#63 RIMBAUD’S GHOST

This story is a sequel to #24 EXISTENTIAL DESPAIR FOR THE UNEMPLOYED.

I had only been living in Paris for a month when I met Ingrid, somnolently sitting in a café, a seedy sort of place I would often go in the late afternoon, energy flagging after a day of either sightseeing, aimless wandering or hanging out in the Luxembourg Gardens. I started this Paris sojourn with a purpose; now I’m just killing time. After a month of constant solitude, I’m just beginning to take an interest in my immediate surroundings. Heretofore, I was too intent on subsistence, my own quandary, my invisible presence in Paris to pay attention to my fellow-beings--men or women.

The café had an old world charm that never failed to revive my spirit. It was not just a café but also a tabac and the air was filled with a delicious dark-roast coffee aroma, accentuated by the heady fragrance of pipe tobacco and cigars. There was a centuries-old smell and not everyone was in agreement about its appeal. Most people sat outside if a table was available and that is usually where you could find me, a non-smoker these days though I savored an occasional cigar. I have been trying to correct many bad habits taken up in the days when I felt I was invincible. I no longer have any notions of that sort, having been taken down precipitously in the previous year.

My café had no waiters, only Claude, the owner, a crusty, yet spontaneous man of about fifty who inherited the place from his father who inherited it from his. There was a plaque just inside the door that said “Founded in 1895 by Claude and Michel Auteuil.” The place had lost its cachet if it ever had any and there was no atmosphere to speak of. The chairs inside were filled with men of an older generation inhaling their preferred blend in their tried and tested pipes though much more numerous were the cigar smokers. Absolutely no food was served nor consumed within this cafe/tabac although if Claude liked you, you could ask for a glass of house wine or a little pastis and would be charged one or two Euros, depending on his mood.

Upon entering the establishment, taking in the smell, ordering a double espresso with a twist of lemon, no sugar, saying a few words to Claude, mangled phrases but he seemed appreciative, I would sit at one of the three outdoor tables on the narrow sidewalk, the traffic dangerously close--near enough to propel the napkins or a newspaper off the table as they whizzed by. I often wondered how many people had been injured sitting in such close proximity to the manic drivers in pursuit of whatever it is that causes French drivers to race at top speed at all hours of the day or night. It would only be a slight veer to the left to cause a fatality or two.

On this particular day, I was quick to note an anomaly within Claude’s. The blond caught my attention because as a rule, there were never any women customers inside the café. There were very few outside for that matter. Claude’s was a man’s domain. Its dark paneling, old wooden bins for loose tobacco, dreary lighting fixtures from the 1950s, signs with the paint peeling so that entire words were undecipherable, wobbly tables thick with either varnish or grime, a mishmash of unmatched chairs, an old sofa from the Victorian age, and don’t ask about the floor; definitely wood, but obscured by years of traffic and spills. The windows were a grayish yellow hue, layered with smoke and exhaust. The air in this establishment would take a year off your lifespan if you were a frequent customer. These were not surroundings conducive to feminine appeal.

But there was Ingrid, languishing in the front window, occasionally peering out as if expecting someone and then resolutely returning to her book as she chain-smoked and twisted a strand of her highly bleached hair with her un-manicured fingertips. She appeared to be oblivious to the bank of old men, all intent on her--this apparition in what to them was a private club, a sanctuary of sorts with Ingrid as out of place as a priest at a nude beach.

It was an lackluster day in February, the sky the color of overcooked oatmeal. I had no real desire to sit outside, it looked like rain, so I fumbled my way to the table adjacent to the blond, I did not yet know her name. Let me describe her. Caucasian, early thirties, wearing a fake-fur coat in a drab shade of ochre. In her possession was an antique train case, boxy, heavy and worn, covered with stickers from rock concerts. The Rolling Stones Licks World Tour 2002/03, The Rolling Stones A Bigger Bang, U2/Vertigo 2005 Tour were the more prominent, other lesser bands, or should I say bands whose name meant nothing to me having given up popular music sometime in the late '90s covered the sides. Nirvana was, in my opinion, the last authentic rock band. The genre is now moribund and only serves as nostalgia. But sacred cows die hard.

