The Brigade of the Red Berets

Just across the bridge, where the bouquinistes ply their trade in the shadow of the Musée d'Orsay, a haggard old man sits with his back against the lamppost and a crossword puzzle open in his lap. A few yards away, another old man sits facing him, in the same position, also with a crossword puzzle. No one knows if they ever leave their position, as they are there at the end of the day when the booksellers head off for evening drinks, and they are there with the sunrise when the booksellers return groggy. The two men might as well have been statues in the Louvre.

If one were to simply approach either one of them, say Francois for instance (he's the first to encounter if approaching from the bridge), he would glower and mutter something crude in French and return to his crossword. One might think him the epitome of an old man, and French to boot! The same experience awaits if conversation is attempted with Baptiste, though his accent is rounder (his father was a Nigerian immigrant and his mother a French emigrant, who fled a particularly unsound religious upbringing and settled in Nigeria, only to marry Baptiste's father, a Catholic convert, and to return years later to the city and religion of her youth). Neither men betray any special purpose, as far as appearances go.

I'd been in the city four days when I received the unmarked envelope with the picture of a child on a tricycle, wearing a red beret. Someone had embossed the words Cœur fidèle beneath the child. On the back was a sketch of a man's face. I readily ignored it. The paper was thick and the ink had been painted by hand (I could tell the brushstrokes came from an artist), and I couldn't help wondering if there'd been a mistake in my reception of the letter. I turned the envelope over and saw my name, written in an elegant script. I shrugged and quickly forgot it.

Days passed and I gathered all I could of the city (the Louvre in all its majestic intricacies; eating baguettes by the Seine; dancing to impromptu concerts in the large square in Republique; being kissed by a French woman more by happenstance than any real plan on my part; drinking wine in a cafe at a busy street corner; wondering the city in search of the best croissant; sitting in prayer beneath the expanse of the Sacre Coeur--my list could go on!) until one overcast and chilly afternoon I found myself strolling up the Rue de Bellechasse, a half-eaten macaron in my hand, musing on the delicate flavours that swished in my mouth. I pulled my wallet out to determine if a trip to the ATM might be necessary and the envelope fluttered to the ground.

I'd completely forgotten about it. The thing was worthless, a joke most likely from some French teenager played on the hapless American tourist, and while I was completely flattered by their choice, I didn't see why it was necessary to continue with it in my pocket. I crossed the Quai Anatole France (the view of the river and the breeze on my face and the smell of--unfortunately--hot dogs from the vendor at the corner, met me), searching in vain for a trash bin.

"Books for sale, good ones, used ones, we have one here a queen had in her library," said the bookseller, a middle aged man with a ragged green flat cap and oversized sport coat. I waved him away; I never trusted a Frenchman who opened with English. The tourists were everywhere. They stopped to snap pictures of inane angles of buildings that were commonplace in Paris, apartment buildings that, yes, looked better than ones in the States, but apartments nonetheless. I placed most of my effort in not appearing like one of them. I crumpled the envelope and reached for the trash bin--then suddenly stopped.

The man against the lamppost stared at me for a moment, deep in thought, returning shortly to his crossword puzzle. His face, his whiskers, all reminded me of--I pulled the envelope back and turned the note over. The face was the same. I shook my head. Not knowing what to do I approached the man.

"Excusez-moi," I said. He said something quickly in French without looking at me. "Do I know you? Do you speak English?" Nothing I said got his attention. I took the card and waved it in front of his eyes. "Do you know what this is?" With my frustration rising, I read the card to him: "Cœur fidèle?" A whistle took to the wind and the river rose up to meet it.

The man raised his eyes and studied me for a moment. He wasn't writing but I heard the scratch of pencil on paper and looked to see one of the crosswords filling itself in. I swallowed and turned to see the other man, bent low over his crossword. When his pencil touched the paper, a letter appeared on the puzzle before me. When he lifted it, there was nothing. Were they communicating? Was that even possible?

The man in front of me grabbed my wrist and I cried out but it was lost in the street sounds. He said something very slowly and carefully in French but I shook my head.

"Je ne parle pas--"

He pulled away and held the crossword puzzle up. The man at the other lamppost watched with intense interest. My man pointed to a word. It wasn't French and it wasn't English. He nodded at me, pointed at it. My mouth had gone dry but I took the puzzle, not sure why I hadn't run when he'd released me, and carefully read the word aloud.

"Ephphatha." Gibberish, just complete and utter gibber--

"Can you understand me now?"

I stopped. He regarded me with suspicion, then asked the question again. I found myself nodding, then started to cry. Why I cried I do not know but it was beginning to catch the attention of one of the policemen directing traffic. My man scribbled onto his crossword, then abruptly closed it and stood up. One of the booksellers audibly gasped.

"Is he coming with us?" said a clear, rounded voice behind me. I sucked on my teeth and held my breath to gain composure.

"I'm sorry. I don't know--I've not--there's--"

"Francois, should we take him with us?"

"Yes, you're right," said my man, Francois. Then: "Baptiste, you have the keys?"

"You speak perfect English," I said with bleary words. "Why didn't you just--" the words wouldn't come because all of a sudden I was paying attention to the people around me. They all spoke English and it was the tourists who spoke with the heavy accent. I could still make out what the American couple just up the way were saying but they both spoke like they had rocks in their mouths. The tears started up again and my heart took to racing in my chest.

"You'll get used it," Francois said, taking me by the elbow. My two guards guided me down the street, turning nonchalantly down a dank alleyway. It hadn't seen the sun in years thanks to the vines growing above us. It grew darker as we ventured in further. We stopped before a large green wooden door. Baptiste pulled out a set of keys.

"I think I'm going to be sick," I said as the world around me started spinning. Francois held me up. I looked at him as a drunk might. "Who are you?"

Baptiste unlocked the door and pushed it open. He looked back and said, "We're the Brigade of the Red Berets. And we keep Paris safe from her enemies."

(to be continued)