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Philippe walked into his church’s sanctuary, a cave, a cellar, converted into an intimate theater. It had been carved out of Paris soil in the Sixth arrondissement, not far from the Seine, in the 1500s. Theater lights were attached to the arched stone ceiling and stone walls. Short rows of black seats descended in 12 ranks to the small stage.
He set up the projector for the words of the songs, and the screen on which they would be displayed. Elodie covered a small table with a white cloth and arranged a simple, royal blue runner. She set out a crusty, round loaf of bread, and opened the wine for communion.
That done, they went up two flights of pink marble steps to the theater’s lobby. People began to come in and have small cups of the coffee Elodie had made, and to eat the madeleines and treats provided. As more people walked in, the noise from conversations increased and echoed in the lobby, which was walled and floored in pink marble. Only posters from past theater productions that hung on the walls softened the noise level.
A rather chunky woman in what Philippe guessed was her late fifties approached him and Elodie.
“Hi, I’m Naomi. Happy to be here.”
Exuding “hail friend, well met.” Obviously American.
“Hi, I’m Philippe, and this is my wife, Elodie.”
The woman’s face went blank.
“I’m sorry, what’s that name again?”
“It’s Melodie without the ‘M’,” he said.
The woman’s face brightened. “What a pretty name!”
Once you get the hang of it, yes. Now it was time to ask the question every expat seemed to ask of the other.
“What brings you to Paris?”
“I’m on a writing sabbatical.” Her long earrings brushed her shoulders. They were teal-and-blue peacock feathers, the ends trimmed with teal beads. Philippe wished he’d brought a pair of pliers. He’d lop them off at half their length. More age appropriate for Naomi. He didn’t want to be mean like this, but he was so out of sorts. He wished her a good Sunday and turned to greet the next person.
An American millenial approached Philippe, and he could hardly stifle an inward groan. She fancied herself an intellectual, Philippe guessed, and loved to tell him what she was thinking about.
This time she wanted to offer gems about meditation.
“And I just think it’s really helpful,” she said. “I think I’m just really rushed, you know? But I like, just, just like to be really present, um, you know.”
Please say “um” and “just” and “you know” one more time, Philippe thought. Just for me.
“And just the temptation and just the, um, awareness, just being really wonderful, you know, um, like you don’t really...and like totally, just um awesome.”
Philippe said, “Awesome,” smiled, asked God to keep her away from him for at least two weeks, and escaped. Wow, he thought, I’m so grumpy. I’d better watch my tongue.
It was time to ring the small chime that signaled the end of coffee hour. Philippe descended to the cave, people followed. The musicians struck up the first song, and the service began.
As he gave his sermon, Philippe looked out, seeking faces, but they were hard to see because the theater’s lights were in his eyes. He mostly saw glints of the exit signs bouncing off of people’s eyewear.
He knew that somewhere in the rows of seats was a visual artist from China, in Paris on an artist’s visa (who but the French?) who spoke French with such a heavy accent that he had trouble talking with her. He tended to avoid her, but not without a twinge of guilt.
Another regular was a young man who wanted to go to seminary, but who for now made a living translating between English and French for the Madagascar embassy. Philippe wanted to tell him that being a pastor was a noble calling, but it tested every assumption one ever made about God and people and life and oneself. Another parishioner was a sweet soul from New Caledonia, a former French penal colony in the South Pacific. She worked with the elderly, cooking and cleaning their homes. He wanted very much to say things that would hearten these folks for their coming week.
The air in the cave felt clammy, and Philippe thought of the Seine, flowing relentlessly less than two hundred meters away. Five hundred years ago, it had flowed right next to this spot on Rue de Nesle. There used to be a tower marking land’s end on the corner of this street. You could see the tower in a miniaturized model of the area as it was back then if you went to the Musée Carnivalet.
The river was now sweeping along, close, held in its banks by stones like the ones lining the ceiling and walls of this cave. I hope it holds together, Philippe thought. Just until Meredith comes back.
