| |
He moved on and took photos of the houses surrounding the park, of black wrought-iron balconies flowing with red geraniums that cascaded against the white walls of Paris. He captured the sculpted details on the steeple of a church. He met up with Ji, who took a shot of a candy seller’s stall. The huge table was spread with bins of different colored candy.
Great, I wouldn’t have seen that shot, Philippe thought, snapping two from different angles himself.
After two hours, the group found an Irish pub and parked themselves under an awning. Philippe left because beer was not possible and a soda would cost too much, in both euros and calories. Diet soda was rare in Paris cafés. Besides, there was music blaring from the loudspeakers, and it would be hard to talk. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk—he wanted to warn people that everything wasn’t jolly good, let’s all have another beer, that there was a war between good and evil going on, and the front lines went straight through their own hearts. But they didn’t want to hear it. So he waved goodbye to the leader and Ji and headed for the Metro.
He sat in the rumbling train and prayed for Meredith. A Muslim family got on and sat across from him, the wife wrapped in scarves and encased in robes. As the train started to move again, the father kissed the bare toes of his little girl in the stroller. She waved her arms in delight. Meredith used to be like that, in my care, under my protection, Philippe thought. I kissed her toes, too.
He was three stops from home when he began to reflect on the photography group. He felt thankful for the nice day and felt a reprieve from worry about Meredith. What great people to be with, so helpful about my camera, and nice people in this Metro car, too. You know what? These are the only people I have in the whole world right now. Not Elodie, not Meredith, just these dear folks.
I bless this Muslim family in front of me, this infant girl in a stroller—were they going to smother that girl in scarves, too, just like her mother, when she got to what age? Twelve or so—but at least it was modest—a little too modest?—but I bless them and I wish a strong voice for that girl, to get through all the fabric that will bind her, and I bless everyone on this train.
The train is humming, I feel a warmth, a golden honey energy, it’s enough to make everyone happy, isn’t it, they’re all happy, and it’s enough to make this train run, it’s God, he makes the trains run, he’s the source. I can see sparks flying where the wheels meet the track, not the harsh pointy kind that shower down and disappear but the gentle kind, the kind that hover and linger over the steel, they shimmer and float like fairly lights, they bless the train and make it go faster. So much joyful energy around, let’s use it to make this train really go...The train feels like it’s flying, it’s running so smooth, God is here...
