articleone : parting gift
Piper strolled along the Seine down the Qaui Saint Bernard, behind the Universite de Jussieu where she was studying botany, so far from her home in Blackpool. She was used being around water and the Seine was a familiar comfort, even though the smell of salt was conspicuously absent. As she ran her hand along the cast-iron rail that ran along the river, she noticed a young man up ahead staring at her, though it did not make her nervous. He was tall, lean, with fair hair and dark skin. He wore a white shirt and blue jeans, and carried a satchel under his arm. Piper suspected he was a student of the university like her, but she hadn't seen him before. She continued on her way, and he continued to stare at her, coming up the Qaui, then while she passed him. As she continued on the man started walking towards her, and was soon by her side.
"Vous êtes une jeune femme très belle. Étudiez-vous à l'université?" he said with a smile. Though her French was not up to scratch Piper knew she was on the receiving end of a pick-up line. But she had never received one in French before, and certainly not by a tall, handsome stranger in Paris. Her usual ability to knock prospective suitors on their head fled her and she responded helplessly, "J'étudie la botanique à l'université. Qui êtes-vous?"
"Paris" he replied.
For a moment Piper thought she had accidentally asked where he was from, rather than who he was, but then realised Paris was the young man's name. "Paris," she said, rolling the name around her mouth. It sounded different to her when applied to a man, rather than a city.
"Oui, Paris. Est-ce que c'est si étrange?" he replied.
"Non," she said quickly, afraid she had offended him. Though it did feel a little strange, she thought. Paris, Paris. "I didn't mean to offend you," she blurted out in English.
"You are English?" he asked.
"Yes. Vous êtes français?" she replied.
"Oui," he said and laughed, a friendly laugh that wrapped around her and started carrying her heart away. "Come."
They walked down the Qaui Saint Bernard together, their bodies close, but not too close. Paris pointed at the buildings around her, at the Seine and started telling her little snatched of history. Piper listened closely, struggling to keep up with his French, but unreasonably happy that the young man had latched on to her. She listened to tales about Notre-Dame, the Louvre, the Opera Garnier, and, as he pointed them out across the river, if only the pointed spire or flag poles that rose above them.
"Look at the Palace de la Bastille," he said to her in broken English, "Where the French people fought for their independence. They stormed it like the Greeks at Troy, searching for the King like the Greeks sought Helen. Both cost so many lives, but both brought so much history, so much freedom. Without the fall of Troy, this city might not exist. Without the fall of the Bastille, I may not exist," he joked, and they continued on along the Seine.
Finally, as the sun set beyond the Tour Eifel, Paris turned to her. "I hope you have enjoyed today," he said.
"Yes, very much," she replied, looking up at his face.
"I should go," he coughed, gesturing towards nothing in particular. "I have things to do."
"Okay," she replied, then quickly "Paris, mon nom est Piper."
"Piper," he murmured.
"Je reste trente à la rue d'Ulm."
"Rue d'Ulm," he repeated.
"Rue d'Ulm," she replied, as he lifted her hands to his lips, and kissed them softly.
"Rue d'Ulm," he whispered, and then slowly walked away, only to turn up on her doorstep the next day.
Piper cuddled next to Paris, her arms wrapped around his waist. The scent of the roses around them was dizzying, but Piper had felt light-headed for weeks. She looked across the Jardin de Plantes, past the Qaui Saint Bernard, at the Seine. The still waters were steadying, and she reminded herself she still had two more hours of lectures at the university to attend. But she was glad Paris had rushed her into the Au Brisson Ardent and filled her with wine, expensive red wine that made her giggle at everything he said.
Paris took her hand and led her through the garden, away from the roses and towards the botanical gallery. She clung to him, blissful to be in Paris, with Paris, tipsy and in love, surrounded by roses and grass, the breeze drifting delicious smells from the Rue Mouffetard. She was hungry and happy and held him close as they strolled until they came to a tall cedar tree. Paris looked at Piper, and she knew that he was going to tell her one of his stories. He loved to impress her with his knowledge of the city he was named after, and she loved to indulge him. "People think that this is the oldest tree in the Jardin de Plantes," he whispered to her in French, "You attend classes at the Universite de Jussieu. Well, there were three de Jussieu brothers, one of which was Bernard de Jussieu. He, his brothers, a nephew, a great-nephew, they all together invented botany together here in France. They loved trees, and plants, and were fascinated by the greenery. They travelled the world to find new plants and study them.
"Well, Bernard and a colleague of his, an Englishman called Collinson, they went to Lebanon together to find new types of plants. It was a true adventure back in the eighteenth century, and they were very brave. Lebanon has never been a wonderful place to visit. None know why they choose there, but they did, and returned with seeds. One of those seeds was this tree, which Bernard de Jussieu planted on their return." Piper clumsily translated his words, but the wine made it difficult to keep up. It didn't matter to her, just so long as she had reason to spend time holding him. He was so beautiful, and so smart, and seemed to know everything about this gorgeous city.
