Copyright Richard.Andrew.Patterson. September 4, 1996

The world is divided into two types of people. Those who live within Paris and those who live outside it. I Felix Perrault class myself within the former, and being an egoist I believe that I am amongst the lucky. It stormed the night that I was born. The city was blacked out for two hours. My mother, God rest her soul, told me that from her bed she could see the Parisian skyline. All was darkness, the rooftops barely visible against the angry sky. I now understand that the Paris that heard my first infant cries was not the one we know now. Devoid of harsh neon and halogen, bathed in a timeless darkness. It was the Paris of old. The Paris of Rousseau and Voltair, of Degas and Manet. Every now and then a sheet of thunder bared Notre Dame in a ghostly light.

I am afraid I have gotten carried away. I must tell you now that as well as an egoist I am an incurable romanticist, but this is not meant to be a tale about myself. I wish instead to tell about Paris. Therefore I shall briefly describe the next twenty four years of my life. My mother barely knew my father and I not at all. My blessed mother died of a chest infection before I had turned thirteen. I spent the next four years being bartered and swapped amongst dubious relations before escaping at seventeen. The parks and bridges were my lodgings for a year. During this time I was forced to commit acts that would make De Sade shy at being my bedfellow. Eventually I gathered enough provisions to hire a small loft. A derelict artists studio in which I call my home. In my recent years a grew envious of other people my age. Those whom life had smiled at and given them an opportunity to study at such institutions as the College de France or the Sorbonne. But it occurred to me that what they learn in these colleges was only half of life. The fruit which they eat from the tree of knowledge tastes sweet to them for they can make no comparisons. I on the other hand have often found my fruit to be bitter and thus find myself appreciating sweetness when it is before me. I now say with pride that my university is the ancient streets, my text books are worn paperbacks snatched from market stalls. I have substituted Lectures for the old con artists who hustle among chessboards near the church of St. Germain. Of course such leisure time is not free. My loft must be paid, for it now holds my growing collection of paperbacks. Writers such as Camus, and Colette sit side by side upon makeshift shelves with Satre and Miller. And even a struggling student must be fed and clothed. There are those, the police for example, who call me a thief. But I am no petty criminal. The laws I follow are fixed. I have my honour. Besides, better a thief than turning tricks like gigolo or scrubbing pots for paupers criminal wages in some fat pigs restaurant. Others of my breed would show mock disdain at being called a thief, "Oh no monsieur!" They would plead. "I am merely a procurer of used items." Or they would tell you that they steal only from the rich like some English Robin Hood, but I am very select on whom I prey. For I Felix Perrault steal only from the beautiful.

I seek the ultimate aesthetic experience. I am governed by the search of beauty alone. It is in my thinking that the fullest expression of art, grace and the erotic is in that of a woman. The last thing God is said to have created is the woman. Artists who create what they know to be their greatest work find that they can paint no more. The female form was the last thing to be touched by the hands of God, it is she who remains as his greatest legacy.

The French mistress, is a national institution. Their attainment and entertainment is a historic pastime. Enshrined in the stories of varied authors. The playthings of diplomats and the obsession of ageing husbands. They receive the hatred of spurned wives and the praise of entranced lovers. But, unlike the multitude. I feel that alone in my understanding of them. If the mistress has a male counterpart it is in myself. For we both struggle for a better life. The mistress has dreams of attaining true love. I wish true insight. They know the poverty of a loveless passion. I also know poverty. They are kept as playthings by the rich and shallow. The cruel barbs of social injustice also makes me a kept thing. Some of these women live in my building. I often hear music playing below from their small yet cluttered apartments. These mistresses and I both have dreams. They to find a man who will love them as they are and I to find a world which will accept me for what I am.

Sometimes people can inhabit the same place and time but be separated by goals so vastly different that they can never meet. This is how it is with the women from whom I steal. I seek life's answers from dusty books and they seek answers from life's pain. Compared to their lives of rejection and insecurity mine is safe and cowardly in comparison this is why I respect these mistresses. I do not pretend that I, a poor thief am worthy of their love but I can also say with all honesty that neither are their lovers. The rich men with families upon the Grand Boulevards make their weekly trip to our part of the city with expensive cigars and cheap conversation. They also bring with them tokens of fickle friendship to adorn their pets. I often see these same women in the market places and bakeries. In the theatre or parks. Adorned with jewels which to me cry sacrilege.