Obviously the blond was a fan of rock music, possibly a member of a band herself. She had that dehydrated, scrambled look that spoke of too many parties, too little sleep, lack of nourishment, life lived in transition, yet with a certain star appeal beneath the ragged exterior. All this was merely speculation and in this, I was hopelessly mistaken. I had not yet spoken to her and wasn’t particularly interested in what I might find out. That is, until I noticed the book she was reading. It was a collection of the poems of Arthur Rimbaud in English, the exact book I myself owned and had brought to Paris. Many rock devotees profess a love for Rimbaud’s wild, nihilistic prose, his fearlessness, his ruination--it’s almost a cliché; one of the many that sixty years of teenage angst has spawned. But I was surprised to see the same translation, by Paul Schmidt, whose interpretation rings with a modern vengeance and fury seething within and around each sentence.

I was in the mood to speak English with someone but not quite sure how to approach her especially with an audience. I sat forlornly at my table, sorry I hadn’t brought a newspaper when she took the initiative. “Would you happen to have a lighter, luv? Mine just quit.” She spoke with that trilling English lilt that sounds like a bell tapped with a deft touch to reach its highest pitch. I’d call it posh but I’m not sure what the Brits would call it. It is said the English can tell the background of a person within one sentence by their accent. If asked, I could only say she sounded like the girls in those English sixties movies. Open.

“Sorry, I don’t. I’m off cigarettes.” I looked around for matches and pointed to the counter.
“Good for you,” she said. “These bleepin’ things are going to kill me before anything else.”
“Ever thought of quitting?” I said it with a sarcastic twinge; another habit from my old life.
“No. Never. I love ‘em. Couldn’t live without ‘em. I’m smart enough to know that and not bore everyone with talk of quitting when it’s not in the stars. I accept the consequences.”

I again wished I had a newspaper to go back to. Nihilism was too retro for my current state of mind anyway. I’d gone past that form of expression. I gazed out of the window, decided to down the espresso and leave.

“Name’s Ingrid,” she said and put out her hand.
“Ah, Pete,” I said. Glad to meet you.” It’s funny how you say these banal things knowing you are not especially glad but maybe thinking you could be. “I see you’ve been reading the poet of the rabble.”

“Ah, Monsieur Rimbaud. I was given this book by a friend who said I would relate to it. I haven’t decided yet if I can or I can’t. He’s awfully angry. I never thought of myself as angry but maybe I put out an angry vibe. Perhaps I should be in a shrink’s office instead of roaming around Paris, lost.”

“Yeah, well, a lot of people into rock music like Rimbaud. Maybe that’s why your friend gave it to you.” I pointed to the stickers on the top of her traveling case.

“This isn’t mine. It’s my sister’s. She loaned it to me for my travels. Well, I say I’m traveling, but actually I’m just sitting here in Paris drinking coffee and trying to find my way around. I’m from the country. Paris is so confusing. I’m constantly off-course. I’m lost right now. I’m sitting in this place, whatever it is, because I don’t know how to find my way back to the flat I’m staying in. I forgot my map. I wish I had a compass. I’m tired of backtracking and asking people directions and then not being able to understand a thing they say. The weather's been lousy. I’d go home but don’t want to face my husband. I had to fight for this trip.”

“Why did you want to come?”

She hesitated before answering, “Well, because everyone wants to go to Paris once, don’t they? I mean, you’re obviously not French. Why are you here?”

“Well, I’m in hiding, sort of.”

“Ah, now that’s exciting. What are you hiding from? Or should I say, from whom are you hiding?”

“Myself, mostly.” I was being evasive, coy, saying the wrong thing. The thing that will require me to open up and I didn’t care to.

“Running from yourself. Now that’s an attempt at futility. You look a little brighter than that, Pete.”

“Looks aren’t everything.”

“You're just depressed. I can tell. That doesn't mean you’re not bright. Want to talk a little?”

For weeks I’d been wishing I had someone to talk to and now with this opportunity I found I had absolutely no desire to talk about myself at all. “Not really. It’s nothing that will excite you, just the same bullshit everyone in America is going through since the crash.”