She hugged his body to hers and, standing on the tips of her toes whispered in his ear "Paris, make love to me."
He smiled. "But lover, we are in the Jardin de Plantes. Someone will catch us."
"Does it matter?" she asked "I love you. I love your words, your breath, your taste," and she kissed him, the wine on her lips mixing with the salt on his, and she held him tighter still.
"I don't know if this is right." he replied, and started to reach for her hands.
"Does it matter?" she repeated. "Make love to me Paris, now, under your ancient tree, now, please."
She kissed him again, and melted into him. Awkwardly she edged them towards the tree until she felt the sun disappear beneath its canopy and the rough bark at her back. Still kissing, she held him tight against her, he pressed himself into her and started to lift her linen dress above her waist. She could smell his sweat, the rich taste of the restaurants that lined the streets, the wild aroma of the roses, the deep swell of the river, the spice of the wine. She loosened her grasp around him to stroke his neck, and at that instant he pulled away.
Piper collapsed onto the sofa of her Rue d'Ulm flat, the only piece of furniture in the living room. She had had neither the time nor the money to properly furnish the tiny apartment since she arrived in Paris, but she hadn't spent much time in it either. Every day was spent at the university and every night with Paris, either dancing or drinking, or just walking the streets.
She looked at the newspaper scattered on the floor, a month old, a month out of date. She had bought it when she first moved in, in an effort to improve her French. She had intended to buy one a day so she could impress with her knowledge of politics and people, on sport and the social scene, but had never got past the first. Instead, she had met the tall man who stood in her kitchen making coffee.
Piper was starting to wonder about Paris. At first she believed she was caught up in a whirlwind romance, young love in Paris. Certainly the romance was there, Paris arriving with roses on her doorstep, taking her to restaurants and nightclubs, seeing a fantastic version of The Return of Ulysses at the opera.
But there something missing, something Piper wanted badly. In the four weeks that he had romanced her and danced her, he had not tried to make love to her. In fact, he had avoided it. Every time she felt that they should be falling into bed, he was extracting himself from the situation. Even when once they had fallen asleep together holding each other on her bed, she woke to find him on the other side of the mattress.
But she had plans. He couldn't avoid it for ever. Piper picked herself out of the couch and walked into the bedroom. It was small, barely fitting the double bed and cupboard she had bought at a second-hand store. She walked to the window. It was large, almost the entire wall, and across it hung a thin white curtain. She spread the curtain apart and opened the window to look out upon the Rue d'Ulm. The smell was not nearly as pleasant as within the Jardin de Plantes, but it had its place, and she was now familiar with it.
Paris entered the room bearing a cup of coffee. He was wearing pants, but no shirt, as the apartment had no air-conditioning and would grow almost unbearably hot. He wandered up to Piper and handed her the cup.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like something cold?" he asked her, staring out the window, enjoying the breeze.
"No." she said, and turned towards him.
"Why do you avoid me?" she asked him.
"I am here every day," he replied, not sure what she meant.
"Every time I want you, you leave," Piper continued.
"That's not true…"
"Yes it is, Paris," she said, and raising her arms she slipped of her shirt, so that she stood before him, her top bare. Paris made a grab for the curtains, but Piper caught his hands with her own. "Paris, you are funny and charming and beautiful, and you know everything about this city," she said, sweeping one hand across the city before them, "You know about its bridges, and its statues, its fountains, its history, its life. You know this city as well as you know yourself. But you don't seem to know anything about women. You have made me fall for you, fall in love with you, but you don't… I don't know… follow up." Paris looked away, tried to pull away, but Piper grabbed his arms and swung him towards the bed. Paris resisted, but didn't truly resist, and they ended up on the bed together, Piper gripping Paris, staring into his eyes.
"Paris, you are sweet, and gentle, and I love you for it, but I'm not letting you get away today until you give in."
"I shouldn't," he replied, struggling to get up "I can't."
"You can," she insisted, and held him down with a kiss. "You must".
Piper pulled at his pants, locking his legs in her own. Paris turned her over onto her back, but she stayed attached to him, and started sliding his pants down his thighs. Paris grabbed a pillow, and then Piper grabbed it too, he pulled away from her, she pulled him to her, and as he resisted the pillow ripped in two and the room was filled with feathers. Piper unweaved her legs from his and wrapped her arms around his waist. Feathers were stuck to his skin with sweat, and as he twisted they tickled her face. She kissed the soft down that lay upon him, while he started to slip from between her arms, she kissed up his long, soft neck, as he flung his arms into the air, she kissed his cheeks and looked into his eyes, as he slipped from between her arms, and she kissed his beak, as he stretched his wings and flew out the window, trailing feathers behind.
