February 4th, 1990

February 4th, 1990

Jean Jacques flat

Montmartre, Paris

I was racking my brain, trying to figure out what actually happened last night and why I felt like a clumsy giant that fell into a sophisticated world of beauty and wonder, when there was a knock on the door.

“Car en? Are you awake?”

“Oui, entrer,” I said, flatly.

My first thought when I saw him peer around the door, was that he looked his age and not at all like the larger than life figure he’d appeared as last night.

“You are ok?”

“Yes, yes, thank you,” I said, sitting up in bed.

“Hier soir, it was late, oui?”

“Tres en retard,” I yawned.

“I have for you, tea. Coffee and English people not so much friends, oui?”

I laughed. “Actually, that’s not true, everyone I know drinks coffee. And I’m Scottish, remember?”

“Oui, but I do not see the skirt.”


“The skirt, the men wear also, the skirt.”

“Kilt. It’s called a kilt.”

“Killed,” he said, with conviction.

I thought about correcting him but decided not to.

“You av no killed but I will call you Ecossais.”

“Ecossais means Scottish, right?”

“Mais oui. No more car en, I call you Ecossais, now.”

“If you insist,” I muttered.

“So, today, Sunday in Par ee is the best day of the week. I have some ideas for our day.”

“Actually, I was ehm, thinking about leaving earlier than I’d, eh, planned.”

He gave me a confused look. “You are not in love with Par ee?”

“Yes, it’s beautiful,” I said, glancing at the huge casement window.

“Aha, but of course,” he said, sounding excited, gesturing to the naked photographs dotted around the room. “Now I understand. I am so ree, they are not mine.”

“Then whose are they?”

“Long time ago, I av a friend, he is photographer for the bod e. And les livres,” he said, running his finger over one of the books. “What is this called?” he asked, blowing dust off his finger.


“Yes, the dust, it is bad, oui? I clean it for you and I remove the ladies.”

I laughed. “That’s ok, you don’t need to go to any trouble.”

“It is not problem. I want you app e when you are here with me, pas triste.”

“Thank you, that’s very sweet.”

“No more sad face in Par ee, ok?”

“We’ll see,” I smiled.

“So,” he said, holding his hand out to me, smiling. “You get up, put on your killed and I show you my city.”


It was late afternoon by the time we finally stepped outside.


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