“Lost your job, did you?”

“Lost my job, my wife, my apartment, my self-esteem, my purpose. When there was nothing left, I cashed in and here I am. No big project or enthusiasm for travel. Just little depleted me, on the run, avoiding family, avoiding creditors, avoiding a career choice that never really took off. You think you’re lost? Join the club.” She didn’t reply to this lament but starred with a solemnity that had a calming effect.

Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed.

I quoted Rimbaud with a keen awareness as if I’d been waiting for this moment to bring him to life. I felt better almost immediately.

“You want a cigarette?” she laughed. How about a pack?

“No thanks. Gave them up. Too bad it wasn’t before I lost my wife. She hated them.”

“Yeah, my husband hates them too. It’s one of the things we fight about. He says it’s a form of rebellion keeps me puffing away.” She waved for another coffee. “I’ll get it,” I said. “Claude does not exactly desire to be of service.” I was glad to move from my cramped table. She was making room at hers by removing her traveling case and the overflowing ashtray.

When I joined her table, she said, “This is just as I imagined: I’d sit in a café in Paris and someone would recite French poetry from memory. Thank you. You’ve restored my faith in travel.”

“This is just what I wouldn’t have imagined: me sitting in a Paris café reciting any poetry from memory to a lady with a mysterious air. I’ve been a dull traveler with low expectations.”

“How bad is it? Your situation, I mean? How are you set up? Don’t mind my asking, I’m always prying, plowing in where I don’t belong. Like this hole. I do know how out of place I am here. I’m not daft, just astray. But what’s with you? Come on, I’m bored, it’s raining, tell me something interesting, let’s have a good story. You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine. In between you can recite poetry and I’ll smoke cigarettes.”

“We can let some wine flow, if you’re interested. Claude can furnish us with a dusky blend.”

“That would be great,” she said.

All eyes were on me as I went to the counter and requested a carafe of red wine. Some of the men gave me a raised eyebrow that said, way to go. One gave me the thumbs up. I smiled sheepishly not sure of my intent but ready for what would come my way, one month after landing in Paris to stalk my wife.

One evening I took Beauty in my arms and found her bitter and I insulted her.

I continued quoting the poet deploring my sudden desire to show off yet feeling compelled by a certain staleness within myself; as if I might find renewal.

We settled in, she shrugged out of her mangy coat, I placed glasses and the wine on the table along with a couple books of matches. She smiled profusely, something the other men surely made note of and I was at this time, able to impress at least a few garrulous old smokers and give them a show for a least an hour or so. Claude’s place did not exactly jump and jive, if you know what I mean. “So Ingrid, where are you from? Nothing like riveting dialogue to get things moving.

“Derbyshire, luv. Three hours from London. Prime country. Dull if you’re from there, quaint if you’re not. How about yourself? New York?

Yeah, how’d you guess? Never mind. I came to Paris from New York but I am originally from Detroit, Michigan. Dull if you’re from there, terrifying if you’re not.

“What brought you to Paris in the winter?”

“My wife.”

“Pete, you implied you were sans wife. Don’t tell me you are one of those men who forget they are married?”

“No, my ex-wife. Well, she’s divorcing me. But before she started divorcing me, we planned this trip--her father gave us the tickets; he was coming on business, then he wasn’t, meanwhile the tickets were booked and we sort of planned to use them, part of our new austerity program--out-of-season travel. When we separated I asked her if we’d still be coming to Paris and she said, “I am, but you aren’t.” A bug up her ass. Said she invited her girlfriend. I said, 'with my goddamn ticket?' I demanded it, it was a New Year’s present from her father, mind you, a throw-away gift from on high. I was just trying to goad her, I wasn't really planning on coming alone but I ended up getting on that plane after all, hoping for one last try in the romance capital. You want to know what the real kicker was? Found her on the plane not with a girlfriend, but with a male traveling companion. When I sat down next to them, she almost lost it. I smirked all the way here. I introduced myself to the guy, clueless bastard, I offered to get her a pillow, I pretended we were one happy threesome on our way to Paris. You should have seen her face. She was livid, beet-red. She didn’t dare make a scene and had to eat shit all the way here.”

