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.

CHAPTER 6: In Search of Clouards

If you say the name "Popeye," you will immediately think duct tape. He loved the stuff. He covered his clothes with it; he covered his legs with it; he covered his little cart with it. You couldn't ever tell what Popeye had with him. It was always a big duct tape blob.

Popeye had a serious drinking problem. Picture the Popeye cartoon character. Now mentally cover him with duct tape. Now make him stagger and fall down from too much bad wine or vodka or beer, or whatever he could get his hands on. That's Popeye. He always wore the cap too, though of course it was...oh, you already know. Covered with duct tape.

I saw him once with an American tourist. Unfortunately the tourist was driving a car. Popeye had staggered and fallen down a few feet right in front of the slowly moving car. The driver hit the brakes. Popeye managed to stand up and make it to the side of the car. Now he had the passenger door open and was insisting the tourist drive him and his cart somewhere down the street. "I'll ride shotgun," he declared. Quite firmly, I might add.

Now you could tell it was Popeye coming from some distance. It was impossible for him to wash once he was covered with duct tape. That and no doubt some other concerns made the tourist most reluctant to put Popeye in his nice new rental car.

A few minutes later they drove by, Popeye all comfy in the front passenger seat.

One morning, Bernie and I did our usual stop for coffee and croissants at the corner. The waitress, Marie, told me, "Popeye was killed last night." I was shocked and somewhat surprised by the sudden rush of grief. "What happened!"

"He was hit by a car down on Bl Clichy. They say he never saw the car coming. Walked right out in front of it."

Now everytime I walk Bernie by that intersection, I notice someone regularly ties a bouquet of flowers to the sign in the meridian. One day someone added a can of spinach to the curb below it.

Popeye was part of a group of seven or eight homeless who gather daily in the Place du Tertre, lured by the daytime tourists with their easy handouts. At night, they sleep on the grassy area in front of the church near the top of the stairs. They are  constants in Montmartre, a part of our community on the hill, as much our neighbors, as the shopkeepers and the folks who live on our street. Parisians call them Les Clouards. The Tramps.

Most of them are men, many of them nicknamed by locals. There's Hummer, a young man who hums to himself nonstop, the only variation being sometimes the humming is louder than others. Hummer helps the old man who has no legs and lives in a wheelchair. When the old man sleeps, he pulls his scratchy green wool blanket up and over his bald head. It can be an alarming sight the first time you see him. He looks like a wrapped corpse, an art installation created by Christo.

There's also a weather-worn woman in a wheelcair, although she seems to be physically quite mobile. She's possibly in her late 40s, early 50s. I've always thought she found the wheelchair and kept it just to be sure she always has a comfortable place to sit. And of course, the wheelchair is handy to push with her belongings piled on top of the seat or tied in bags to the arms and back. Why not. If I were homeless, I would do the same and probably stay drunk as much as possible as well.

One of the group is a tall black outsider artist and sidewalk preacher. He is over six feet tall and has a dignified, intelligent way about him. He stands straight and proud. With his glasses and a goatee, he looks familiar, but I can't place the resemblance. Trotsky?

When he first showed up in Montmartre a few weeks ago, the size of his artwork was small enough that he was able to tie it onto a bicycle to move it around. Now he has constructed an elaborate pushcart out of salvaged wood and tires. He ties the art onto the cart, but it's still barely manageable. The art itself has grown to nearly six feet across and towers at least eight feet tall. It's three-dimensional, and ripples and folds over on itself in undulaing waves.

It is made of torn out images from magazines, newspapers, trash of various kinds. The content is hard to deciper because the images and French text are so layered over each other. I've spotted images of Martin Luther King Jr. and even more of Jesus. It's all glued together in some way and then covered with a shiny plastic wrap that gives it some protection from the rain. It started out in the shape of a Christian cross but has now evolved into a vague rectangle. It just keeps growing.

I am drawn to his art, the classic Outsider, Art Brut of it, and therefore to him. He stands in front of this enormous art he has created, holding a Bible towards passersby, and staring them down. I've cultivated a bit of a friendship with him. So when Bernie and I walk by, we all three exchange smiles and nods of hello.

But just as easily, his smile turns to a grimace. He pierces me with his steely stare, and shouts, "God knows you're a sinner!"

CHAPTER 5

French legend tells of mythical fish in the Seine that carry all the wandering souls who have lost themselves in Paris. They are small, transparent, almost invisible, like baby guppies. If you put them in a glass of water, you could drink them without knowing they were there.

