One
Lizard morning, torpid with chill. The city is dull and grey; smog arcs like the form of a wave across the sun. That planet, once ambrosian, could not be confused with gods of myth today; its rays are like the appendages of a dying plant, wilting with lack.
The street recalls a wilderness, defiled by weather, not man; hewn from rock, not brick. It stands empty, glittering with rain. But this emptiness is a veil, easily disturbed; it is a lull, an intermission. A great drama is readying to unfold, made piece by piece in the night cafes, in the bottoms of bottles; scripted for the stage that is this street. It commences.
The hacking cough of a woman; the echo of footfall. She slides onto the street. Her face is weathered and sad, the colour of bone. Not a year of sober nights could expirge the furrows wrought by drink, the brown bands sewn along her brow. She is not one to feel soothed by dawn; it is no symbol of release for her, no token. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, muttering.
For two days, the woman has been homeless. This fact is merely another story in the long chain of short narratives that constitute her life. The first concerns a girl, herself, and the next is one in a succession of little tragedies: the loss of her baby, the loss of her father, the loss of her health by degrees. Such a series of losses is ample preparation for losing a home. But this cough is alive in her body, like a beast unfurling. Instinct has engineered her to crave breath, to crave life, no matter how terrible the hours. And to be homeless does not befit a cough such as this.
He taps guiltily at the keys; guiltily because he knows he neglects this part of himself: the writer. Alcohol and lack of practice inhibit his ability. He knows, but will not admit, that he is pressing on a sadness like one presses on a wound, his panic watered down by booze to a confused worry. He suspects it may kill him in little increments, but does nothing, only applies the pressure, an uneducated medic. It is easier to be drunk than to face that, and so he drinks, ceasing to care. Let it kill me, he thinks, arrogant in the face of death.
Patience eludes him now; he is too tired, too irritated; it is not long before he abandons the task. He rises, squints out of the open window. For a moment he thinks he sees something, something unusual, out there in the street, but the boy's attention is better held by his last case of wine. He fossicks about in the dark, upending half-finished dinners and stubs of old candles. When he finds the bottle, it is empty.
"Blast!"
He walks back to the window, checking the weather. Is it tolerable enough to go out in, to buy another drink? His eyes dabble in the limited palette that is this corner of Montmartre. Greasy buildings wink back at him, slimy with rain. It is then that he sees it: a figure, prone on the ground, unheeded by the empty street.
He can tell that it is a woman, even at this distance. For several minutes he regards her, anticipating some sign of life. There is none. He watches, waiting for someone to cross the street, to step out of an alley and see her, help her. But no-one does. All is still but for the slighest stirring of her hair, sifted by the breeze; it's as if a hand was lingering there, toying with it gently.
Christian does not know what to do. It is not his duty, he feels, to live in this world anymore, to aid people, to interact and participate. But he finds he cannot but reach for his coat and stagger out the door.