and dry place to sleep. One very cold night, Bernie and I fretted to the point that we got up in the middle of the night and looked for her. We took a blanket and warm jacket for her with us and searched in all the usual places. We couldn't find her. It was a long time before I finally got to sleep that night.

I worry that she's easy prey for men at night -- the homeless men whose inhibitions have been loosened by alcohol or drugs or mental illness. And the men who are out on the prowl looking for a dangerously vulnerable pretty young thing.

I worry about Priscilla's mother. Is she looking for her? Has she given up on her? Does she stay awake on rainy nights too, hoping Priscilla has at least found a dry place to sleep. Every time I look at Priscilla's face, I think this is someone's daughter. And my heart breaks a litttle.

If I had the courage, I would try to persuade her to go home with Bernie and me. I would feed her and bathe her and give her my clean bed to sleep in. Now I do understand that there are few people who think that would be a good idea. Her real problems are so beyond what I can imagine how to fix. And once she's fed and clean and has slept, then what? Drop her off on the street again? That's unbearable. So I live with the shame of not acting on my kindest instincts.

Priscilla's obsession is food. Not eating it. I've never seen her eat at all. But doing other things with it. First, she's looking for it, going slowly from trash can to trash can, pulling our napkins and pieces of paper and aluminum foil and paper plates and cardboard containers. She goes through each carefully, checking for anything edible. Discarded paper plates or flat containers are also important. As soon as she gathers enough food, she will need them.

It is, of course, the food that first drew Bernie to Priscilla, but their spontaneous friendship soon went far beyond that. Does he also sense her child-like vulnerability and feel protective of her? Bernie himself was homeless and alone for a very long time. He knows much more than I ever could about what that really means.

When Priscilla has saved enough food and plates from the garbage and trash cans, she cuts all of the food into very precise, small squares, and symmetrically arranges them on the plates. Dry bread, moldy meat, vegetables, smashed fruit, remains of all sorts of lunches, bagels, croissants, unidentifiable mush.

She sits on the ground and encircles herself with the filled plates while she works, and when she is done, she arranges the plates of food in a straight line. She pushes a filled plate towards Bernie and me as we approach, and asks me in a timid voice, "Is he hungry?" Bernie looks at the plate, drooling over whatever garbage it holds and then looks at me expectantly.

I know it would please her if I let Bernie eat it. And it would please Bernie if I let him eat it. But I'm sure he would get sick. At the very least, he would probably throw up, and at the worst, he'll get salmonella or botulism. I just can't. So every time I say, as gently as I can, "His doctor makes him eat a special diet." Priscilla pushes the plate back in line. Bernie continues to drool.

This time, she hesitates. "Can I touch him, "she asks.

"He would like that," I tell her.

And she kneels in front of him, reaches out and ever so softly caresses his large head. He stands perfectly still, obviously being careful not to frighten her away. My big burly Bernie, who goes out of his way to avoid being touched by strangers, slightly closes his eyes in pleasure as Priscilla lays her small hands on his whiskered muzzle, across his velvety ears and along his cheeks. She is like a blind person memorizing the face of a loved one.

The moment between them is so intimate that I must look away. Bernie and Priscilla. A match made in heaven.