He was supposed to be gone when I arrived. I had his 5th Arrondisssment address and the punch pad code
for the outer door and he'd Fed Ex 'd keys that would open the glass door to the foyer atrium and to his apartment one flight up. It was raining when I landed, and after the hassle with the taxi driver from Charles de Gaulle, the fare was supposed to be 50 Euros but she said more because of the morning traffic and gestured to the meter and more because of my luggage, and then she left me a block away at the foot of Rue du Pot de Fer because the bistro tables were out on both sides, and now for god's sake Boris was still in the apartment.
We'd never met but he saw the look on my face and after showing me a small, clean room with two large windows where I left my luggage, Boris escorted me to a balcony overlooking an enclosed garden apologizing all the way about a last minute change in plans quickly brought me a glass of Cote de Rhone, ordinary but drinkable. By now the sun was shining and after an hour of his halting English and my unreliable French we were well into a Jean de Nuit 2009 Bordeaux, and I concluded that Boris was easily the most pretentious and vain person I'd met either in Paris or in San Francisco.
You really must let me show you my Paris, Boris was saying. Did you know that the Galaries Lafeyette north of the Opera Garnais has an observation deck without cost where you can see much of Paris?
Yes I knew, but tried to look as if I didn't.
Perhaps not, I thought but didn't say. I'd made precise professional arrangements for Boris back in San Francisco and now I'd have to cancel those and work something out here in Paris.
I already have exchange homes in Barcelona and London, but not in Paris. Paris is a physical city, so I've been lifting weights for quick strength and brisk walking on uneven pavement.
...cobblestones and uneven pavement Boris was saying. If you are not cautious, Paris with its sudden drops can be a dangerous city. One minute you are looking off at a cathedral and the next you are flat on your back with Parisians, who are usually in a hurry, stepping around you or over you or, depending on the Arrondissement, going through your pockets.
I needed to get out of there so I lied and told Boris that I'd arranged to meet someone for lunch, and he gave me directions to Place Monge the closest Metro Station.
Vous le savez surement... Boris began and paused again ... leave your passport and your wallet here in the apartment, it's Friday and the pickpockets of Paris are working the Metro. Just take whatever cash you need and leave everything else here where it will be safe.
I'm not sure when I'll be back, I said over my shoulder to sad-eyed Boris. I closed the apartment door behind me, glanced up at the skylight flooding the atrium with light, and descended the spiral staircase. My first destination would be Galaries Lafeyette, the luxury department store near the old Paris Opera mentioned by Boris, and after that the neighborhood beyond Gare de Nord.
But first, I wanted to refresh my memory of the Mouffetard Market area, so I walked back down Pot de Fer now lined with Brasserie lunch tables and where Orwell, when he was down and out in Paris, stayed in a rooming house at #6, now long gone. Then I walked up Rue Moufftard through Place Contrascarpe where a performer was setting up to play and sell his music now that the sun was out, and then past Hemingway's old apartment where he'd edited Gertrude Stein's experimental prose poetry that defied conventional punctuation but still made some sort of sense. I continued on Rue Cardinal Lemoine down the hill to Metro Jussieu and bought a carnet of ten Metro tickets using Euro bills in a machine that accepted cash and made change.The Pink Line #7 was crowded as Boris said it would be and I had to stand. During the six jolting stops and starts to Galeries Lafeyette I felt a hand in my pocket twice and jammed my elbow down and caught a hand pulling out once. Parisians, especially men on the Metro shutter their eyes and stare straight ahead and keep their hands over their money and don't get involved because at the next stop the nimble-fingered needy of the Paris simply move on to the next Metro car and start again..
You can enter the Galeries Lafeyette luxury boot department straight from the Metro, so I did this and took the escalators up to the observation roof above the sixth floor. It was gusting a fine rain again, the kind that comes and goes quickly in June and the few tourists there were either looking at each other or off toward the Eiffel Tower. 
I turned in the opposite direction and found what I'd come looking for. There was new construction, deserted since it was Friday afternoon, so I simply stepped around the safety barriers and took a few steps past the debris and other evidence of construction workers and through the overcast I could just make out Montmarte and the Basilique du Sacre-Coeur.2
If you have cash, all large cities offer a full range of services and in Paris I had been given locations around Gare de Nord in the 10th Arrondissement and up toward Chapelle where the price for any service could be negotiated. I would need a professional pickup tomorrow morning between eleven and twelve noon and with two 500 Euro notes in my shirt pocket up front and the other half guaranteed at pickup. The arrangements didn't take long.Afterwards, I walked up Rue de Steinkerque toward Basilique du Sacre-Coeur
and stopped for a while to watch a local version of the 'shell game' set up in the middle of the cobblestone street with bills of fifty and then a hundred Euros passing from one hand to another. On a small table there were three black hockey puck-like discs with a white circle on the bottom of only one. Game of chance? Hardly. These were professional hustlers with accomplices and muscled enforcers off to one side to insure the outcome. And your own wallet might vanish as you watch. How could anyone fall for this?
