Raining ? Always raining in Paris. The film was on break, so I went out for an afternoon stroll. Belleville, Rue des Cascades but then I remembered that lucky spot we found in Parc de Choisy.
Spring hurried past like a slender black cloud, throwing showers everywhere, tearing across the park ‘on business’ under the branches of the blossoming trees. No time to talk ! And her work was good, this slender creature who blew in from the East. So green and sweet smelling we didn’t mind getting soaked to the bone. Even in the city you can feel the earth shifting, pressing under roadways and sidewalks, breaking through to throw one jejune beauty in our path after another. Who was this mysterious young woman ? I never saw her again.
Now I’m back here as the rain tapers off. Let’s see what happens. If I saw her in April…October couldn’t make up its mind, was it going to be one long Indian summer or shivering cold snaps, one after another ? Trees began to turn but others held on when warm weather came around again. What to make of this new season that swings back and forth between gusty late October and indolent September ? Gingko trees turn yellow overnight but not this year. Always raining in Paris and if you stand in it long enough, you fall in love with a cloudy day, wandering around streets you’ve never walked down before. The film can wait. The whole city is a set piece. Stand anywhere you like.
And now Autumn comes, in no hurry at all, walking in the opposite direction from her April protégé, right at me, like she had a message to deliver. Ominous portent ! Well, better ask. How are you ? She looks at me with a wistful smile and a red-orange crown over her head, bundled up in an overcoat. Let’s see, I said. Your shoes and socks are maroon, your gloves bordeaux, your handbag, I guessed, stretching my French, your handbag is carmine and your hat ? I was out of colors. Just red, she replied, before adding that the rains were here for good and wasn’t I a bit underdressed ? It feels good on my skin, I told her. She gave me a leisurely look up and down like I was a curious lizard on hind legs.
Winter is a brute and it’s only a month away. Parisians hustle on. High season, everything in full swing: romance, art, opera, scandals personal and political. I didn’t have time to ask the Fall if she knew the young woman in black before she sauntered off on cautious steps, home to stir a pot of soup and feed the yaowling cats.