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.