That is the right word, sacrilege. The wealthy business men betray their barbarity with such gifts. These jewels of ruby and gold appear cheap and gaudy when compared to the exquisite flesh which they hide. Such finery of metal and stone serve only to create a prison upon these tender bodies. Their slender necks barricaded by necklaces. Pale bosoms, beneath in which a shy heart beats, marred with a gaudy pendent. Flaxen hair crying to be set free instead bent and tied with long golden pins. Each women is made a personal Bastille. A testament to the blindness of their lovers. I see many of these women wear their jewels as if they are chains. No doubt pressed upon them by men who will give them all they would ask, accept for acceptance. It is these woman whom I have the honour of liberating. As a French patriot I have taken it upon myself as my moral responsibility to free what is beautiful. A thief with morals. You may well ask, but beauty must have power over Man and only to beauty will I surrender myself.

Forgive me reader. Once more I became carried away. Let me return to the purpose of which I write. I did claim to be some monk who has not sinned. It is for my very sins that I put pen to paper. May my tales of Paris act as a penance. Neither do I claim originality. These stories are as much yours as my own. They are the tales of Paris, I merely have the privilege to relay them to you.

Reader, It may seem a thing of irony for my first tale to be about a cemetery. A place of death may seem a strange place to start upon my tales of life, but since it is the freshest in my mind's eye. I must surrender more to images than to logic. The cemetery I speak of is the Pere Lachaise. The largest and most famous necropolis in France. Within its high fence of wrought iron lie the bodies of Oscar Wilde, Victor Hugo, Proust, Balzac and of course such French dignitaries as Sarah Bernhardt and Chopin. Yet, in a certain part of this vast cemetery rests the most noble of figure of recent times. The story of this silent hero was told to me just two months previously. It was a wet spring night in the cafe de Flore in which one of my lecturers of life, a certain Monsieur Ladouceur, spoke with me. Having reached his eighty third year I regarded him as my most senior teacher. His trembling hands held a rolled cigarette, which traced strange patterns in the smoky air as he gestured in time with his words.

Monsieur Ladouceur was now an old man for so long he told me he could not remember what it was like to be young. He claimed to take comfort in his ignorance. Even twenty years ago he was old. Twenty years, a lifetime for myself, a moment for Ladouceur. Back then Paris was already a modern city. Yet some parts had escaped the relentless tide of the new order. The courtyard was such a place. The courtyard was the forgotten center of the Madeleine shopping district, which had sprung up, devouring the old refineries, which had been built on what was then the outskirts of the city. Neglected by developers the apartments were a cheap fair and thus housed the less respectable Parisian. It was an island of poverty encircled by the shops and restaurants of the nouveau-rich. Ladouceur was one of the inhabitants of this singularity of space. Its small community boasted. prostitutes, illegal immigrants, anarchists and the circle of old thieves who would meet to play cards.

Ladouceur was part of this circle. Its members were all retired though not through choice. By now their reflexes had succumbed to the frailties of age, they could no more pick their noses let alone a pocket. The circle was small but prestigious club with a strict code of membership, its playing table was only open to any thief that had mastered the combination of luck and cunning to exist into old age. Ladouceur's gaming partners included Claude who almost completely deaf was only allowed to play because it was he who brought the deck. Danton who at fifty-three was the youngest of the lot and the Russian. Why he was called the Russian, Ladouceur did not know. His face was vaguely oriental yet so scarred his origins were obscured. He claimed to be a stone mason by trade but his wounds told a different story. His face and arms were criss-crossed with knife marks from years of bar-room brawls turned deadly. Only one eye shone through a mop of greying tangled hair. His other was clouded over with a cataract. His dark arms displayed a profusion of tattoos. Including, upon his upper right hand, an image of a faded crooked crucifix upon which an equally faded Jesus lay dying. When asked why Jesus had no mouth and the cross was crooked he would answer that the tattooist must have been more drunk than he was at the time. Then he would give a low laugh. It was the only time he ever laughed. None the less, the Russian was accepted as part of the circle, with him they had four players and the circle was complete. Then there was the cat.

