Life and Death

Last night I decided to go out and buy some smokes and have a little dinner. As usual for me, it was 5:30 and nobody in their right mind in Paris even thinks about eating dinner until 8 or later. Most restaurants don't open until 7:30 and if you show up then, they will begrudgingly seat you. So I wandered about my little neighborhood, trying to kill some time. On Rue Poteau I saw the beautiful Italian actress who is my next-door neighbor. She was bundled up in a wool coat with a warm hat and was putting something delicious in her mouth as she walked back home. Probably some delectable pastry, by the looks of her face, eyes closed in pleasure. I watched her as I walked, and once she opened her eyes, with cheeks as full as a Philadelphia squirrel (they are the only ones I've ever seen up close), she smiled at me. I smiled back. It was all we needed to do to let each other know how much we like each other.

I sat down at the Maryland, a nice cafe with a large outside patio that has a great view of the five corners at its intersection. I lit a cigarette, hoping that my friendly waiter who wants to learn English would come out and take my order for un verre de blanc. But everyone stayed inside, and I didn't push it. It was one of those nights when I didn't really want to see anyone I knew. My mind was full of thoughts and I didn't feel like making small talk, especially in my bad French. So, I moved on. I wandered up another street where a new Italian restaurant had just opened. I imagined a crisp dry Prosecco and some warm ravioli stuffed with ricotta and pine nuts and drizzled with fragrant olive oil and fresh sage leaves. But unfortunately, they weren't open yet.

Finally, I found my way to the only restaurant in my neighborhood that is open 24/7, or actually, it's open 24/7 if the woman who owns it is in a good mood. She was, and it was, open. I sat outside and ordered un pichet de vin blanc vingt-cinq, and settled in to watch the Parisians making their way home from work. The restaurant specializes in steamed mussels, but I was in the mood for a pizza, so I waited until the pizza oven fired up at 6pm.

The pizza was lovely, oozing with cheese and topped with artichokes, ham and green and red bell peppers. The edges were a little burned, just like I like them. An Australian couple had a few beers and looked over their map. A French woman and her daughter sat down and started a dueling-cigarette rapid-fire discussion, and only glanced in my direction when the waiter came, so that they could order the same pizza that I had. A Parisian woman sat behind me, statuesque in black jeans, with her waist exposed, and a wool coat thrown carelessly and elegantly over her chair. Her cell phone was glued to her ear as she drank a thick café crème and argued as only French women can. Then she snapped her phone shut, tossed a few coins on the table, whisked her coat off the chair, and took off to destinations unknown.

I paid my bill and had the nerve to ask if I could take the other half of my pizza home. This is a definite no-no in these parts, but since they sell pizza to go and had boxes, I figured I'd give it a try. The owner was happy to bring me some foil, and I was grateful. By now, it was probably 7pm as I wandered back home.

It was when I started down rue Rambuteau that I noticed there were very large white trailers parked along the curb. Since they are always making films in my neighborhood, I figured that the little crowd up ahead on the corner would be a film crew. First I walked past four or five people who were speaking at low volume. Another sign of a film set in action. And then, I came to the corner and saw five or six paramedics, two of them setting down a gurney and the rest working on a man lying on his back on the ground. He was dressed in dark colors, with a black wool cap. His hands and face shone white like wax in the light of the street lamps. At first I thought he was a dummy.

Then I realized that there were no cameras. There were no complex lighting stands. No sound man. I stopped for a moment, and looked back over my shoulder. One of the paramedics stood up and said "Il ne respond pas." He doesn't respond. There was no urgency in the faces or bodies of the paramedics. They all looked at the man who spoke, and then down at the man on the ground. I turned away and walked a little farther down the street. A man sat sideways on his motorcycle that was parked on the sidewalk at the corner. One knee up on the seat, the foot of his other leg bracing him on the ground. He was pensive as he smoked a cigarette, and never took his eyes off the tableau across the way.

I stood behind him and watched as the paramedics placed the man, his feet dangling, onto the gurney. None of the onlookers came forward as if they knew the victim. There was no sobbing girlfriend or mother. The gurney was placed on a track and it rose at an angle up into the ambulance, jolting hard, twice. I winced, as if I was this man and each jolt made my injuries seer in pain, or my blood pump out of me faster than I would like. Four of the paramedics stood with their backs to the truck, and lit cigarettes. Two others climbed into the front of the truck.

There was no siren, no rushing.

Life itself is a movie. In my movie, I worry about things and walk the streets too early for dinner. I order more food than I can eat and drink more wine than I need. An Australian couple plans tomorrow's touring and a mother and daughter catch up on their lives. A restaurant owner has a good day for a change, and reflects her mood upon her customers. A gorgeous French woman spends too much money on cellular arguments and a gorgeous Italian woman gets pleasure from eating a small delicacy. A man stops his motorcycle to have a smoke and to watch someone else's life end. Tomorrow, we will all be busy making unimportant things important, once again.

Except for one unknown man, in a black wool cap.