*********

You can only see them when the moon is full
and the river reflects its light on a calm surface.
They appear like fireflies under the water.

**********

The wandering souls. The homeless. The lost.

**********

Tonight, I look out my window and see the fat orange moon rising over the city. I think I hear them talking to each other,
words shaped like iridescent bubbles.
Telling their stories.

This just in from the BBC

There are 8 million rats in Paris.

CHAPTER 4: Musophobia/Bernie Smells a Rat

Souris a la Creme (Mice in Cream)

Skin, gut and wash some fat mice without removing their heads.

Cover them in a pot with ethyl alcohol and marinate 2 hours.

Cut a piece of salt pork or sowbelly into small dice and cook it slowly to extract the fat.

Drain the mice, dredge them thoroughly in a mix of flour, pepper and salt,

and fry slowly in the rendered fat for about 5 minutes.

Add a cup of alcohol and 6-8 cloves, cover and simmer for 15 minutes.

Prepare a cream sauce and transfer the mice to it, and warm them in it

for about 10 minutes before serving.

--Farley Mowatt

A spring storm is coming. The wind howls outside our windows and curls up and slips over the edge of the sills to make the sheer curtains shimmy. I stand at the living room window and watch papers and plastic bags sail on the cold current then catch in the tops of early budding trees like ornaments. Now the rain begins, a staccato beat against the glass, the old bricks, the wooden shutters, the tin drainpipes. Bernie hates it when the wind is like this. Like a wild thing outside, beating its wings against the window to get in. He barks, startled by a sudden high gust that momentarily wails and then settles again.

For all the beauty and vibrancy of Paris in the daytime, with nightfall, especially on nights like tonight, it can turn dark and melancholy. The streets on the hill are quiet, curving and cobblestoned. You can't see far ahead of you, and unlike most parts of Paris, Montmartre has enough empty space to make parts of it feel like the countryside. There's still a vineyard, windmills, a small cemetery. And there's more. There are those who lived on the hill before us and walked these narrow streets and alleys -- Modigliani, Pascin, Van Gogh, Toulouse Lautrec, who immortalized these very streets. Maurice Utrillo grew up in Montmartre, the son of Suzanne Valadron, a famous artist in her own right. He was the neighborhood's own bad boy, fighting, breaking street lamps, trading his paintings for cheap alcohol. Local legend says he exposed himself to strangers on the street, yelling, "I paint with this!" Who can say he doesn't still wander here on rainy nights?

Rain or not, the evening is always time for Bernie's walk. It's either either now or the middle of the night. I choose now!

His red nylon leash is narrow and really not very strong. Not what most people would use to control a powerful 120 pound dog. But the real purpose of Bernie's leash is to tie us together so we don't ever lose each other. I always put the hand loop securely around my wrist so that if I should fall down -- or worse, be hit by a car or have a heart attack -- Bernie would remain with me instead of running loose, lost in the wilds of Paris. The reality is that Bernie is always able to choose where he wants to go and because he is so strong, I would have to follow. He is a mellow boy, though, and is usually content to let me be the leader. The leash is superfluous. Where he most likes to walk is directly behind me as if I'm blazing a trail through high brush and his life depends on putting his feet directly in my footsteps. It's a strange quirk, a puzzle, but then many things about Bernie are puzzles.

So out we go. Down the stairs. Through the empty lobby. The lobby television is turned on from 9 to 9, for the benefit of those renting rooms for just one or two nights, since there are no televisions in the hotel rooms. There is some kind of a French game show on with the contestants in a high state of excitement. I can't understand a word anyone says.

When I try to push open the glass door to the street, the wind slams it closed again. Lightning suddenly flashes and cracks and Bernie and I both jump.

"Well Bernie, our first storm in Paris!" I say to him in a voice that I hope sounds like "this is going to be fun" instead of "I'm scared -- let's run like hell!"

It's wet and miserable. We hustle to the corner, dripping all the way, make a wide u-turn and hurry right back home.


Back in the apartment, I take out one of the blue towels I bought at Les Galeries Lafayette when we first got here, and dry my own hair, and then go to work on Bernie. In just that short time, his coat is so soaked that he's dripping on the floor.

Finally dry, Bernie curls up on his sofa and I get in my narrow bed, fold back the bedspread and snuggle under my quilt. It's not long before the silence is broken by a slight rustling noise coming from somewhere in the kitchen. I look at Bernie and Bernie looks at me. There's something in there.