“That is truly funny. What happened after you landed? Were you booked in the same hotel? Don’t tell me you’re all sharing a room?”

“No, we separated at the airport. Her boyfriend, Charles, shook my hand, wanted to know my hotel, have dinner later, be friends. The poor guy didn’t really know what was going on. My intention had been to follow her to her hotel, book a room, entertain the hell out of her; win her back. I’ve spent time here so I know my way around, she doesn’t. A daddy’s girl. Over-protected."

“So you showed up to win back your wife? How'd that work out for you?" She had a bemused grin on her face that gave her a beatific look that I hadn’t recognized before. Her complexion was the color of milky glass, translucent and reflective. I wondered what color her hair really was. Her eyes were aquamarine.

“Not great, thanks for asking. She refused to pick up her phone. I went to the hotel a couple of times but she told me to go away, stop stalking her. Charles looked really confused. Turns out he just met her at a party and thought it would be a lark to fly off to Paris with this madcap woman. Little did he bargain for her husband on the plane, staking out the hotel. He’s had his eyes opened, I’d say. Little Guinevere is not so transparent.”

“Her name is Guinevere? That’s hysterical. Who in America names their daughter Guinevere? Does that make you King Arthur?” She laughed a high sort of peal that was contagious and I laughed with her, possibly the first time in months. My jaw creaked, so unused were those particular muscles. I think my lip started bleeding from the strain. The old men looked on approvingly, especially as Ingrid smoked as if it were her lifeline. Claude had once said to me, “Women, they don’t like the smoke. They all against smoking as if they wake from a dream. Bah! Everyone smokes in Paris. It is one of the pleasures of life. Why we want to imitate the uptight Americans? Sorry, not you, man, you okay.”

It’s true I quit smoking; I come into Claude’s not just because my hotel is next door but because I think it has the best espresso in Paris. Maybe it’s the mix of tobacco, exotic spices and the finely roasted beans, but I am not the only one to feel this way. Claude has his regulars lining up for the coffee. Usually at about three in the afternoon, something draws me here. On Saturday I’ve taken to having a cigar with the regulars to put myself in good stead. After a month, I’ve established myself in the neighborhood and this café has been my base. “Guinevere and Charles are long gone,” I said. “Back to New York. I wonder if they’re still together? Guin can be a trip in herself, let me tell you.”

“But you want her back?”

There it was. “Yes, I want her back. Or I wanted her back. I suspect what I want is my old life. It was good, it was very good, Ingrid. You have no idea how much money you can earn working for a hedge fund. I had it all. Fantastic apartment overlooking the Hudson, a BMW and a Lexus, a private French chef to cater the dinner parties we gave weekly. We had use of a company plane, limited, but useful nevertheless, designer clothes, you would not believe to look at me, but I was usually seen in a Versace suit, Hermes tie, custom shoes, Armani this, Gucci that. We had flowers delivered daily, a growing wine collection, a grand piano, fuck all no one even played it. Exclusive memberships, high-flying nights on the town in all the best restaurants. You would not believe how much money I spent in one day. Growing up in Detroit I never dreamed life would be so extravagant. I expected to do well, that’s why I begged, borrowed and slaved my way through the University of Michigan and then Harvard. I planned big for myself, but this was of a quality undreamed of. Everyone was delirious. Six years out of college and living like this? Who knew? It was one grand party, I can tell you.”

With the silent leap of a sullen beast, I have downed and strangled every joy.

“Where does Lady Guinevere come into this, Sir Lancelot?” Her teasing encouraged me to go on. I found I wanted this audience, someone to help take the edge off. I wanted to look at my recent decline for what it was--the past. A joke to entertain my listeners with.

“When I married Guinevere, her father was a vice president in the firm I worked for. I met her at his house in Connecticut one weekend when we were all invited, or should I say, ordered to his place, or should I say palace? I didn’t want to go, I needed a break. I’d had a really rough week and planned to get some rest. Not to be. The old man dictated how we spent our weekend. That’s where I met Guin. I call her Guin but she is really not one for shortening, a real princess. I can honestly say, she made the play for me. I was a little older and intimidated by her father’s wealth.

