A man unsteadily stands to his feet in plain view of the great cathedral, Her one face gracious like the gates of heaven and Her other, the pointed spears of hell. The last gray shadow of the night's fire works have already faded from the sky. In the disorienting haze of inebriation he ponders the minute details: why is the ground wet? where did the ash on his breast pocket come from? He registers with oscillating clarity the noises of the night -- the breaking of a wine bottle, the rise and fall of a celebratory yelp, the clipped steps of a lady's heel, the crackle of the burning tip of his cigarette. Then he passes through the arterial streets of Ile-Saint-Louis to cross over the river Seine; he treads the island to get that much closer to his destination. It is here on the right bank that he is confronted by the one in the enamel mask, a wispy imposter with a pale face. Limerence.
And, he was so close. Tossing the butt of his cigarette into the gutter, our protagonist looks down and away. With a newfound focus his gait becomes surer, and so, quicker. Turning at rue Saint-Paul he marches down Charles V. A four story apartment building with too many eyes and a large arched mouth approaches in the night. The man unlocks the heavy wooden door. Its hinges creak and edges scrape at the floor as he pushes against the carved surface. A marquee of words unravel across his head as he navigates a familiar darkness:
A light shines past this dark corner
jingling keys, one pair of steps
up a flight, maybe two
comfort ember burn midair
as another welcomed home
yet you and i are strangers;
we are both in solitude.
Giddy, he climbs the staircase laid with deep green carpet. A hand glides over the spiraling banister. At the second floor landing his self amusement is cut short by a collection of noises at the base of the building. Below the window in front of the gate, a cluster of limbs, naked legs and arms akimbo, beat at the door. The man sees several nondescript faces with the insides of their wailing mouths blackened out. He braces against the glass in horror as the monstrosity clamors not thirty feet from where he stands. He looks across into the adjacent building. There hovers tauntingly the mask. Fiercely, eyes widening, the man presses a forefinger to his lips. The lower gate caves in and unknown pairs of feet storm the hallway, trampling over his delicate trail of footprints. As the collection of voices wind up he lifts the window and jumps feet first to the ground.
A talus bone fractures; he gains a limp. He detours back to the Seine, lifeblood of the city. With every step the pain increases and the pain mirrors his growing desperation. At Pont de Sully, an unremarkable bridge, he stumbles down the concrete stairs onto the quay and collapses. When he turns a head to look behind him, there at the top of his long tumble stands that damned Limerence. At this point he waits with a sullen face, mutely beckoning the specter to approach. It descends slowly then lingers over him once more. The man leaps up and grabs it by the neck and hauls it over the parapet into the river. He watches, exhausted, as it sinks to its death. In that moment sounds of the night turn to those of dawn -- the gentle coo of a waking pigeon, the rhythmic breaking of water against the piers, the slowing heartbeat pulsing in his ear, the scraping and ignition of a match as he lights another cigarette. In that moment, instead of triumph the man feels a profound loss.
He sleeps.
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