__________________________________

I know it's a rat. I have an irrational fear of rats and so of course it has to be a rat. I have a theory that rats are attracted to people who are afraid of them, just like bees are attracted to people who are allergic to bee stings. The two things go together. The rats can always find me. No matter where I live, a rat shows up. I think about rats every day. (I confess this with some embarrassment.) I listen for them and watch for them, and I see them scurrying silently, along the power lines behind all the buildings. They're there every night from dusk until daylight. Rat sensitive people know these things. I don't know where they hide during the day, but whoever the person was who said you're always within six feet of a rat, did me no favor. I now am unable to control constant reconnaissance sweeps and surveillance to anticipate where a rat might be hiding within a six foot radius. In the wall? Behind the sofa? Under the bed?

When I was a little girl, I was mesmerized by my Grandpa's story of what happened to him as a young man on his Ohio farm: he was in the barn and a rat ran straight up his pants leg. I spent my childhood on the alert for random rats that might be coming my way.

In the late 60s, my husband and I left California for about three years, and rented a three acre farm property outside of Indianapolis, Indiana. We saw it as our part in the back-to-the-land movement of the 60s and early 70s. Our house was surrounded by neighbor's corn and soybean fields. We parked our car in the barn. We grew crops of fragrant sweet peas that climbed the wooden barnyard fence and sweet tomatoes warmed by the sun. We got the kids a pony and raced up and down our road on an old Cushman Scooter we called "Hi Baby." We listened to Ravi Shankar albums and wore love beads and painted big orange flowers on our mailbox out by the road. We made dandelion wine using a recipe from the Whole Earth Catalogue and the dandelions from our front yard.

Every fall, the day of the first cold snap when we knew summer was over, the field mice came in the house to get warm. We could hear them scurrying on the floor above our heads as we laid in bed. Our brand new baby girl was up there. Our 4 and 6 year-olds were up there. I was in a constant state of mouse alarm. The mice were outside. The mice were inside. The mice were upstairs. The mice were downstairs. The mice were everywhere. I stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes and had a field mouse run over my bare feet. Fall was always my favorite season, and now I dreaded it.

The barn where we parked the car had rats in it. Lots of rats. Big rats that took off in all directions along the rafters when you opened the barn door. Big rats that could run right up your pants leg.


I recently developed a small vitreous separation in my left eye, which has left me with a black area in my sight, in the vague shape of a cobweb. But to me it doesn't look like a cobweb. It constantly takes me by surprise. It looks like a rat, running just where I can catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye.


Now the sound of something rustling in the kitchen -- which we all know is a rat -- freezes me. Bernie has the opposite reaction. He runs into the dark kitchen and begins to sniff with a loud, snuffling noise that I've never heard him make before. He snuffs between the stove and refrigerator. He snuffs under the sink. He snuffs right into the living room, following along the baseboard all the way to the bookcase.


It's a bad night. Bernie spends most of it in the middle of the floor on alert. I spend most of it cowering in my bed, watching Bernie and being ever-so-careful not to let a foot or hand hang over the side of the mattress in case it would be suddenly brushed by something furry.


The next morning, I see Pierre in the lobby. I breathlessly tell him about our night. He's much more blase about it than I would like. Instead of being appropriately alarmed and assuring me that he will somehow come to my rescue, he tells me about the chasse aux rats also known as le smash, which takes place in Paris every May and June. City employees check cellars and buildings for rats. The baby rats are born in spring and if not found by the rat hunters, one pair could produce 5,000 more rats. The chasse aux rats usually comes to our street, he assures me.


I think I need poison. Where could I get it? How much would it take? Where do the poisoned bodies go? Seriously. Do they run out to the alleys or gutters to die or do they go to the middle of your kitchen? And what about Bernie? If I poison this rat and then Bernie gets the rat, obviously that would in turn poison him too. What about a trap? But then if I set a trap, I would have to wait to hear it click and then hope the trap actually killed the rat instead of just catching a foot or something so I would have to do something creative with both the trap and the rat. Both alternatives make me too nervous so I don't do anything. And sooner than I would like, the sun begins to set and it's dusk again. The dreaded wake-up time.

This time we don't have to wait all night. Early in the evening, Bernie takes off a a full-on power run for the corner of the kitchen and frantically begins to paw at it like he's digging a hole. I jump up on the chair then crawl up on my writing table. and perch there on all fours, screaming. It's a strange scream that comes out of my mouth. Like something from a cartoon character, who might be screaming a high-pitched "Eek! A rat!"


