A Casual Meeting in Paris
It was a bright, sunny Friday afternoon, July 2nd. 1971 and I was a young soldier, on my way home from my army camp in Herford, West Germany to get married to the girl I had been going out with since we were at school together.
I had left my camp on Wednesday morning and had planned to stop off in Paris for a couple of days. After booking into a cheap hotel I set out to do all the usual things expected of a tourist, On Thursday, I climbed to the top of the Eiffel Tower, stood under the Arc de Triumphe, visited the Louvre and even went for a trip on a glass topped river boat. In the evening I had a meal in a noisy restaurant, took a leisurely stroll along the Avenue des Champs Elyse`s, climbed to the very top of the Eiffel Tower again, so that I could see the Paris skyline, and the River Seine by moonlight and finished the experience with a couple of drinks in a nightclub, before returning to my hotel at around midnight.
On Friday morning, after a typically French breakfast of croissants, coffee and orange juice, I went shopping for some small gifts to take home. I went to see Pere Lachaise Cemetery, before paying the almost obligatory visit to the Cathedral of Notre Dame. I must say I was surprised by how dark it was as I had half expected to see the whole building lit up like a Christmas tree for the tourists, but the darkness gave the building the reverence and majesty that the Great Cathedral demanded. Although I am not a particularly religious or spiritual person, I could appreciate the place as a great architectural monument. However, when I left the building, I could not stop myself looking up to the bell tower to catch a glimpse of Quasimodo.
It was approaching lunch time, so I went in search of a quiet cafe where I could get a drink and a light lunch, watch the pretty French girls go by and also watch the street entertainers perform their art. I found just what I was looking for a few streets away from the cathedral. On a narrow cobbled street overlooked by tall, old apartment buildings, (Rue St. Andres des Arts) stood a glass fronted cafe, called Le Mazet, with just two tables outside on the pavement. At one of the tables, sat two old men, playing a game of chess , as they sipped their Pernod, while the second table was occupied by just one man. He appeared to be in his mid to late twenties, was around six feet tall, wore his long hair to his shoulders, with a full beard and was dressed in a black shirt, open to his chest, tan coloured leather trousers and suede boots. On the table at his side was a glass and a bottle of Jack Daniels bourbon. From his appearance and manner, I concluded that he was not French, so I asked , in English, if the other chair at the table was free. “Sure, man, get it on, get it on“ he replied, with a slow, well educated southern states drawl, and proceeded to refill his glass from the bottle at his side. A waiter came to the table and took my order for a beer and a salad. At the same time, my new friend ordered a bottle of Bordueax wine and a croque monsieur, which is a ham and cheese sandwich.
We watched in silence as a street artist set up his easel and was busily chatting to all the pretty girls as they walked past, trying to get them to pose for him while he sketched their portraits. After a few minutes he managed to catch one. She was a very pretty “ Francoise Hardy “ look – a – like, probably about eighteen years old, wearing a brown leather “John Lennon “ cap perched upon long shoulder length brunette hair, a short fringed suede jacket over a pink polo necked sweater, denim jeans tucked into calf length brown suede boots, and she held a lit cigarette in her left hand. The artist persuaded her to put down the cigarette and pose in a saucy manner while he started drawing.
After watching the artist for a few minutes, the man sitting next to me put down his glass and began to speak . “So, Where are you from, Bud?” he asked casually. I explained that I was in the British Army, stationed in Germany, and that I was on my way home to get married.
His name was Jim and he seemed to be genuinely interested as I told him about my life in the army and where my wife and I would live, in married quarters, back in Germany. His father had been in the American Navy, so he knew quite a bit about the way the military moved every couple of years.
He said his parents were killed in an accident, but that he had not got on with his father, mainly because of his strict Naval upbringing, so he had left home in Florida and gone to college in Los Angeles, California. He had enrolled on a filmmaking course but had dropped out of school, after a film he had made had received a very bad review from his classmates and he had lived rough for a while, before writing a few songs and joining a rock band. He fell in love with a local girl called Pamela and they were happy for a while, but the Los Angeles “way of life”, the drugs, heavy drinking and “free love” had come between them, and they slowly drifted apart, partly because of his heavy use of drugs and alcohol, and his constant paranoia that “someone was out to kill him” and she had moved to France some months earlier.
He had decided to follow Pamela to Paris and they had been back together for only a couple of months. He was getting used to being settled for a change and was even eating regular meals, which he hadn`t done for a long time. He said that he had put on a few pounds and had not taken any drugs since leaving the States. For the first time for years, he felt relaxed and at peace and had fallen in love all over again, with both Pamela and France. Unfortunately, Pamela was still living the high life, with a number of rich, influential people, and seemed to be partying harder than ever.