I turned away and walked back down past TATI, a several blocks-long jumble of discount department store buildings, and at the Metro caught the Red #4 Metro line south. With my work finished for the day and adrenalin still high, I decided to reward myself with a visit to Paris' oldest luxury department store (1852) Au Bon Marche.
Twenty minutes later I climbed the steps at Metro Sevres-Babylon, walked west and entered La Grande Epicerie, the finest Food Hall in Paris.
Parisians know how to put on a show, desserts especially, and here in La Grand Epicerie I was welcomed by sparkling showcases of delicate cookies, miniature chocolate cream cakes and glazed and sugared fruit tarts. I felt tensions of the day melt away strolling past the patisserie toward the opulent displays of staples and luxuries from France, of course, and from the rest of the world as well.Alcohol? Absinthe, The Green Muse was here, the dangerous drink of Toulouse-Lautrec, van Gogh and Oscar Wilde. Groceries? Free Range Eggs yes, and Mare's Milk, but my display favorite, behind glass and grasped firmly by clamps were the aging Mangalica and Bellota hams available for just under 1,000 Euros the haunch. But for the more tentative consumer, Le Grand Epicerie offered tissue-thin slices. I selected the Mangalica and didn't ask the price; if one has to ask, well...
You really shouldn't have, you know, Boris murmured as he opened the paper wrapping of the very thin slices of Mangalica. He inhaled deeply, you really shouldn't, he repeated as his eyelids fluttering and half closed. It's Bellota isn't it! I can tell from its dry nut aroma. In its final few months the animal is 'finished' by releasing it in oak forests where it feeds, free range on acorns... thus giving Bellota its taste of roasted nut.
It was, in fact, Mangalica, and to me the ham just tastes very salty, but I smiled and nodded.
After buying the ham I'd walked through Jardin du Luxembourg first in the shade under orderly rows of tall Plane trees and then past the
tasteful little sign granting permission to sit on this green grass lawn and not on other grass in the park which is not permitted. A uniformed gendarme quietly enforced this civilized regulation. Leaving the shady green of the Luxembourg Gardens, the impressive mass of The Pantheon Mausoleum over my shoulder, I walked down Rue Gay-Lussack then over to the Mouffetard Market area to assure myself that the glorious fish market, the wine shop La Fountaine Aux Vins and the Fromagerie beside it were still there. They were, of course. How could I have imagined otherwise?
I inserted the formidable key into the spring-loaded apartment lock, pushed hard and twisted it, and entered. Smelling moist lemon and pine cleaning products I saw that the wood floors including those in my bedroom were drying. I padded through the apartment in my socks and found Boris sitting on the Balcony.You must have passed my man on the way out, he said.
I passed a man, I said, I didn't know he was yours.
Boris smiled, his English good enough to understand my little joke.
Promptness is not Guido's strength, but he does what I tell him to do. He has a key and cleans the apartment Tuesdays and Fridays and along with other little jobs he shops and brings me food and groceries when he comes. You and I shall have a nice selection of small plates this evening...unless, of course, you have other plans.
No, I said, my evening is free.
Boris rose slowly from his chair on the balcony, and cradling the small packet of sliced Magalica ham in one hand and his ivory-handle walking stick in the other, he made his way into the kitchen. Vous le savez surement... and here Boris paused one of his long pauses, then continued in halting English... Parisians do very little cooking in their own kitchens but eat out or pick up something already prepared to bring home. This evening Guido has brought me my favorite
rotisserie chicken from Boucheries Chevy down near Les Goblins, and we shall have some of that, he said, his eyes bright with anticipation. But first, you must try this and tell me what you think. It's a Bordeaux, I'll tell you that much.Boris swirled the half glass of red wine and handed it to me and then busied himself in the kitchen while I sat out on the balcony and sampled it.
Well? he asked.I would say... and here I paused ...from a decent vineyard with early promise but did not improve with age. And now I would say, well, it really has no future.
That is just what I think! Would you believe it costs less than thee Euros!
I would have thought more I said, and Boris was very pleased.
4
Although the citron finish of the 2008 Sancerre is perhaps more complex, Boris was saying... I hope you agree that this is a good pairing. He poured two chilled glasses of Sancerre (2009) and handed me two small tastefully plated servings of roast chicken, a small crisp salad with mustard dressing and a basket of french bread, no butter. He stepped over the threshold to the balcony and leaned his cane against the railing, lowered himself onto his chair and lifted his wine glass. Bon Appetite!
Near midnight, swirling Absinthe in a small snifter, I touched my lips to the mind and mouth-numbing anise flavored liquor but did not drink it. I'd tried it before and didn't like it, but Boris had insisted I drink with him. After talking almost-nonstop for several hours now Boris was unusually quiet.