After we married, a five-month courtship followed by a year planning a fucking wedding that drained the life out of me and her father, we were married to big fanfare with an all-expense-paid honeymoon to Cabo. Meanwhile we had spent months searching for the perfect apartment; it had to be perfect, God forbid we should have anything less. Three million minimum is what she said it would take. Can you imagine? She was in her fucking twenties. Oh the dejection when she learned the bank would only give a mortgage for a measly two million. That was going to mean three bathrooms instead of six. Oh, misery. So when the apartment was found, two point three mil--Daddy kicked in the rest, then came the decorators even though it was perfectly decorated when we bought it. I’m making it sound as if the princess ruled, she did, but I was right there going along with it all. I did have moments of shall we say, disquietude, but I was too busy, too full of myself to pay any attention. I would have been deemed insufficient if I even asked a simple question like, 'Where is all this taking us?' It was just a grab-bag of luxuries. One big piñata and we had to scramble for the treasures. Sometimes I wanted to say, 'What’s the rush?' But that would not have gone over well. It would indicate a slack worldview. Talk about your drunken boat.” I pointed to her book.

Ingrid still had that amused look on her face and was happily blowing smoke rings, sipping her wine, her feet propped up on her traveling case, settling in for the duration. She obviously appreciated a story. Not everyone does. Tell someone your troubles, your story and the ennui is palpable these days. We are all full of our own story.

“You haven't mentioned any kids.”

“When the apartment was finally selected, the decorator installed, with all the tension and stress only a New York princess can create, it was time to have kids. One year later, still no little ones and the rush was on to find out why. Once again, God forbid we should be deprived of anything. God forbid her father should be deprived of grandchildren, who by the way, is now up on charges of insider trading, money laundering and forgery. But before that, it was this doctor and that specialist and more irritation. Just when we started discussing 'our options,' possible procedures, the stock market went belly up. The feds took over, thousands of us were on the street in one day. Businesses evaporated overnight. Stocks tanked, layoffs were issued in bulk, equity extinguished, stock options worthless. New York was one wailing hellhole, let me tell you. You probably read all about it, watched the tragedy on TV. It wasn’t a joke. Women were hawking their Cartier, their Chanel, second homes were in foreclosure, add to that the biggest Ponzi scheme ever perpetrated, and you could hear the wailing and gnashing of teeth all the way out to Connecticut where we went to regroup in the immediate aftermath.

I steeled myself against justice. I fled. O witches, O misery, O hate, my treasure was left in your care!

“And not for a minute did she give way to any form of humor, not for a minute did she see any cosmic justice. It was hard to be ensconced with someone so seriously rattled. Of course, I took things that way too--at first. I mean, it was a revolting shock. We were in hock up to our eyeballs. Our precious apartment was losing value by the day. I wasn’t exactly rolling with mirth either. But hadn’t it all been a giant lark? Everyone had to know that. It couldn’t sustain itself. To be so naïve came to seem to me the height of dull-wittedness.” I was gulping the wine as if I were sipping a fine, smooth Bordeaux instead of a gut-wrenching local bottled by the gallon. I was on a roll. I had someone to tell my tale of woe to. I could tell by the rapt look on Ingrid’s face--she was utterly enthralled.

“I take it you did not altogether recover?

“Oh, not even partially. First of all, I could not get another job right away. There were no jobs in the immediate aftermath and when there was some semblance of the dust settling, it turns out the firm I was so proud to have been a part of, recently the subject of a glossy, over-hyped spread in the leading financial magazine, was under investigation so my glowing resume was now a chard of burnt pulp, worth nothing. My wife, so loving at first, so patient, so unwilling to believe the worst of the men in her life, went back to work in the meager hope of salvaging our apartment that was now unsellable until further notice. She had been an editor with a financial magazine but they knew her father was about to be big news so they declined her resume. A friend got her a job at a minor fashion magazine. Her salary wasn’t what it could have been if she hadn’t quit working to marry the 'big-shot hedge-fund broker,' as she so eloquently put it after reality set in. But she tried to put on a good face, I’ve got to give her credit. I was doing nothing but hitting a wall everywhere I went. The business recruiter was flooded with out-of- work drones in the financial sector and as I said, I was tainted goods”

I have withered within me all human hope. With the silent leap of a sullen beast, I have downed and strangled every joy.

