A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…” (Part Two)

1990: And that was how it all began in the early Spring.

By October, I considered myself a Parisian. Foolish, I know, but that was my youthful and naïve American exuberance. I had become oh-so aware of the eccentricities of my neighbors and their lives around me, or what I imagined their lives to be. My amiable chats-in-passing with local shopkeepers that I liked to think were so very “très intime” were really just them being terribly patient with “le petit chou américain”; the little American cabbage. That’s how they referred to me… all of them. Even the elderly street sweeper, a cab driver, the florists, bakers, everyone. “Oh, he’s the one staying in that attic that overlooks la petite maisonette de jardin dans les étoiles” which my squishy landlady translated as “the little garden house… in the stars”.

And so, I fell into a routine, not boring certainly, but regular, of being that little art student, the cabbage, in Mme. Painne-d'épice’s attic; amusing, slightly silly, and indulged, when they had the time, by the locals. I picked out my baguettes, the charming but affordable burgundies or bordeauxs, some cheeses recommended oh-so highly by Monsieur Pneuàplat, the small bunches of fragrant purple gillies, and day-after-day trudged up the leaning flights of creaking stairs to my home… truly my home.

It was a blue 'blu' night in Monmartre… And at dusk, as the apartment lights started shining, the city magic would begin... I searched relentlessly for my binoculars, but they were not where I had left them from the night before… during my nightly “visits” into other people’s lives. My cleaning lady, Zavøn, must have “put them away” again! She didn’t approve at all of my “spee-ing on zee nice nahbors” as she put it half seriously, half teasingly. Truth be told, she was often just as curious as I, and I had caught her one afternoon when I came home earlier than expected, gazing hungrily through them at the windows and skylight of the “maisonette de jardin dans les étoiles” on the next building. Startled, she whirled around in a mixture of embarrassment and pique… and was that a little fear too? But she covered it with a charming laugh at her own expense which I couldn’t resist, and I mock-wrestled with her and the binoculars, scolding her and thrilling to the camaraderie we shared as naughty “spee-ers”.

I looked under the sofa, behind the linen chest, and finally found my binoculars in the old, squeaking icebox that Zavøn had defrosted earlier in the week. I dried them off and scanned the usual windows, soaring here and there for updates on their little dramas. Tonight, I marveled that a story glowed behind each window. A story for each and every person in each and every window, and I wondered if there was enough time to read them all as I flew by.

There was Jacques, the do-it-yourselfer, a fairly adept carpenter, and nudist. No matter how many windows Jacques added to his roof top abode, it being Paris, his nude antics went unnoticed… or perhaps only uncomplained about, even when he accidentally-on-purpose strolled around fully aroused, carrying a croissant and coffee first thing in the morning. Tonight, however, he was fully dressed, well-dressed, and seemed to be yelling into the phone which he dragged as far as the wall cord would allow him as he waved his free arm about and strode from one end of the room to the other, and finally out of sight, perhaps to the kitchen… I could still his voice though, very faint though unintelligible through the open window carried as it was on the still Fall air. My French wasn’t nearly as perfect as it should have been considering the private lessons I splurged on, but I did understand a little… something about “They may know about it”… and “You have no solutions ever!”… and “That’s why we’re here!”, that last part screamed in fury. I wondered if any other neighbors were hearing snatches of his rage, but no one was standing at their windows looking down or over, so it seemed I was alone as an audience member to this little urban melodrama…

I flew into the air and must have shouted or even given a small scream when a heavy hand grabbed my shoulder! I whirled about and would have dropped my binoculars if the thick leather strap hadn’t been around my neck. There she was, grinning broadly and smelling strongly of blue cheese and baloney, “Madame P.” as I now called my landlady. “What are you doing, you naughty boy? Air you speeing on dee nahbors? Zavøn haz told me abut yure mis-cheefs, and I hahv caught her myself doing zee same!”. I must have blushed, not only at being caught at “my mis-cheefs” but also at screaming like a three year old girl when she startled me. Whatever I was doing, Mme. P could barely contain her hearty laughter, bubbling and climbing, receding and then starting anew. But how could I resent her? Her heart was always open and basically very kind… and generous! She held up, almost as a peace offering, a bottle of Veuve Clicqout rosé and two surprisingly fine crystal flutes… monogrammed with ornate flourishes and a central “B”, so elaborately embellished as to be almost illegible. “Forr mon petit chou chou!... air you ready forr anozer story? Seens you look so close over dare? Air you?”. And as she poured, she gestured down to the glowing little garden house… in the stars.

(End of Part Two. Stay tuned for Part Three of A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…”)

[Want to read other fun and funny stories here on SybilSez.com? Just enter any topic that pops into your head in the "search" window on the upper right! Who knows what might come up?...and feel free to share them with your friends!]