Last night I helped Laurent climb the traffic sign on Boulevard St Martin, a bit like celui -la
that sends the eternal flow of Paris cars south towards St. Germain, westwards to Opéra and Etoile.
It's about twenty feet up under the linden trees. Linden leaves are shaped like hearts, if you must know.
Then I grabbed a barstool, placed it underneath the traffic sign, clambered up on top, as it trembled beneath me, and handed Laurent a glass of vodka mixed with champagne. Perched on the last of the signs that direct you towards the city limits, he drank the vodka in one, leaning further and further back as the glass got emptier and emptier. Then he dropped the glass which, with outstretched hands, I failed to catch, and finally he recited this poem, the cause of this adventure.
"Lola, with your white dress
And dirty teeth
Your neck is so lovely
I'd like to chop it off"
That was Tuesday night. Laurent really comes out of himself at the weekend.
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