For the record, the fire department didn't
show until well after the blaze had consumed the
entire building. As always, they scurried up the
ladder, squirted water and broke glass that to
this day I am certain they brought with them.
When the cops arrived, they covered the body and
began pushing back the victims who, naturally,
pushed back. It was a loud, angry night full
of twisted faces and emotions. My parents
stayed on the phone with me throughout all of it.
It was daybreak when I finally told them that I
loved them and hung up. Miraculously, sleep found
me and I awoke hours later to find the blood on
the sidewalk had been hosed down and that all
five floors of windows had been cemented shut. It
took less than a week for the squatters to
trickle away, but finally they did. After that,
there were no more fires.
A few weeks later, I received a box from
friends in Los Angeles. American smoke detectors!
I immediately screwed one into my wall, then set
about offering one to each of my Parisian
friends. They were very cute little buggers;
white, elegant, discreet little life savers.
I had no takers.
After thirteen months in France, I decided
it was time for more change, so I packed up
my unfinished novel and the cats and moved to
Vermont. I was five months into this new American
life when a friend called from Paris. She was
getting married, would I be a bride's maid? Three
weeks later I found myself back in the city I
still am ambivalent about, and, stealing a moment
for myself, decided to checked out my old
neighborhood. At first, it seemed little had
changed. The locksmith still called me "Sleeping Beauty", and women from all
nations still shouted after their children in the
streets. And, apparently, my apartment door still
swelled shut when it rained. This, according to
the newest inmates, two Algerian brothers who now
shared that tiny dwelling and slept together on
the clic clac (although I cannot possibly imagine
how). Much to my surprise and delight, they'd
kept my purple curtains.
But there was one huge difference. The
building across the street; it was gone.
Bulldozed into oblivion shortly after I left, the
locksmith told me. There are no plans to rebuild
much-needed housing, the neighbors simply got
tired of looking at it and the land owners
agreed. Looking at the spot where the man died, I
felt numb. Even with the relief of moving away, I
couldn't believe it was actually, just…gone. After all that had
happened, to be so completely removed without
another thought, like a pesky drop of vinaigrette
on the sleeve, or a crayon mark on the linoleum.
It was amazing and yet strikingly typical. Typical because, after all, this was
Paris.
And in Paris, décor rules.