“Crikey! What a mess. But it’s fascinating, Pete. I don’t mean to minimize what you went through but it really is just as interesting as anything I’ve ever heard. So then what happened?”

“Eventually I stopped looking for a job. I had a 'crisis', if you will. After my wife would shuttle off to work, I’d go back to bed. Oh, I pretended I had appointments, interviews, and at first I was hopeful but in time, I realized I was fooling myself. There wasn’t going to be a job in New York for some time to come and when I broached the subject of moving somewhere else, she shrieked with horror. Cried all night. Meanwhile my credit cards were maxed out, we couldn’t get a new mortgage because Guin’s salary alone wasn’t enough and both cars were repossessed. We were taking taxis until even that became too expensive and I had to take the subway. That’s when I’d hit the bars at noon. Do you know what it’s like to take the subway after the lifestyle we had? Unbelievable. I wanted to stay in bed all day but had to pretend for Guin who was becoming a shadow of her former self. She had to sell all of her jewelry, her clothes, oh the humiliation! I did too. We had a lot of stuff. Meaningless fucking junk in the end. All those baubles we thought were so necessary. Oh, how we shopped. Two giddy idiots running from store to store. I’m embarrassed to think about how trivial was our daily life. How utterly wasteful.”

I have called for executioners; I want to perish chewing on their gun butts. I have called for plagues, to suffocate in sand and blood.

“So you hit the skids, wife divorcing you and now you’re in Paris, hiding out? Interesting. But what I think is more interesting is what you will do. What are your plans, if I may ask? You don‘t strike me as someone who does nothing. Did you really start drinking?”

Unhappiness has been my god. I have lain down in the mud, and dried myself off in the crime-infested air. I have played the fool to the point of madness.

“For a short time. New York bars were full of depressed ex-millionaires all tanking in various ways. I’d come home blitzed, and I might add, obnoxious as hell, just as my wife arrived from her day in the salt mines. By the way, what does it strike you I will do? I’m curious. I’ve no idea, you see.”

“You will write a book.”

“Oh, that’s rich. And what will this book be on? What gems of truth do I carry within?”

“You will find your truth. Just wait and watch. It will come to you, Pete. I’m certain. Meanwhile, where are you staying? In the neighborhood? By the way, where are we, I really am lost?” She giggled and glanced out the window and seeing her reflection, put a few strands of hair in place.

“We’re on the border between the 5th and the 6th, close to the Luxembourg Gardens. I’m in the hotel right next door, to be exact. How about yourself?”

I’m in the 2nd. In a friend of my sister’s flat--tiny, dirty with many steps.”

I had been doing all the talking. It was time to reciprocate and get to Ingrid’s story. “Tell me about you. You mentioned a husband?”

“I have a husband who is a professor of mathematics at a small college, a daughter who is away at school. I am what is called a bored housewife. I am so bored, I pocketed money and came to Paris against my husband’s wishes. I had to get away. There is nothing more to my story than that. I’m a cliché. I married young, did not get to see much of anything, do much of anything and now I’m fed up, restless and dissatisfied. I'm jealous of my sister because she lives in London, is single, travels, follows rock bands around, goes to clubs, art gallery openings, the theatre and I’m positively green with envy. I think I might like to write a book but haven’t the foggiest notion of what my gems of truth might be only that someone told me to watch and wait and the idea would come. I pass that homily to you for what it’s worth. Use it how you will.”

“I am a bigger cliché, Ingrid. My story wreaks of predictability not to mention vanity. The fallen titan. Only I wasn’t any where near that stature though my poor father-in-law will have stories to tell. In court, unfortunately. Do you love your husband?”

“Do you love your wife?”

“Hard to say now.”

“That’s right. It’s hard to say. Life gets in the way and you get confused. I’ll leave the question unanswered, if you don’t mind. Would I like to come up to your room? Yes, I think I might, if you would ask me.”