Leonardo was the cat's name. Its apparent air of pedigree was betrayed by fine flecks of white, which lay upon its coat of dark charcoal grey. A seemingly independent cat its only badge of domesticity was that of a collar. It was Leonardo's collar that set it aside from the other tomcats. For it was embellished with diamonds. These diamonds were not fakes. They sparkled and cut as real diamonds for that is what they were. An alley cat wearing diamonds amongst thieves? "Preposterous!" I hear you reply. How can a such a cat slink about their legs, pounce at leaves upon the flagstones before their little table unmolested as all the while a dozen sparks shone from its neck. What prevented them from taking action, waiting for a moment when even these old men could nab the cat and its treasure? What prevented them? The answer my friend is in one word, or to be more exact one name. Madam Clairon.

Madam Clairon lived on the second floor. A small ramshackle room wedged between other ramshackle rooms. It was she whom professed ownership of Leonardo. It was Madam Clairon who fed Leonardo, and it was Madam Clairon who had placed the diamond collar upon its slender neck. The form of Madam Clairon had graced the courtyard for over sixteen years. She claimed to be a dancer in her youth. She wore a faded dancer's scarf of crimson chiffon. She claimed it matched the red of her hair but its fiery brilliance had faded into soft pastels. A strong foundation of make-up served to somewhat mask her sagging features. Strong marks of blush, thick eyeliner and a thin smear of lipstick. Her green eyes contained the only vestiges of youth. They sparkled with a penetrating gaze and suggested strange origins and gypsy blood. It was her eyes the thieves feared. A thief's world is one of abstract laws a loose web of obligations and rituals which keep the community at peace. A thief foolish enough to trespass these laws is considered a doomed man. Every thief has a superstitious heart. They fear the little things which you might scoff at. The old thieves within the courtyard of Madeleine feared the eyes of Madam Clairon. To each and every player her gypsy heritage expressed in her searching keen gaze was unquestioned. They had all seen many strange things within the streets and houses of Paris to come to fear the evil eye and the gypsy curses. No one had ever seen the Madam speak a curse but there had been times when her black cat traced a path besides the thieves that the retired gentleman had chanced to glance towards the Madam's balcony to see her leaning over draped in a shawl, she would throw the thieves a daring, knowing look which warned them of dire consequences if the cat or its precious cargo were touched. Although her physical stature had been reduced by the onslaught of age her expression and the way she carried herself suggested an inner reservoir of strength and litheness. The combination of years of dance and hard work.

The Thieves had speculated upon the value of the diamond collar, indeed it took up a large part of the group's conversation. The diamonds were roughly cut but of good quality. It was agreed upon, after some arguing and the spilling of cheap wine on the faded cards, that their value when sold separately would come to a total of three thousand franks. What most of us would deem to be a small fortune and to beggarly thieves to be a high prize for the robbery of one small cat, but of course there was the curse of Madam Clairon.

Three thousand franks. For a cat's collar. Leonardo would nuzzle against the trouser leg of Claude causing to look down and exclaim. "Oh! Look who pays us a visit. Leonardo, the richest cat in France." Or as it snoozed in the brief sunlight which chanced to make its way down to the flagstones of the ancient courtyard Danton would scratch his beard and mutter. "Look what lies there, twelve nights in the best brothel upon the Boulevard des Capucines, and a good suit." Or as the cat would walk proudly past with a small mouse hanging limp from its jaws. "Ah Leonardo has caught himself a meal. Let him eat well while we starve. He wears enough jewellery to feed us all through winter." But despite there jealous claims the small band of thieves had no serious intention of defying Madam Clairon, except for the Russian. Without even looking towards the cat the Russian would swear to himself as he fingered his cards with greasy fingers. "Shit layout. One night both the cat and his cunning mistress will find themselves dead and then the diamonds shall be mine, curse or no curse."

The other players including Ladouceur had little doubt that if anyone would dare defy Madam Clairon it would be the Russian. His manner told of contempt for society. His motions were slow and deliberate. The Russian showed no sign of fear, maybe he felt that his soul was already dammed. Still, he did nothing, perhaps to bide his time.

Soon the warm autumn nights grew colder with the coming of a winter which promised to be both harsh and bitter. The small circle met less and less often to play their game. The brief window of sunlight decided to visit for shorter and shorter periods. When the game was played it was forced indoors into the large but bare apartment of Monsieur Ladouceur. From the fogged up tiny kitchen window where they played, the cat could be seen across the courtyard sleeping at the sill of Madam Clarion's. The only signs of the Madam was the sweet strains of operatic music which wafted across the courtyard from an old scratched record. At one point Claude leant forwards with a groan to throw some more wasted matches into the betting pile and asked the Russian. "Leonardo is locked up and hidden away my Russian friend, perhaps next summer your chance may come again. A pity you must wait. Do you not think?" The Russian did not reply. He merely shuffled his cards and his eyes held a vacant expression.

As fate would have it there was no need for summer. For two months later in the month of December. Madam Clairon was found dead.

Her death was quiet and sad. She had died in her sleep. Besides her bed a small transistor radio was found still playing old French melodies, distorted by static and the ripped speaker from its small case. Her cold body was discovered by a washerwoman. The cat was nowhere to be found.

None of the thieves believed that the Russian had any play in her death yet they knew that now with the Death of Madam Clairon and the eternal closing of her eyes of eerie green nothing stood in the way between the Russian and the cat.

Dead people have a habit, most annoying to Landlords, of not paying their rent. So it was not surprising that the Landlord to these slum apartments A young gentleman by the name of Monsieur Bernier was quick to dispose of the old woman's belongings. With a rented van he drove into the courtyard and called out to anyone who would be willing for a small wage to move Madams Clairon's belongings into the van. Monsieur Bernier was most surprised to find that the application for removalist came in the form of four elderly French gentlemen

None of the thieves had been the Madams apartment and it was with some trepidation that they turned the key given to them by the Landlord and stepped into her narrow hall. It seemed that Madam Clairon's claim to be a dancer was true, upon the walls of her three room affair were fixed faded black and white posters proclaiming extraordinary shows from the Theatre of the Palais Royal and the Colombier. A large photo portrait of Madam Clairon wearing a tutu and the vigour of youth hung on her fridge. The image was taken of her stretching besides a large mirrored wall which the thieves guessed to be a dance studio. The Madam's red hair was made colourless in the photograph but her keen eyes could be seen shining from an agile and supply body. To the thieves the rooms held an uncomfortable strangeness. They held a woman's smell of old lavender and perfumes. It was the Russian who broke the spell by gripping the fridge with large wrinkled hands as he began to drag it from its recess. The other thieves did the same, opening cupboards and dragging back the sofa. A woman, it was reasoned, who could afford to buy a collar for her cat worth three thousand francs must have a cache hidden somewhere.

Four hours later, the search was proved fruitless. "The woman must be mad!" Claude exclaimed with a wheeze as he slumped upon her faded pink couch. "She must be as poor as us, yet, she buys diamonds for a cat." Ladouceur nodded. "And where is our furry friend. Is he gone, vanished like some genie of old.?" "Nonsense" The Russian broke in gruffly. "The cat is around, and I shall find him. No animal makes me to be a fool."

Soon the van was full of the Madam's belongings and the Landlord paid them their meagre wages. The old men their faces filmy with sweat made him uncomfortable with their silence and strangely startled expressions. He was thankful that he could now leave the courtyard. One of his less impressive real estate projects. Besides he had found the perfect gift for his eight year old daughter's birthday. A small black cat with a fake diamond collar.

As the Landlord backed out down the driveway of the courtyard the four thieves stood stunned. Leonardo and the diamond collar sat coiled on the dashboard of the van whilst the Monsieur Bernier gave a nervous wave goodbye. The first flakes of snow began to settle upon their slumped shoulders. "It's starting to snow." Said Danton. The Russian wrapped his arms about his dirty body and turned away. "Bugger the snow." Was his reply.

If the Thieves courtyard was an island of poverty that they had been washed up upon, then the residence of Monsieur Bernier and his wife and daughter was a sea of tranquillity in comparison. Their apartment was a statement in quiet excess. Large with central heating it boasted three levels complete with marble stairways and private elevator. Monsieur Bernier's wife was a freelance interior designer and her tastes in rococo and Louis the IV gilded furniture was reflected in the contents of their home. Their daughter was called Marie and was an only child. Her upbringing was left to a Spanish governess. Her father Monsieur Bernier had risen rapidly in the world of real estate. His knack for purchasing low rental accommodation and raising their living standards along with the rent meant it was a lucrative enterprise. Certain areas of land, such as the courtyard were his bane. They proved both hard to sell or refurbish. With both Monsieur Bernier's income and his wife's they had moved into the new building. Their daughter Marie was in rapture. For some time now Marie had desired a cat. Her father felt that their old apartment was too small for a pet but now with their new abode he had relented to her childish charm.

Monsieur's Bernier's gift was met with a profusion of gaiety and gratitude from his daughter. The young Marie was delighted to finally own her own living cat. Her large playroom was lined with an assortment of soft toy cats and kittens. small statues of Siamese, Russian blues, tabbies and yellow tiger. "Oh what a beautiful cat father" his daughter cooed as she embraced Leonardo. "What is his name?" "It's name? Why you must decide Marie. It is after all your cat." "Yes it is. I shall call it Sooty." "But don't you have a cat called Sooty already?" Bernier offered pointing to a large stuffed woollen cat with glass eyes. "Yes I do father. That cat is Sooty the First and this one will be Sooty the Second." Marie carried Leonardo to her low shelf and placed him besides her collection of toy felines. With the cat comfortably wedged between Sooty the First and a small wooden kitten. She stood back and clapped her hands. "A very real cat for my own."

The Pere Lachaise cemetery holds over four thousand graves. For over two centuries the dead have been interned here. Visitors flock from far and wide to the memorials of playwrights, politicians and artists. Their grand monuments proclaim glories everlasting. But few of the visitors make their way beyond the tombs and hedges to the graves of the city's paupers. Here there are few trees, only some stunted cypresses dot the stony field. They give little shelter from the winter winds and a thick layer of grimy snow blankets the ground undisturbed by mourners. Rows of simple iron crosses signify the final resting place of some beggar, pensioner or drug addict. The bodies are laid here with little formality. A lone grave digger works with a pick to break the frozen soil. Any new cross rusts into sameness with the others and only shines for a little while. On the day that Leonardo was taken to his new home a simple cross stood shining. Stamped upon the cheap metal was the name Madam Jeannine Clairon. The only date was the year she died.

Danton and Claude sat smoking with Ladouceur in his apartment. There had meant to be a game today, but the Russian was unaccounted for. The frosted windows shook from an icy wind. The three men made small talk, but each wondered over the whereabouts of their fourth player. Since the cat had been taken away the Russian had become reclusive. He was often seen leaving early in the morning trampling snow with his solid boots as he made his way down the covered drive that exited the courtyard. Danton said that he had sometimes seen the Russian sitting inside the dry cleaners, opposite the Landlords apartment, munching on a sandwich which he held within his hand depicting the crooked Jesus. All three men admired the Russian's patience. He had waited for the old woman to die and now he waited once again for an avenue of opportunity in which the cat could be his.

Inside Monsieur Bernier's apartment. Protected from the cold and winter snows Leonardo lay besides an open fireplace with the little girl. Marie had lavished as much care on Leonardo as she did over all her other cats. As it was a weekday her parents were not home and only her Spanish governess remained. The girl slept soundly an arm extended over the cat's body. Downstairs her governess was speaking sternly to an elderly man who was asking to wash the apartment windows for a few franks. The governess with some difficulty sent him away. It was strange to see a beggar be so willing to work yet she could imagine the trouble if she let him in. Besides, what sort of man could receive so many scars.

The weeks passed. Leonardo lived with the Berniers as quietly as the sixteen other toy cats. Marie's father and mother agreed that the cat was good for the girl. It was true that sometimes she neglected to feed it or change its tray. But with so many beautiful things one could forgive her. Finally it was up to the maid that came weekly to change the litter and the governess to feed it. Sooty the Second seemed to be settling in quite well. The Russian had returned to the playing table. He was more moody than usual but at least the game could continue. Only now and then was the three thousand Frank cat mentioned. Never by the Russian. They all wondered how the cat was fairing. Better than themselves they suspected.

