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MONSIEUR PARISCOPE & FRESCOES: FLORENCE, DECEMBER 1989 (two poems by Kate Meyer)

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MONSIEUR PARISCOPE

In my twenties, long before satnavs
invaded the City of Light, I roamed 
Paris under the watchful guidance of
my bachelor-companion, Monsieur 
Pariscope. He was a compact listings 
magazine, costing a few francs at the
 newsstand, but worth his weight in gold.
He was a dapper, glossy-coated flaneur, 
who chaperoned me with Haussmann 
expertise, to the distant ends of every 
Metro line. We stepped out from my 
borrowed flat in the Marais, under 
the Renaissance arches of the Place
des Vosges and the formalities of 
the Hotel de Sully, into the squalid
modernities of far-flung banlieu
where a cathedral lurks amongst 
market debris. He was cultured and
eclectic in his tastes. He showed me
the cluttered dreams of Redon’s 
artistic workshop, but was was not 
impressed by the dangling guts of 
the Centre Pompidou. He was tired 
after the long march we took around 
Versailles. He coveted the tapestries
and Visigothic crowns with their 
rough cut gems in the Musee de Cluny.
He attended organ recitals in the 
Madeleine and took cheap seats at 
the Bastille opera, and even went to 
the cinema every day for a whole 
week. He made my solitary days of 
scholarship in the Bibliotheque 
Nationale bearable, helping me 
plan our outings. He gave me a 
sense of confidence as I explored
his city. He only spoke to me in
French, so my accent improved 
under his tutelage so that even 
Parisians sometimes asked me for 
directions and thought I was allemande, 
not anglaise. He shielded me from 
beggars on the Metro. He glared at 
mecs who tried to chat me up in bistros,
cafes or banged on phone-boxes as I 
called home in tears. He taught me how 
to be streetwise and give the finger to
 impatient drivers on the free-for-all of 
zebra crossings. We gazed at the Ile de 
la Cite from the prow-like park of the 
Jardin du Vert-Galant, as we ate cakes 
with greedy concentration. He stays with 
me, though our Paris is long-gone, his suit 
dove grey like the late-spring sky, his
 gold-topped cane glinting with past recall, 
like the roof of the Grand Palais.

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