And springtime brought me the frightful laugh of an idiot. Now recently, when I found myself ready to croak! I thought to seek the key to the banquet of old, where I might find an appetite again.

The wine had flowed, our hearts had been revealed. We left Claude’s and I took her to dinner at Polidor, founded in 1845, a place Rimbaud himself allegedly frequented. Ingrid stayed with me for the remainder of her visit, extended by a few days, and we had great fun exploring, eating, drinking and talking among other more torpid pastimes. I was sorry when she left. I drove her, her faux-fur, her sister’s traveling case, a larger suitcase and a carton of American cigarettes to the airport in a rented car, she wearing a jaunty blue hat I picked out for her on the Boulevard St. Michel.

We agreed to keep in touch. She never stopped talking about my future book, as a thing already complete. She said everything has already happened--it just takes time to show itself. She read books on metaphysics and was a fount of information on arcane matters I’d normally rebuff. She believes she was a disciple of Gurdjieff in her last life. I knew nothing of him but we visited a Middle-Eastern restaurant he held court in. She is herself something of a fallen angel and Claude never tires of asking about her. “You find a lady in Claude’s, I tell everyone. Ladies still come to Claude’s.” He was very proud of this. “Maybe she come back soon, No good to be lonely in Paris.”

“You will stay a hyena,...," shouts the demon who once crowned me with such pretty poppies. Ah! I've taken too much of that: - still, dear Satan, don't look so annoyed, I beg you!

I did write a book. It took two years of watching and waiting and working a job beneath my education and experience as a copy editor on the American desk of a financial journal here in Paris. I didn’t mind. I blew through my Euros pretty fast, then after the divorce, sold some tech stock that did better than anyone dreamed. Turned out my little cut of our worldly goods, paltry stocks Guinevere agreed to relinquish since she got everything else, turned out to be the better deal. She’s got an apartment too expensive to keep in a market too bearish to sell. I got stocks in a startup that dodged all the bullets and raced forward unexpectedly.

My little book, 'philosophical econ,' it was deemed in the press, was well received and made a little money due to its timeliness. I was never really cut out for the high life. I would have faltered eventually. My father-in-law once accused me of having an "inconvenient" moral streak incompatible with finance. My life is simple; a small apartment near Claude’s and a dog of unspecified pedigree. I’m reasonably content. Ingrid comes over every six months or when she can get away. She wrote a mystical story for children that is doing well but as she is wont to say, “It’s no Harry Potter.” She claims I was her muse. She loves reminding me how she saw my book before I did. She’s endlessly fascinated by the quirks of fate.

You see I have written my story with a happy ending, something I would never have expected that day sitting in Claude's with my ennui and loss: Happy endings are for Hollywood. Ingrid brought some immediate relief but my troubles continued and I do not confuse happiness with a lack of terror. I went back to New York, a more inhospitable place to be found, called to testify in my father-in-law's trial and under a great deal of pressure to not only remember, but remember to truthfulness, a commodity hard to fix. I could not recall much of what had gone on the year previous to the firm's demise--that manic, dreamlike last grasp at plunder where truth was considered bad form. I was threatened with jail-time for my vague and useless testimony.

Meanwhile, my ex-wife Guinevere thought I was a hero for protecting her father and let up with her divorce demands and settled things amicably. Despite giving her everything there was left to give, it had not been deemed enough. Her inability to face reality put me in the position of a court jester: I joked, I ridiculed, I scorned and then phoned Ingrid to anchor myself. This chapter in my life; courts, threats, lawyers, settlements, grievances...a year of my life taken from me, ended when I boarded a plane for Paris.

And while waiting for a few belated cowardices, since you value in a writer all lack of descriptive or didactic flair, I pass you these few foul pages from the diary of a Damned Soul.

Ah, Rimbaud. Are we all damned? I think not. Some of us survive despite our cowardice. The world passes through its cycles--its season in hell--and we live to see old age, shouting at demons. They say the economy is recovering, the stock market is making a rebound. The financiers are gleefully rubbing their hands with pride and the avarice. It all begins again.

Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed…