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After church, Philippe went to a photography group he’d discovered online. The afternoon was beautiful—a breeze, sun, and occasional relief from the sun when thick Paris clouds blew over. The leader was a blonde girl in her twenties who had everybody stand in a circle outside Temple Metro station and introduce themselves.
A young woman emerged from the Metro and joined the circle. She looked a bit like Meredith. She wore short-shorts and a white lacy tank top with a neckline so deeply scooped that a substantial portion of her bosom and her see-through lacy bra showed.
He wrested his eyes away. Mon dieu! Here’s yet another one who didn’t get the memo about modesty. And she’d probably set a trend. Young women dressed like this all over the city—what havoc.
He hoped Meredith wouldn’t follow the trend. But she probably would...he had failed to instill...
“Okay, we’ll go to the park first,” the leader said, “and figure it out from there. Any questions?”
Philippe raised his hand. “Can anyone show me how to change the light settings on this camera?” He had looked in the handbook, but there’d been no information.
“I can help you,” the half-naked young woman said sweetly.
“We’ll figure it out,” a tall Asian guy with the biggest camera said with a friendly grin.
“Thanks.”
Everyone but Philippe had big cameras with huge lenses. He didn’t care. He was here to see what these photographers took shots of so he could improve his own eye. He was also here to relax, to wind down after church, which still had an element of performance for him. How could it not? All eyes were on him for half an hour, forty minutes if he went too long. Thank God Protestants expected a sermon longer than seven minutes. Short was even more work. Next sermon: a review of verses on modesty. No, that’s not the most urgent topic...
Philippe spotted an interesting architectural detail high above the street, under the eaves of a building. With his camera, he zoomed in. Oh, it’s a naked woman. Ha! That sounded strange. It’s a statue of a naked woman. Of course, Paris, you need one under the eaves of every building, not just this one. And on every easel in every gallery.
Well, who was he? An arbiter of art, architecture, and fashion? I’ll take a picture—why’d I do that?—and let go of that train of thought.
The young woman dodged ahead of him as the group ambled to a nearby park. He tried to look somewhere else. He looked across the street, and there was a patisserie, full of sugar he couldn’t eat. He looked back. Wow, look at that bottom move! he thought. He yanked his gaze away to look at something else.
The leader turned to them at the entrance, marked by a frilly wrought iron gate.
“It’s against the law in France to photograph children not your own, so keep that in mind,” she said. “There’s plenty to shoot here, though.”
They ambled into the park. Philippe noticed that its paths were paved the usual Parisian way, with hard-packed sand and fine gravel. A child chased a football, and each step raised a cloud of dust. If the air pollution didn’t get him, Philippe mused, or the cigarette smoke from the multitude of French smokers, then the dust in the parks would. Or maybe his demise would be all the minerals in the tapwater, the calcaire known to cause kidney stones. Heat water in a brand new pot and watch a white rime of calcium stick to the sides. Living in Paris had some health risks.
The Asian guy stood just inside the park, peering around him, so Philippe asked him about the settings on his little look-and-shoot. The Asian guy showed him what to do, speaking in perfect French. They formed a bit of a bond as they huddled over the tiny camera and poked at its settings. Philippe could not have concentrated with that young woman’s bosom in front of him, rising and falling with every breath. Thank God for Asian guys with cameras.
They paired up for a while. His name was Ji, and he was of Korean heritage, born in Paris. They strolled the dusty park paths, chatting amicably for a while, firing off shots. They turned a corner, and Ji whipped his camera to his eye and clicked. Philippe looked to find the opportunity Ji had spotted.
A three-piece rock band was setting up in a corner of the park. The tall male guitar player was wearing a schoolgirl’s red plaid jumper that fell to mid-thigh, black socks to the knee, and red high-top Keds. His skinny thighs between the socks and the jumper were white and hairy. He had a white Zorro eyemask painted onto the upper half of his face, and smeary red lipstick on his lips. It was noteworthy.
Philippe had nowhere near Ji’s zoom power on his little camera, so he strolled closer. The drummer played a riff, which inspired the guitar player to chime in, and his electric notes pierced the hum of people chatting in the park. The guitarist turned to look at his drummer and nodded happily.
Philippe lifted his camera, feeling guilty for singling this guy out, but how could he not? This guy expected it anyway. As he focused, the guitar player turned back to him, smiling right at him. Philippe smiled back, a little worried for the guy—where was this mode of dress going to lead? Or had already led? Or was it just part of the act?—and took a few shots. The musician never stopped moving, bobbing his head, bobbing his guitar’s head. These shots would be blurry.
Ji came up next to him. “Pretty interesting, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes, but I’m having trouble capturing it,” Philippe replied. He waved his little camera in the air. “But what can you expect for eighty euros?” and he laughed.
“Shame on you!” Ji said with a smile as he patted his long zoom lens. The bond they’d forged so quickly did support Ji’s making that statement, Philippe thought. He laughed at himself, too, but he was also thinking, if you don’t have a thousand euros for a camera and fancy lenses, you just don’t.
Ji moved on as Philippe looked back at the guitar player. God loved this guy dearly, no matter what outfit he wore. Cross-dressing for a rock concert wasn’t so bad. What else had this guy been up to? Same stuff I did...
The guitar player hit another crazy riff, and Philippe looked at the man’s hairy white thighs. I hope this guy will be in heaven, he thought. We need people like him. It would add to the fun.
