He sat in his garret, the studio that had a great view of the white domes of Sacre Coeur. The shutters had been removed for the party and the stark white dome dominated his view. He did not see it as his view was confined to the pages he held in his hand. As he wrote poetry, there were columns and short lines that seemed to be marching down the page. He realized the paper he held was anachronistic and that there were electronic armies on the march as he sat reading. They were marching everywhere and always. But what and who would they conquer, if they even had that as a desire. There was no question that he was mad but he gave good parties.
His house guests came in the large room under the skylights and it was suddenly a much smaller space. He looked up from his work and smiled.
The older man Andre asked in Russian, “How are you doing? Is your work going well? Do you have more to do?”
He answered, “it is going well. I have enough done that I may finish for the day. Shall we go have Breakfast?”
Andre looked at his younger accomplice who was called Illyas, with a questioning look and the young man said, “Why not. You will have to order for us though because we don’t speak French.”
Russell replied in Russian slang, “No problem!”
They got their coats as the fall made the streets a little cool and Russell put on a scarf in the French fashion as if he had forgotten what it was like in Kazakhstan where a fall day could be quite chilly or just as easily pleasantly cool as are fall days in Paris. Andre, who was a diplomat, thought to himself that Russell might have an apartment in Paris but he dressed a little like a bum. Neither of the Kazakh guests wore their scarves for the walk down to the café.
Russell Ragsdale needs an apartment in Montmartre and kindly asks neither for donations nor gifts but just that you will buy his Book of Aliases at some e-book retailer of your choice. Thanks. Now keep your eyes open for further installments of this story which should be appearing here soon.