OK, it is...yes, it is a rat. Bernie runs back into the living room and looks at me up on the table. Out of his mouth sticks a long, hairless rat tail. My hysterical reaction alarms him, and he drops it. A seriously wounded giant rat, now sluggishly staggers and sways and lurches around the room.

Eventually, I realize I have no choice but to get off the table. I steel myself and in one smooth motion, grab an empty shoebox from the closet, scoop the rat into it, and clamp down the lid. I run down the stairs, with Bernie close behind me, and drop the box into the trash next to our building.

________________________________________

At least Bernie and I can sleep that night. No rustling sounds, no rats, no

mice. Just the sound of soothing rain.

By the next evening, the storm has passed on through. Bernie and I especially enjoy our bedtime walk. But as we return, we are greeted by a most unwelcome sight. Slowly staggering and lurching toward the front door of our building is our rat.


I'm going to have to kill it. The question is how. Neither rat trap nor poison are of any use to me now. Anything violent is out. I just don't have the nerve for it. No hitting it over the head with a hammer, for example. Way too squishy. Painless is also preferable. And I certainly can't do anything that means I have to touch it. So we have eliminated all of the obvious ways that immediately come to mind.

I have an idea. I race up the stairs, with Bernie in hot pursuit, and frantically look through the low cabinets under the sink, trying to find a lidded container that a rat would fit in. Nothing. I look in the refrigerator. They're all too small.

Then I spot the plastic container with the lid that's holding left-over lasagna. Bernie has a big sloppy drink of water and then sits down in the kitchen to watch me intently as I dump the lasagna in the trash. I quick-wash the container and the lid, dry it with the kitchen towel and back down the stairs we go, taking the steps two at a time. We will suffocate it!


Of course the rat is still there. It has even advanced toward the front door, and is now struggling to get up the bottom step. Using all the meager emotional reserves I have left, I do a fast rat-into-plastic-scoop and close the lid. Really, really tight. Back into the trash it goes.


Back in the apartment, anxiety has me in a tight grip. It's over, I tell myself. But I keep thinking that I can hear the rat downstairs digging at the sides of its plastic coffin, trying to escape. One more time, I think. I'll just check to make sure it's dead. Of course it isn't. We need to take it someplace away from us where it's not in the throes of dying right under our window. That's too close and creepy, and I know I'll compulsively need to check it all night long. We put the rat/coffin in a brown bag and head out.


If I were a rat, an icky, dirty rat with long sharp teeth and the ability to run right up your leg, where would I want to be left to die? Well, first, I'm sure it wouldn't be in a plastic left-over lasagna container. Bernie and I walk slowly, in the general direction of the Place de Tertre, furtively peeking down alleys. I'm gingerly holding the bag and it's contents, fighting the willies. We can both hear the still not dead rat scratching against the sides of the container. Bernie puts his nose against the bag and makes that snuffling noise.

A scene worthy of Dostoevsky: Bernie, the perpetrator. I can't bring myself to say murderer. That's too harsh. And besides, the rat is not really dead yet. Just dying. Me, the willing, even eager, accomplice. And the rat? The victim. Should I say innocent?


We stop at a large dumpster outside of an old building. I hesitate. It seems so impersonal. Then we spot a small, beat up metal trashcan at the outer edge of a grassy yard. Better, but not perfect. I still hesitate. The rat, which is growing in size and aggression in my mind by the minute, continues to claw at the smooth sides of the plastic. It is really beginning to get on my nerves. Maybe there isn't such a thing as a perfect place to die. Maybe the damn thing will just have to live with our decision. So to speak.

I remove the trash can lid as quietly as possible and drop the bag holding the rat inside the homemade coffin. Down it goes. Down, down, down until it hits the bottom of the metal can. Plop. Bernie and I turn and walk away.

_____________________________________

From this week's International Herald:

An army of 700 urban cats imported to a rat-infested town in northern Mexico has done little to get rid of the more than 1.5 million rodents that are ruining crops, invading homes and terrifying residents. The mayor of Atascaderos is now offering 5 pesos, or about 40 cents, for every rat beaten to death. "I don't think the cats worked very well because we know a cat sees one rat, eats it, then doesn't kill again until at least two days later, said regional mayor Jesus Velazquez Rodriguez. He added that some members of the "cat army" were actually attacked and killed by large groups of rats shortly after their arrival. After the magnitude of the infestation became apparent last year, farmers set traps and poison, but that killed various cats and other rodent predators, which only worsened the problem. Residents now fight pitched, house-to-house battles to get rid of the rodents.

CHAPTER 3: Monday (Part Three)

This cat-sitting has deteriorated rapidly into a major imposition. It's been a full week and not a word from her. Where is Ella Mae? Maybe something happened to her. When I go over there tonight, I'm going to check and see if I can find something that might tell me how to reach her. I've tried to not pry and poke around too much in her place, tempting as it. But now, privacy be damned.


Monday evening, 10 PM


I go over to feed and water the cat. Open the door. Wince as fleas jump on my legs. Wait for old Snuff to do his cat-scream thing and attack me. Don't have to wait long.


While the cat eats, I look in the bathroom. It's filthy. A layer of soap scum and toothpaste covers the counter and sink. There are several dark, red stains on the black and white tiles on the floor. It looks alarmingly like blood, but I think it's hair dye. A worn toothbrush lies on the counter next to a tube of denture adhesive. There's a hairbrush and several make-up brushes. A smaller brush filled with black cat hair is tossed on top of several used razor blades. The toilet seat is up.


Bernie follows me when I go into the bedroom. Maybe he's curious too. The double bed is unmade, with rumpled and dirty pink flowered sheets that are covered with something that looks like graham cracker crumbs. No blankets or pillow, though. The white louvered door to the small closet stands slightly ajar. I open it up all the way and look inside. There are three dark men's suits, a grey and pearl striped tie and a blue business shirt.


On the high shelf in the closet is a hat box, covered with crisp new pale pink and light green striped paper. the colors of those pretty pillow shaped after-dinner mints. I untie the string and look inside. A stack of what seems to be unopened utility bills is wrapped in a piece of pristine white tissue paper. A bar of fragrant honey almond soap, labeled Made in France is still in its wrapper. A clear plastic sandwich size bag is filled with ashes. Now I can't tell if it's human, animal, or Mt. St. Helens, but it is definitely ashes. A narrow snippet of lace ribbon encircles the bag of ashes twice and is then tied in a tiny bow.


The white chest angled in one corner of the room has five drawers -- all empty, except for odd pieces -- a woman's narrow light brown leather belt, some loose change and Metro tokens, a small photo of Ella Mae with another woman who looks enough like her that I would guess it might be her sister. The photo is one of those little ones taken in a photo machine at a fair or fiesta. There isn't anything written on it at all. No date. No names. It isn't a very recent picture of Ella Mae. Maybe taken five or even 10 years ago. In the bottom drawer, there is one of those blue fuzzy stretch slippers like the ones they give you on airplanes for long flights, along with a pair of black socks, folded neatly into a roll. And there is a pair of new men's boxer shorts, still in the unopened package, light blue with darker blue vertical stripes, size 32.


I go over to the window, pull open the heavy draperies and crank out the casement window just enough to let some fresh air in. A sudden evening fog has moved in, and I can hear the muffled sound of a car driving slowly down the street. When I turn around, I see it. Scrawled across the bedroom wall opposite the bed, in pink lipstick so pale that it is difficult to make out all the letters, is a message. Obviously intended for me.

F i n d  a  h o m e  f o r  t h e  c a t

CHAPTER 3: Friday (Part Two)

She's been gone five days. Ella Mae said she'd be home late Wednesday,
and it's now Friday afternoon. I had to buy more cans of cat food at the market because I used up everything she had left. The apartment is beginning to smell. She said I didn't have to change the cat box -- that she was out of kitty litter and would do it when she got back. But it's become so unpleasant to go in there that I guess I'm going to have to get some litter too.

Msr. Snuff has remained ill-tempered, although he doesn't hide from Bernie and me now so he must be getting used to us. He scratches himself nonstop. When he's not scratching me. Cat fleas now cover my legs up to my knees as soon as I open the door. They're multiplying on a daily basis. The cat arches his back and hisses at Bernie, who sometimes reacts by growling. I always flea comb Bernie when we get home, just to be sure he hasn't brought any of Msr. Snuff's fleas with him.


There's something strange about Ella Mae's place. There are only a few pieces of furniture. It doesn't appear that she has ever really settled in. No photos. No books. Nothing on the walls except a free calendar from Le Drugstore on the Champs Elysee. A worn old tan sofa with badly shredded arms from the cat claiming it as a scratching post and a dusty black wicker chair that is coming apart sit center stage in the living room, along with the ironing board. The kitchen window doesn't have a curtain, but there are three African violet plants -- all brown and dried up -- in plastic pots on the window sill.

