birdsong
the cool breeze from the wind outside
and Arielle smoking by the window

Listening to St. Vincent’s cover of “These Days” play over the old pair of Pioneers and
thinking of the time we came to pick up Marie
the stereo set at maximum volume
broadcasting Chelsea Girl to the old homes and overgrowth
lying on the floor
the blood streaming out of her nostril
half-singing
and half-reciting Ophelia’s soliloquy from the first scene of the third act of Hamlet

That was the day that we baptized her in Caltona Lake
after she refused to go to the hospital

The world is still.
Arielle finishes her cigarette
and waits for the churchbells to finish ringing before closing the window
I twirl a Gauloises between my fingertips
and search in the eyes of a young artist to have chimed the string of bells by opening the door

The city park seems so like an Expressionist painting
Marie’s lilting fingers on the keys
as you tie a scroll to the leg of carrier pigeon

A chanson singer
a song that I would later discover was Léo Ferré’s “À Saint-Germain-des-Prés”
the swirl of cream coming in and out of focus

“So, who’re you waiting for?”
Arielle asks, refilling my cup of coffee

“An old friend, I guess.”
I reply, still watching you as the bird takes flight

“I don’t search in the eyes of every man in this city for a friend.”
She tries to smile, but casts down her eyes

So like Marie when
the magic hour sunlight in the cemetery turned carmine
after I had told her that I loved her

“She lost someone. Well, he became sort of a criminal.”

“Sebastian Albright.”
She said your name
as if delighted to have to given the correct answer to a question posed at a symposium

“We thought that you were Iain.”
I drop my cigarette on the countertop and blink bewildered

“Marie is doing well. She’s become a painter. She still sings, y’know? She talks about you all of the time. Says that she even would’ve gone for it if you weren’t such a sorry old sap. Seeing that you’ve studied every object inside of this establishment, I’m sure that you’ve already read my nametag, but, I’m Arielle.”
She holds out her hand

“Iain. How do you…?”

“She joined an art commune about thirty miles north of here. We used to collaborate with them when I was still in the separatist group. Don’t worry, we weren’t militants. She nearly joined, but Antoine talked her out of it. Said that she should take a break from politics for a while. If you’re willing to learn, I can refrain from telling her that you don’t speak French.”

She folds her arms together, tilts her head back, and looks down at me in only partial jest
an expression that I hadn’t seen since catechism

“D’Accord.”
I say, quite sheepishly

“Most of the people who come here learn by watching television, but, you, I understand are an intellectual. Jacques used to run an old video store on 7th. Do you like French New Wave?”

“Je fais.”
I smile

“They’re putting together an art’s festival in a couple of weeks. She’ll be acting in and directing an experimental theatre piece. My estate only seats five, but you can climb in the back if you like. Care for another cup?”

“No, but I will take you up on that. I think that I’m going to go for a walk.”
I say, putting on the surplus field jacket that I had bought from the convenience store two blocks down

“D’Accord!”
She smiles, clearing the counter as I walked out

The city air is cool and clean
aglow at dusk
the old furniture store
and neo-Gothic cathedral

You walk along the riverbank past the park
the signal fire swept across the horizon
tearing pages out of a journal
as you balance on the banister
nearly falling

You look back and motion with your hand
a grand gesture

“Au revoir, mon amis.”