Piper stared out behind him, as the swan flapped its way across the city. Her skin tingled from the touch of the tiny white feathers that gently landed upon her. She slid off the bed and went to the window, and watched the swan until it slipped from view.
"Vous êtes une jeune femme très belle. Étudiez-vous à l'université?" he said with a smile. Though her French was not up to scratch Piper knew she was on the receiving end of a pick-up line. But she had never received one in French before, and certainly not by a tall, handsome stranger in Paris. Her usual ability to knock prospective suitors on their head fled her and she responded helplessly, "J'étudie la botanique à l'université. Qui êtes-vous?"
"Paris" he replied.
For a moment Piper thought she had accidentally asked where he was from, rather than who he was, but then realised Paris was the young man's name. "Paris," she said, rolling the name around her mouth. It sounded different to her when applied to a man, rather than a city.
"Oui, Paris. Est-ce que c'est si étrange?" he replied.
"Non," she said quickly, afraid she had offended him. Though it did feel a little strange, she thought. Paris, Paris. "I didn't mean to offend you," she blurted out in English.
"You are English?" he asked.
"Yes. Vous êtes français?" she replied.
"Oui," he said and laughed, a friendly laugh that wrapped around her and started carrying her heart away. "Come."
They walked down the Qaui Saint Bernard together, their bodies close, but not too close. Paris pointed at the buildings around her, at the Seine and started telling her little snatched of history. Piper listened closely, struggling to keep up with his French, but unreasonably happy that the young man had latched on to her. She listened to tales about Notre-Dame, the Louvre, the Opera Garnier, and, as he pointed them out across the river, if only the pointed spire or flag poles that rose above them.
"Look at the Palace de la Bastille," he said to her in broken English, "Where the French people fought for their independence. They stormed it like the Greeks at Troy, searching for the King like the Greeks sought Helen. Both cost so many lives, but both brought so much history, so much freedom. Without the fall of Troy, this city might not exist. Without the fall of the Bastille, I may not exist," he joked, and they continued on along the Seine.
Finally, as the sun set beyond the Tour Eifel, Paris turned to her. "I hope you have enjoyed today," he said.
"Yes, very much," she replied, looking up at his face.
"I should go," he coughed, gesturing towards nothing in particular. "I have things to do."
"Okay," she replied, then quickly "Paris, mon nom est Piper."
"Piper," he murmured.
"Je reste trente à la rue d'Ulm."
"Rue d'Ulm," he repeated.
"Rue d'Ulm," she replied, as he lifted her hands to his lips, and kissed them softly.
"Rue d'Ulm," he whispered, and then slowly walked away, only to turn up on her doorstep the next day.
Piper cuddled next to Paris, her arms wrapped around his waist. The scent of the roses around them was dizzying, but Piper had felt light-headed for weeks. She looked across the Jardin de Plantes, past the Qaui Saint Bernard, at the Seine. The still waters were steadying, and she reminded herself she still had two more hours of lectures at the university to attend. But she was glad Paris had rushed her into the Au Brisson Ardent and filled her with wine, expensive red wine that made her giggle at everything he said.
Paris took her hand and led her through the garden, away from the roses and towards the botanical gallery. She clung to him, blissful to be in Paris, with Paris, tipsy and in love, surrounded by roses and grass, the breeze drifting delicious smells from the Rue Mouffetard. She was hungry and happy and held him close as they strolled until they came to a tall cedar tree. Paris looked at Piper, and she knew that he was going to tell her one of his stories. He loved to impress her with his knowledge of the city he was named after, and she loved to indulge him. "People think that this is the oldest tree in the Jardin de Plantes," he whispered to her in French, "You attend classes at the Universite de Jussieu. Well, there were three de Jussieu brothers, one of which was Bernard de Jussieu. He, his brothers, a nephew, a great-nephew, they all together invented botany together here in France. They loved trees, and plants, and were fascinated by the greenery. They travelled the world to find new plants and study them.
"Well, Bernard and a colleague of his, an Englishman called Collinson, they went to Lebanon together to find new types of plants. It was a true adventure back in the eighteenth century, and they were very brave. Lebanon has never been a wonderful place to visit. None know why they choose there, but they did, and returned with seeds. One of those seeds was this tree, which Bernard de Jussieu planted on their return." Piper clumsily translated his words, but the wine made it difficult to keep up. It didn't matter to her, just so long as she had reason to spend time holding him. He was so beautiful, and so smart, and seemed to know everything about this gorgeous city.
She hugged his body to hers and, standing on the tips of her toes whispered in his ear "Paris, make love to me."