There's a small red table against the kitchen wall, with a single straight-back wooden chair pulled up to it. A half-full cup of coffee in a chipped blue mug is still on the table. Food-encrusted plates and eating utensils fill the kitchen sink along with a partially eaten cut piece of cantaloupe that is now a decayed and moldy mess, buzzing with clouds of tiny gnats and flies.

CHAPTER 3: Le Chiou/Bernie Meets Monsieur Snuff (Part One)

Monday

Our nearest neighbor Ella Mae and her 14-year-old cat Msr. Snuff live just across the little courtyard from us. At least Ella Mae says there is a Msr. Snuff in there. He's an inside cat, and I've never seen him. I've never been to her apartment, nor she to mine, but she's a pleasant enough neighbor.

Our identical wrought iron balconies, just big enough for one chair and a tiny table, face each other. It's close enough that sometimes we exchange chitchat (or as the Fench say, tittletattle) back and forth. She doesn't have parties or play loud music or come in late at night and slam her door. I've never seen anyone at her place but her. She seems a bit of a loner,, and in a way, I'm somewhat flattered that she's friendly to me. The other neighbors never mention her. There seems to be some kind of an unspoken agreement to give Ella Mae her space.


Although she's from the US, she tells me she has lived in Paris for many years. "I've been here so long you can call me a native," is her frequent comment. I think I detect a bit of the South in her speech and ask her one time where in the States she's from. Her answer is vague: "Oh, East Coast, West Coast. I moved around."


What Ella Mae does like to talk about is her age. "I'm much older than you would guess," she says, as if that explains everything. I don't want to be put in the position of having to guess her age, so I usually don't comment when she bring it up. I'm concerned my guess would not be what she wants to hear.

Her short-cropped and spiked hair is dyed a fiery flame-red. She wears lots of makeup with a slash of black eyeliner that extends beyond the outer corners of both eyes to give her a Cleopatra look. Her clothes always make a statement. She's tall, about 5'10" and slim-hipped, and she flaunts both with too tight clothes, often accented with multicolored finely woven shawls and short ponchos. Her trademarks are fishnet stockings, high heels and lots of jewelry -- gold hoop earrings, multiple bangle bracelets and an oversize diamond nose stud. When she's relaxing at home and sitting out on her balcony, she often wears a kimono. My favorite is the black silk with a gold dragon embroidered across the back. To me, Ella Mae epitomizes the eccentric expatriate, and I find her to be somewhat intriguing.


I have no idea what she does -- artist?writer? independently wealthy? a prostitute? -- and I wouldn't think of asking her.


One balmy afternoon, I sit on my balcony indulging in the soothing warmth of the sun and writing in my journal. Ella Mae pops her head out her door and calls over, "I'm going out of town for two days. Would you be an absolute dear and feed Msr. Snuff while I'm gone? Just once a day is enough. He's no trouble." She takes me a bit by surprise and I can't think of any good reason to say no, so I agree even though I don't want to. About an hour later, she knocks on my door and hands me the key to her apartment. "See you Wednesday night," she calls over her shoulder as she leaves.


That evening, Bernie and I head over to her apartment. I'm secretly looking forward to seeing it. I expect something flashy like Ella Mae herself. To my surprise, the inside of her place is dark and oppressive. All of the ceiling-to-floor faded green cotton draperies are dusty and pulled tight across the windows. When we walk in the door, the cat is lurking somewhere in a dark corner.


I turn on the wall light switch and a big, fat, black cat suddenly squalls and leaps through the air up onto my arm, twisting and scratching. I scream, Bernie barks wildly, the cat takes off running with Bernie close behind and hides somewhere in the back of the apartment. He doesn't come out at all during the time it takes me to open the can of cat food, put it in his bowl, and give him fresh water. "Msr. Snuff, oh Msr. Snuff, dinner is served ," I singsong call to him. Silence. Bernie, however, wags his short stump of a tail in appreciation. He likes it when I sing.


The next day, I wear a long sleeve sweatshirt and jeans to armor my body against cat scratches. The lurking Msr. Snuff quickly becomes a scary pattern, and he lies in wait in half-hidden places to jump me when I come in -- to the side of the coffee pot on the kitchen counter, behind the green plastic dustpan leaning against the wall, under the ironing board that is set up in the living room. Each time, just before I open the door, my heart speeds up until it's pounding in my chest. Fear of the lovely Msr. Snuff makes me dread those first steps into the living room. At least he doesn't go after Bernie. Smart cat. He knows a dog with a big mouth when he sees one.

CHAPTER 2: Heloise and Bibi

I eventually ask Pierre about our building owners. Heloise, the one with the hearing problem, has been partially deaf for more than 20 years. It happened tragically on her first -- and last -- trip to the United States. She was convinced to attend the Colorado State Fair by the daughter of her hostess, who wanted her to experience a bit of Americana. As it happened, there was a Willie Nelson concert in the fair grandstand that night. Heloise had never heard of Willie Nelson or even heard country music before, but trying to be a gracious guest, she agreed to go. The seats were all sold out, but standing-room-only tickets were still available. The two women stood down in front, next to the giant speakers that carried the music all over the fairgrounds. When Willie began to play, her right ear, then her left, began to feel numb. By the time the concert was over, and Willie had sung "Whiskey River," Heloise's ears were throbbing in pain. The pain subsided in a few hours, but her hearing was gone. Her hostess was of course horrified to have Heloise subjected to a noise level that would create such a dire infirmity, but it was too late. It has also affected her balance a bit, so that she lurches slightly to the right.


The other sister, Bibi. When I tell Pierre about how angry she was with Bernie and me when she caught us going down in the elevator, he laughs until he starts coughing and then he coughs until he chokes and then he chokes until he cries. Bernie stares at him in alarm. It goes on and on until I am afraid I'll have to do CPR or the Heimlich maneuver. All that laughing and coughing and choking and crying loosens his cute little "piece' on top of his head., slipping it down toward his white bushy eyebrows. I pretend I don't notice. It seems rude to say, "Your hair is slipping," especially when you've just met someone.

When he regains his composure, he makes a subtle move with his right hand to check and then adjust his toupee and then tells me the story. "Ah, but it is so funny what happened to you and so sad what happened to her," he explains. "Funny and sad. That often describes life, no?"


Long ago -- nearly 50 years now -- Bibi was a dancer at the Moulin Rouge. That's where and when he met her. That's also why he moved into the building. They lived together. They were lovers. "She was a beauty and many men tried to win her affection," he says sweetly, "but I succeeded." They were together for five years, he said.


"Oh my God, how she loved to dance!" Every Friday and Saturday night, the second act of the show was Bibi's performance of the ballet "Firebird," the old Russian tale of a magic bird who dances the forces of evil to death, thereby transforming an evil kingdom into a magical realm.


The scene began with her being slowly lowered from the ceiling to the stage, her back arched and her arms reaching up to the sky. She was covered in gold paint and long white feathers, with her feel in her gold pointe shoes, pointed in a tight fifth position. She moved her feather-covered arms like angel wings, as if she were flying. Offstage round fans aimed at her made the exotic feathers quiver. She was a confection -- a gold and white vision descending from heaven. As she appeared, the audience rose to its feet, shouting her name, "Bibi! Bibi! Bibi!"


"Those were the best years of my life. And I would like to think the best years of Bibi's life as well," Pierre says softly, his eyes welling with emotion. At this point, Pierre takes a deep breath and so do I. Even Bernie stares at Pierre, caught up in the story.


"Then she had the accident. In the elevator." Pierre continues. "She was a little late for rehearsal and ran down the hall from our apartment upstairs on the fourth floor. She was carrying her red dance bag. If I close my eyes, my dear, I can see her now. She opened the gate, stepped into the waiting lift, closed the gate and pushed the down button. The lift began to descend. One second. Two seconds. And the old cables, which had carried people safely for many years, shredded. The lift rapidly plunged and crashed at the bottom. I was in our apartment. Her screams rising from the shaft of the lift will always fill my ears. Sometimes when it is very quiet in the middle of the night, I'm sure I hear them still."


Bibi was in the hospital for weeks, bones in both legs and both feet shattered, her dancing career forever ended. Pierre went to the hospital every day but she refused to see him. He grieved for her. He grieved for them. He sent notes and flowers. But still she kept him away. When he left the hospital each time, he sat outside on the hard iron bench and sobbed.


When Bibi came home from the hospital, she moved into her sister Heloise's apartment on the first floor. She never spoke about Pierre or their past together or the accident. And she wouldn't let anyone ride down in the elevator. I guess Bernie and I will be walking down the stairs from now on.


"Sometimes I hear you singing in your apartment," I mention to Pierre. "Ah yes," he says, " I sing to soothe Bibi. I think she hears me and it helps her to sleep."

CHAPTER 1: Rue Ravignon/Bernie and the Elevator

The elevator in our ancient building is one of those old-fashioned clunky types, with a folding gate. Our building on Rue Ravignon went up in the late 1800s and I wonder if the elevator is that old too. The owners have few rules for the residents, but the ones they do have are absolutes. And the most important seems to be about the elevator. We're allowed to take it up but not down. No exceptions allowed. There's a sign on every floor.

