Friday 19 June 2015

Paul in Paris

Picture him as you will, but when I first met him Paul was maybe twenty three years old, certainly no more. He was wearing a long, black, travel-filled coat and his eyes were full of fever. I had agreed to meet him in the café on the concourse of the Gare du Nord for what I supposed was a courtesy call to please his mother, my sister.

It was a busy time of year for me, September; batches of new students were arriving every week and needed to be supervised. However having missed out on the first twenty and more years of my nephew’s life I felt obliged to go out of my way, but really only for his mother’s sake as I’ve already made clear.
Paul wasn’t difficult to recognise. I scanned the tables on the concourse and as my eyes lit on the tousle-haired presence staring into an empty espresso cup I thought to myself “Goodness you look just like I did at your age”. It was him alright. I went straight over and stood in front of him and he looked up at me. With barely the trace of a smile he mumbled what sounded to me like the word “uncle”. There was no inflection of surprise or question in either his voice or his face, just the unemotional utterance of those two syllables that linked us with an invisible and indissoluble bond.
I bought him another coffee and one for myself, protesting that I hadn’t really time to stop for long. Within ten minutes he had the key to my apartment, the money to get him there on the train and the offer to stay as long as he needed.

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