When the Duchess of Egglestonshire first visited Paris, her name was simply Kate. The sky was the colour of sky, and her heart was free to love whomever it pleased. It chose a rather spirited green bird she had plucked from a cage in the flower market near Notre Dame. She named it Peedlesby, and it sang sweet nothings to her as she strolled through the lilies and the birdseed, headed towards the river.
She knew nothing of the torrid love affair that was about to engulf her, for across the Seine the young American Randolph had only just spied her and fallen hopelessly for her. As she and Peedlesby continued along the Quai de la Corse, they idled next to a bouquiniste. She picked up a plastic-sheathed copy of a Paris Match magazine from a bygone era when women were glamorous, eyeing an old edition of a Tintin bande-dessiné out of the corner of her eye. Peedlesby was interested in neither.
Randolph, he of the romantic heart and excellent vision, followed her on his parallel course on the other side of the water. He had just arrived on Sunday, a week before his semester was to start at the Sorbonne. Though he had fallen in love six times since his plane had touched down, he was sure those other women, none of whom he had even spoken to, were just passing fancies. No, this sparkling jewel across the Seine was to be the love of his life, of this he swore.
Randolph raced across the Pont de Notre Dame and onto the Île de la Cité. As Kate continued along the water, dreamily breathing in the warm, late summer air, she took no notice of the love-struck American now following her. While love lurked behind and thoughts of a return to English pomp were kept locked away in the deep recesses of her mind, she spoke lovingly to her newfound friend Peedlesby.
“I shan’t find a more perfect day, nor a more perfect companion for such a day as you, my beloved Peedlesby. You and I are foreigners in this magical realm – for even if you were born here, I shall ever think of you as from the jungles of Brazil or some other far off land – and as such, we experience the awe and wonder that comes with viewing Paris for the first time, as well as the melancholy knowing we shall never be able to truly call ourselves Parisians, no matter how long we were to stay here. Alas, I shall return to Egglestonshire, and the dull life of the daughter of a duke, in only a few days’ time. You will accompany me, won’t you, Peedlesby?”
The green bird remained perched on her left shoulder but made no real sign that he knew what she was talking about. He was just happy to be out of his cage. But perhaps that is why the two of them had gotten along so well from the beginning. They had both been liberated from their cages and were now free to enjoy the splendours of Paris.
Randolph strayed behind the magnificent young woman and her bird. Though he could not hear what she was saying, he could see she loved the little green bird, and her affection for such only helped to increase his ardour for her. But how do I approach such a fair goddess? With what words could I possibly hope to woo her? I know not but a handful of French mots, and if she speaks not English, how will we communicate?
Love. That is all he needed. He ran, unbound, caring not for anything but to hear one word from the beautiful woman with the bird. Language was not necessary for surely his tongue would find whatever needed to be said, and her ears would receive it as if they had been undeafened for the first time.
Kate heard someone approaching from behind her. She turned, and as if the world had slowed down to a crawl, her eyes took in the splendour that was this beautiful boy, galloping towards her, his heart seemingly three feet in front of the rest of his body. She like the fish to the worm took his pulsing bait before he even had need to open his mouth. She laughed, producing the most beautiful music Randolph had ever heard in his life. He found it was his ears that had become undeafened. He stood smiling and panting in front of her, his baggy pants drooping below the knees. He removed his baseball cap, and stretched his entire six-foot frame in front of her, so that she could take him in, in all his young, male grandeur.
She reached out her right hand and brushed his left shoulder gently, smiling at him as much with her painted brown lips as with her chestnut eyes. “This is Peedlesby,” she said.
Two weeks later, all three of them were dead of bird flu.
She knew nothing of the torrid love affair that was about to engulf her, for across the Seine the young American Randolph had only just spied her and fallen hopelessly for her. As she and Peedlesby continued along the Quai de la Corse, they idled next to a bouquiniste. She picked up a plastic-sheathed copy of a Paris Match magazine from a bygone era when women were glamorous, eyeing an old edition of a Tintin bande-dessiné out of the corner of her eye. Peedlesby was interested in neither.
Randolph, he of the romantic heart and excellent vision, followed her on his parallel course on the other side of the water. He had just arrived on Sunday, a week before his semester was to start at the Sorbonne. Though he had fallen in love six times since his plane had touched down, he was sure those other women, none of whom he had even spoken to, were just passing fancies. No, this sparkling jewel across the Seine was to be the love of his life, of this he swore.
Randolph raced across the Pont de Notre Dame and onto the Île de la Cité. As Kate continued along the water, dreamily breathing in the warm, late summer air, she took no notice of the love-struck American now following her. While love lurked behind and thoughts of a return to English pomp were kept locked away in the deep recesses of her mind, she spoke lovingly to her newfound friend Peedlesby.
“I shan’t find a more perfect day, nor a more perfect companion for such a day as you, my beloved Peedlesby. You and I are foreigners in this magical realm – for even if you were born here, I shall ever think of you as from the jungles of Brazil or some other far off land – and as such, we experience the awe and wonder that comes with viewing Paris for the first time, as well as the melancholy knowing we shall never be able to truly call ourselves Parisians, no matter how long we were to stay here. Alas, I shall return to Egglestonshire, and the dull life of the daughter of a duke, in only a few days’ time. You will accompany me, won’t you, Peedlesby?”
The green bird remained perched on her left shoulder but made no real sign that he knew what she was talking about. He was just happy to be out of his cage. But perhaps that is why the two of them had gotten along so well from the beginning. They had both been liberated from their cages and were now free to enjoy the splendours of Paris.
Randolph strayed behind the magnificent young woman and her bird. Though he could not hear what she was saying, he could see she loved the little green bird, and her affection for such only helped to increase his ardour for her. But how do I approach such a fair goddess? With what words could I possibly hope to woo her? I know not but a handful of French mots, and if she speaks not English, how will we communicate?
Love. That is all he needed. He ran, unbound, caring not for anything but to hear one word from the beautiful woman with the bird. Language was not necessary for surely his tongue would find whatever needed to be said, and her ears would receive it as if they had been undeafened for the first time.
Kate heard someone approaching from behind her. She turned, and as if the world had slowed down to a crawl, her eyes took in the splendour that was this beautiful boy, galloping towards her, his heart seemingly three feet in front of the rest of his body. She like the fish to the worm took his pulsing bait before he even had need to open his mouth. She laughed, producing the most beautiful music Randolph had ever heard in his life. He found it was his ears that had become undeafened. He stood smiling and panting in front of her, his baggy pants drooping below the knees. He removed his baseball cap, and stretched his entire six-foot frame in front of her, so that she could take him in, in all his young, male grandeur.
She reached out her right hand and brushed his left shoulder gently, smiling at him as much with her painted brown lips as with her chestnut eyes. “This is Peedlesby,” she said.
Two weeks later, all three of them were dead of bird flu.