The old woman who is hard of hearing -- the one who rented us the place -- is cordial, but her older sister, BiBi, is most intimidating. She's probably in her 70s, has her hair dyed a harsh black and pulls it into a severe bun at the back of her head. She wears a slash of red lipstick and only black or gray clothes. Her everyday ensemble is a jet-black straight skirt that hits about mid-calf and a matching black blouse with a tight, high collar that has a cameo brooch in the center and long sleeves that are fastened with heavy gold lion's head cuff links. She doesn't smile. Ever. Coming from the US, where we are a constantly smiling culture, it's unsettling.

BiBi lurks just inside her door on the first floor listening and peeks around corners, always trying to catch someone violating an absolute -- especially the one of not taking the elevator down. Bernie and I try to sneak down in the elevator just once. It was all my fault, really, not Bernie's at all. Normally, I automatically take the stairs, but this time Bernie needs to go out in a hurry and the elevator just happens to be stopped on our floor. So I jump in and of course Bernie follows. A serious mistake. When I pull the gate open on the ground floor, she is standing there, hands in fists on her hips, stomping her little feet in her little black shoes, pointing at me and screaming, "Non! Non! Non!" She is in a fureur. Mon Dieu.

I am afraid she will scare Bernie and he will have an accident right there in the lobby. Instead, he growls at her, but she is making so much noise herself that she doesn't hear him. Her face is blotchy red, and the veins are standing out on both sides of her neck. Her nose is a little long anyway, the the louder she gets, the more pointy her nose becomes. After a couple of minutes, I mutter, "Pardon," and Bernie and I gather as much dignity as we can, and walk across the lobby and out the front door.

Pierre -- the old man who lives on my floor (the late night opera singer) -- stops by early this evening and invites Bernie and me to his place for a cafe and homemade raspberry tarts, which he serves on a tarnished silver oval tray. Bernie plops down at our feet on the wool Oriental carpet and Pierre graciously offers him an entire tart of his own. Bernie smacks his lips with enjoyment and begs for another. He likes Pierre, which surprises me. He usually is aloof with men he doesn't know. Pierre slides another half tart into Bernie's mouth, then in small, very gentlemanly bites, eats the remaining half himself.

It turns out Pierre has lived here for decades. He was a professional singer, but not opera. He sang with the burlesque shows just down the hill at Le Moulin Rouge in Pigalle.

His apartment is hushed and layered -- faded reddish velvet draperies frame the small paned windows. It is the kind of home that has evolved over many years. A shimmery film of dust covers the dark wood tables. Floor to ceiling bookshelves are filled to overflowing, with more books and old newspapers and magazines stacked on the floor. He invites me to sit on a sagging ornate sofa, piled with plump fringed pillows, as he settles himself in one of the carved wooden chairs. Three fat ivory candles are nestled on a blue and white ceramic plate on the coffee table, and the sound of Edith Piaf creates a haunting backdrop to the room. Somewhere in the dark kitchen, a faucet drips. Drip. Drip. Drip.

To my surprise, Pierre's English is fluent, even to the point of getting and telling jokes -- the ultimate test of command of language, don't you think? Although I doubt he is formally educated, his grammar is impeccable. That often seems to be the case with entertainers and actors in particular. I wonder if it has something to do with their art, with always speaking someone else's lines.

When I mention in casual conversation that one of my passions is dance, and that at one time I was a serious ballet student, he tells me the story of La Goulue, the Moulin Rouge dancer made famous by the portraits by Toulouse Lautrec. Her real name was Louise Weber. When she was young, she fell madly in love with Renoir. He lured her into a group called la louee, models who posed nude for many of the Montmartre artists. When the Moulin Rouge opened, she was hired to dance the very first version of the can-can, called the chahut. She was the Moulin Rouge sensation. She was outrageous and shameless and mesmerizing. Her fame, however, could not last. It never does, Pierre reminds me, with a smile.

She lost her looks, her wealth, succumbed to heavy drink, and was a toothless, homeless alcoholic by the age of 55, who sold matches and cigarettes on a street corner near the Moulin Rouge. It was the location of her greatest glory and her greatest shame. No one recognized her, of course. She died in 1929 at age 59, and is buried in the Montmartre Cemetery. "Go look for her someday," he encourages me. "Go visit poor La Gouloue. She's there."