Chapter One

 

Christian had come to Paris to do one thing, and only one thing. He had come to write. It was his passion, and he had come to write of truth, beauty, freedom, but above all things, love. It was very simple; Christian was in love with love. As he stepped off the train and smelled the fresh air…well, the smoky, but fresh Paris air, he smiled a bit. For he knew that he had a new life in store for him, and he knew wonderful things were ahead.
        He found himself in the middle of the Bohemian village of Montmarte, renting an apartment. He was in heaven.

        “I have an apartment, I have my thoughts, I have Paris…This is incredible.”

        He looked around his garret, and unpacked his simple bag of belongings.

        “Ah yes, my typewriter. Well, this should come in handy if I want to become a writer…”       

        Christian took a big breath full of the blissful, clear Paris air, and said the first words that came to him.

        “God, I love Paris in the springtime…Hmm, I love Paris in the springtime…that’s not bad, Christian…not bad at all…hmm, a song…”

        He mumbled more words to himself as he scrambled to find some paper, and inserted it into the top of the typewriter. His fingers began flying as words flew through his mind, of Paris and the wonderful feeling he had inside him. He wrote of the feeling of a new life, and of the feeling that he would indeed be happy here. He knew he would be.

He took another breath to create that same inspirational overwhelming feeling from Paris itself. But as soon as he had taken that enormous mouthful of air, he felt something burning in his throat. He let out a gigantic cough and felt himself gasping for air, desperately. Christian stood up and stumbled around his garret, holding onto chairs and tables as he coughed and gasped continuously.

He was desperate to finish the lyrics to the song he had nearly finished, and so Christian found his way back to his desk and his typewriter, still gasping for air, and coughing franticly. He was on his knees, and he reached up towards the keys of his typewriter, as he felt the hole through which he was breathing get smaller and smaller. He used his last ounce of strength to type the last line of his song.

“I love Paris, why, oh why do I love Paris?
Because my love is near.”

Christian collapsed onto the floor.

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"I Love Paris in the Springtime", Nat King Cole (Cole Porter)

 

 

Chapter Two

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