He said, very seriously. “You know, if I can get her away from these leeches she calls her friends and finally get her clean of heroin, I think we could really have a future here in France. I think I will go and get a proper haircut, shave off my beard, go home and get changed into a suit, then take her out for a meal, go to a late night theatre and watch an old black and white movie with Robert Mitchum in it, then go home and I might even ask her to marry me ” He sat for a moment or two, deep in thought, then added “ Maybe I could get out of the music business, perhaps get a job in a bank and just disappear, or maybe just change direction, go down to Nashville and become a big Country and Western singer.” He stopped for a few seconds, obviously turning this new idea in his mind. Then, with a laugh and a boyish smile that softened his features, said “ Can you see me in cowboy boots and a Stetson , strumming a guitar and saying things like ye-haw and y`all.”
The artist had now finished the portrait of the young girl, and she eagerly awaited as he put the finishing touches to his work. He gave her the finished sheet and she studied it closely for a few seconds. With a huge smile, she gave the old man a handful of coins , a kiss on both cheeks, and then skipped away with the picture, now rolled up and tied with a pink ribbon, tucked under her arm, probably to show all her friends. The artist put the money in his pocket and started looking for another subject. We sat in silence and watched the old man for a few minutes as he busily went from person to person, hoping to earn a few more Francs.
My friend no longer wanted to talk about himself, or his plans, so we spent a while talking about the weather and about Paris, just small talk, until I said it was time for me to be leaving. Jim said that he was waiting for a friend, an old buddy from his days at UCLA film school, to join him for lunch, so would be there for another hour or so. He poured us both a drink from his, by now, nearly empty bottle and said “ If you pass back this way, I am usually here most afternoons, as I live fairly close, on the Rue Beautreillis, number 17, top floor, and don`t forget to bring that young wife of yours, I`d really like to meet her”. We finished our drink, said goodbye, and I left him, sitting at the table, lost in his thoughts, as I made my way back to my hotel.
I packed my bags, booked out of the hotel and made my way to the station. Soon I was on a fast train to Calais, where I boarded the ferry to Dover. After clearing Customs at Dover, I caught a train to London and then got on a local train to my home town. I was sitting in my parents kitchen eating a large breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausage, tomato and fried bread, all washed down with a huge mug of tea by 9 a.m on Saturday morning. After breakfast I made a few phone calls, to let everyone know I was home and to finalise the wedding details, such as making sure the Best Man, who was also my future brother – in – law, was sober and had the wedding ring and his speech all sorted, then into the shower and get dressed in my uniform, ready for the wedding
At 3 p.m, we were all sat in the church waiting for the bride. The organ started playing and everyone looked round to see my future wife and her father slowly walk down the aisle. She looked beautiful in a long white wedding dress, with her two bridesmaids following, dressed in orange.
The vicar started the service. “We are gathered here today………..”. I do not remember much of the actual ceremony, it all went so quickly, and the next thing I remember was standing under the big weeping willow in the church grounds, being told “Smile please” and then into the church hall for the reception. We spent our first night at Lyn`s parents house and left to go on our honeymoon, early on Sunday morning. We were spending a week in a holiday caravan at St.Osyth, near Clacton. Not quite Paris or Rome, but it was comfortable, and cheap.
As soon as we had settled into the caravan, I went across to the site shop to get the usual necessities, such as tea, bread, cereals and milk and as it was Sunday, I bought a paper. As I walked back to the caravan, I casually looked at the front page of the paper. My eyes were immediately drawn to a picture of a very familiar face. I stopped in my tracks as I read, with trembling hands, and tears in my eyes, that in the early hours of Saturday 3rd. July 1971, Jim Morrison had been found, dead, in the bath, at his Paris apartment. It was believed that he had died from a heart attack caused by an accidental heroin overdose.
Since then, I have read a number of books about the life, and death of Jim Morrison, as well as the conspiracy theories, and the internet stories that he is still alive and living in Oregon and although I visited his grave in Paris in November 2000, I would like to believe that he is sitting, somewhere in the south of France, enjoying a glass of Jack Daniels, happily retired from his life as a bank manager.
Jim Morrison is not dead, he lives on………in my head.
“When the music`s over…….turn out the lights”.
A short story written by ALLEN PAUL HARRIS
pontiacpaul
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