He smiled. "But lover, we are in the Jardin de Plantes. Someone will catch us."
"Does it matter?" she asked "I love you. I love your words, your breath, your taste," and she kissed him, the wine on her lips mixing with the salt on his, and she held him tighter still.
"I don't know if this is right." he replied, and started to reach for her hands.
"Does it matter?" she repeated. "Make love to me Paris, now, under your ancient tree, now, please."
She kissed him again, and melted into him. Awkwardly she edged them towards the tree until she felt the sun disappear beneath its canopy and the rough bark at her back. Still kissing, she held him tight against her, he pressed himself into her and started to lift her linen dress above her waist. She could smell his sweat, the rich taste of the restaurants that lined the streets, the wild aroma of the roses, the deep swell of the river, the spice of the wine. She loosened her grasp around him to stroke his neck, and at that instant he pulled away.
Piper collapsed onto the sofa of her Rue d'Ulm flat, the only piece of furniture in the living room. She had had neither the time nor the money to properly furnish the tiny apartment since she arrived in Paris, but she hadn't spent much time in it either. Every day was spent at the university and every night with Paris, either dancing or drinking, or just walking the streets.
She looked at the newspaper scattered on the floor, a month old, a month out of date. She had bought it when she first moved in, in an effort to improve her French. She had intended to buy one a day so she could impress with her knowledge of politics and people, on sport and the social scene, but had never got past the first. Instead, she had met the tall man who stood in her kitchen making coffee.
Piper was starting to wonder about Paris. At first she believed she was caught up in a whirlwind romance, young love in Paris. Certainly the romance was there, Paris arriving with roses on her doorstep, taking her to restaurants and nightclubs, seeing a fantastic version of The Return of Ulysses at the opera.
But there something missing, something Piper wanted badly. In the four weeks that he had romanced her and danced her, he had not tried to make love to her. In fact, he had avoided it. Every time she felt that they should be falling into bed, he was extracting himself from the situation. Even when once they had fallen asleep together holding each other on her bed, she woke to find him on the other side of the mattress.
But she had plans. He couldn't avoid it for ever. Piper picked herself out of the couch and walked into the bedroom. It was small, barely fitting the double bed and cupboard she had bought at a second-hand store. She walked to the window. It was large, almost the entire wall, and across it hung a thin white curtain. She spread the curtain apart and opened the window to look out upon the Rue d'Ulm. The smell was not nearly as pleasant as within the Jardin de Plantes, but it had its place, and she was now familiar with it.
Paris entered the room bearing a cup of coffee. He was wearing pants, but no shirt, as the apartment had no air-conditioning and would grow almost unbearably hot. He wandered up to Piper and handed her the cup.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like something cold?" he asked her, staring out the window, enjoying the breeze.
"No." she said, and turned towards him.
"Why do you avoid me?" she asked him.
"I am here every day," he replied, not sure what she meant.
"Every time I want you, you leave," Piper continued.
"That's not true…"
"Yes it is, Paris," she said, and raising her arms she slipped of her shirt, so that she stood before him, her top bare. Paris made a grab for the curtains, but Piper caught his hands with her own. "Paris, you are funny and charming and beautiful, and you know everything about this city," she said, sweeping one hand across the city before them, "You know about its bridges, and its statues, its fountains, its history, its life. You know this city as well as you know yourself. But you don't seem to know anything about women. You have made me fall for you, fall in love with you, but you don't… I don't know… follow up." Paris looked away, tried to pull away, but Piper grabbed his arms and swung him towards the bed. Paris resisted, but didn't truly resist, and they ended up on the bed together, Piper gripping Paris, staring into his eyes.
"Paris, you are sweet, and gentle, and I love you for it, but I'm not letting you get away today until you give in."
"I shouldn't," he replied, struggling to get up "I can't."
"You can," she insisted, and held him down with a kiss. "You must".
Piper pulled at his pants, locking his legs in her own. Paris turned her over onto her back, but she stayed attached to him, and started sliding his pants down his thighs. Paris grabbed a pillow, and then Piper grabbed it too, he pulled away from her, she pulled him to her, and as he resisted the pillow ripped in two and the room was filled with feathers. Piper unweaved her legs from his and wrapped her arms around his waist. Feathers were stuck to his skin with sweat, and as he twisted they tickled her face. She kissed the soft down that lay upon him, while he started to slip from between her arms, she kissed up his long, soft neck, as he flung his arms into the air, she kissed his cheeks and looked into his eyes, as he slipped from between her arms, and she kissed his beak, as he stretched his wings and flew out the window, trailing feathers behind.
Piper stared out behind him, as the swan flapped its way across the city. Her skin tingled from the touch of the tiny white feathers that gently landed upon her. She slid off the bed and went to the window, and watched the swan until it slipped from view.