A night came in this winter in which the wind, seemingly relentless, ceased. A fine mist of snow fell tenderly over the city. The moon was full and brought to the white rooftops and street-scape a subtly bluish sheen. Matilda the governess had left the laundry window open to air the weekly washing and faint tendrils of moonlight traced the empty wicker basket upon the tiled floor. Leonardo, recently renamed as Sooty the second, lay at the foot of the bed of Marie. The little girl slept soundly yet the cat was wide awake. More silently as a shadow, its diamond collar glistening in the darkness, the cat slowly rose from the silk sheets and leapt down to the floor. It walked towards the open door to her room, it paused in its movement and looked behind towards the warm bed in which Marie slept. Then continued onwards to the laundry. It sprung up to the sill of the open window and looked down upon the capital. Outside all was deathly still. snowflakes gently traced their way downwards to the street below. The night was late and the city seemed devoid of life. The cat crouched upon the sill for a little while seeming to be in deep contemplation. It then bounded from the sill, leaping downwards onto the awnings of the street below, and raced along the snow banked sidewalk.

When the distant sun finally rose it brought little warmth to the cemetery. The previous night's stillness had caused an icy cold to penetrate the city. The spruce trees were covered in a hoary frost and stood like frozen sentinels. Nearby were the rows of pauper's graves. All lined with rusted iron crosses. The graves were uniform in size and description, except for one. Lying upon a mound of snow covered earth lay a small black cat wearing a diamond collar. The cat must have laid down sometime during the night his meagre warmth had caused the snow to have momentarily melted before refreezing about its tiny body. Fine flakes of snow had settled upon its carcass to become indistinguishable with the pattern of white flecks upon its coat. Before it stood a cross which bore the name Jeannine Clairon. The stillness of morning was broken by the slow shuffle of heavy boats as a man approached the grave. which held the woman and her cat. The shuffle stopped as a stooped shadow descended upon the cat. A hand clutching a small flick knife was brought to the neck of the cat and its collar was deftly removed. The hand showed the image of a crooked Jesus.

"Ah so the Russian has become a rich man." Claude said to Ladouceur when they met at the corner delicatessen. Ladouceur eyed Claude. "How do you mean." Claude dug into his loose pants for some change. "I think that the Russian got his cat. This morning he had four delivery men bring in a large crate into his apartment. A new television I suppose, perhaps a colour one.

Whatever the Russian bought with his newly gained wealth it was to be a while before the others discovered its nature. The Russian spent the next three weeks in his apartment, only leaving for his meal of a trademark cheap sandwich. When he did leave his apartment his hair and coat would be covered in a fine grey dust. "Perhaps he is renovating." Ladouceur suggested. "Yes maybe a spa" Danton replied with laughter.

In the rear of the Pere Lachaise cemetery lies the pauper's graves. They are mostly unadorned apart from a simple crude cross. All the graves are testaments to forgotten lives. All but that of Madam Clairon. Where once a dying pet lay, now rests a solid granite tomb. Its black smooth sides gleam with defiance against an often cruel world. Resting upon this tomb sits the statue of a cat. Made from the finest Onyx it lies curled contentedly before a tombstone of finest marble and gold inlay. The cat, an exact reproduction of Leonardo, who now lies besides his mistress, has been carved with skilled hands. Hands which have seen more pain then many of us. The Tombstone in graceful lettering reads

Both Claude, Danton and Ladouceur, skilled valuers of anything of worth, all agree that the cost of such a tomb would have come to three thousand franks.

And so my story comes to an end. Why the Russian chose to give for a love which he was not a part of and why a cat would give his life I can not say. My mother once told me that it is the cat that chooses its companion. Since this tale, the circle of thieves has long since disbanded. Ladouceur believes himself to be the last one to be alive. The courtyard was pulled down four years ago to make way for a small supermarket which now stands. Upon the place where the men played their card games, and Leonardo dozed in the sun, sits a hardware section, but if you are ever in Paris and feel the need, like so many others, to visit the great Pere Lachaise cemetery I ask you to walk a bit further to where the graves are not so grand. There you will find a monument to a cat and his mistress. Two kindred spirits who's love for each other touched even the hardest soul.

Copyright Richard.Andrew.Patterson. September 4, 1996.