I'm not really from Paris, he said finally... or France. I waited. Southern Illinois actually...small town.... I braced myself for Vous savez surement... but it didn't come. When I was quite young, draft age, just after the war my family send me here to Paris....I'd been, well, an embarrassment to them for a variety of reasons. For one thing, I wouldn't fight, you see. So they set up a small annuity for me to live on here, in Paris. Hoped I might make some money selling my paintings, I suppose, but... And here Boris gestured at the nicely framed paintings on the apartment walls, some of them quite pretty. Well... , he said and drained his snifter of Absinthe, tomorrow I will show you my Paris, he said repeating himself ... and find you a good Paris map. And we mustn't forget to arrange a Navigo Pass for you to use on the Metro system!
I was looking forward to it.
5
I woke early and as I passed the door to the master bedroom I could hear Boris breathing heavily and I left quietly. Outside it was misting light rain, so that was good. I turned up Rue Tournefort, heard the gurgling of the water running down the street and passed a worker cleaning the gutters and soiled corners of Paris following a late Friday night. I turned at the corner and nearing the boulangerie at Mouffetard I could smell the yeasty aroma of warm bread. After the ritual coutesy Bon Jour, I ordered a croissant aux beurre and a pan raisen for Boris and for me a boule, a round white loaf I prefer to the traditional baguette. Returning to the flat I got the espresso machine going and roused Boris. There was much to do.
You really are spoiling me, said Boris dazed either from me waking him or from last night's Absinthe, and I reminded him of his promise to show me Paris.
I did, didn't I. Well we must prepare. Since we will be using public transportation we must divest ourselves of identification that might be picked from our pockets. They do that to steal your identity.... Boris paused to finish his Croissant au Beurre. So you must leave your passport here and I will do the same. Boris reached for his Pan Raisen. I returned to my room and closed the door behind me and folded two 500 Euro notes into a small Ziploc bag, folded that and slipped them into my front shirt pocket. I put the rest of my cash and my passport and my key to the flat in my money belt, and even though it was only misting outside I shrugged on a light nylon rain jacket with a hood. 
When I came out into the front hall, Boris had his hat and coat on and was reaching for his ivory-topped cane. He didn't wear a rain coat, he said, because it made him look heavy. I noticed a dog leash hanging on a hook near the door. How long could Boris wait before he mentioned a dog? We stepped into the foyer and the heavy apartment door swung closed behind us. Walking to the elevator I casually looked down, and the spiral staircase created a dizzying vertigo effect. I looked away, surprised because heights usually don't bother me. Except for the two of us, the foyer was empty.
I can't say I know any of my neighbors, Boris was saying. Parisians are lively and very social, but at the same time they are also very private. How can I put this... they are not especially warm with strangers. He pushed the elevator button and the doors to the tiny slow-motion elevator slid open. I lost my dog this past year Boris said as we stepped into the tiny elevator. I still miss him. Boris sighed. I was beginning to warm up to Old Boris: Lonely Old Man Misses Dog.
When we reached the corner I turned toward Place Monge but Boris said, No this way, and pointed with his cane in the opposite direction. I hadn't planned on this. Was it my imagination or was Boris doing everything he could to slow us down? But Boris, I asked, doesn't the Metro at Place Monge go right to Galaries Lafayette?
Well yes, but sometimes on Saturdays the escalator at the Monge Metro isn't working and I find the steps very difficult. Also, Bus#27 goes directly past the Luxembourg Gardens and you have a wonderful view of the Pantheon. And after we cross the Seine over Pont du Carrousel, we go right past that ghastly new Louvre Pyramid and then right up Avenue de L'Opera! Of course, it does take a little longer on Saturday because the bus only comes every 20 minutes, but we really aren't on any kind of time schedule are we.
No of course not, Boris. 
The bus was almost full but we found seats in the raised section near the back and I sat just behind Boris. Through the large windows he pointed out the Cafes and Brasseries as the bus careened along Boulevard Saint Michel. The Sorbonne buildings of the Latin Quarter are all around us... and the Medical faculties are that way, Boris said over his shoulder. And after crossing the Seine we passed through the Louvre Courtyard and past the glass Pyramide circled by a coiled line of Saturday morning tourists. Chapter 6
As Bus#27 stopped and started its way up Avenue de L'Opera, Boris lectured me on the French passion for privacy. As you can see, he said, we are surrounded by tour buses and everywhere you look are streams of sightseers. Yet, one or two blocks in any direction you will find a small park or a quiet square quite deserted. We exited the bus by the rear door at Place de L'Opera and surrounded by Tour and Airport shuttle buses, we walked up to Boulevard Haussman. I pulled my hood over my head.
Now here, you see, is what I 've talking about. He gestured with his cane at the construction I'd seen earlier. If we go around here, he went on, leading the way past the security barriers, we are quite alone.
And there! You can see that even the workmen have discovered a private corner away from the security cameras! Boris pointed with his cane to the telltale evidence. He was having a delightful time. Now the only thing I needed to do was to convince old Boris to give me his Metro Card--the only I.D. he had on him.
I don't really look this old, do I? Boris handed me his card and turned his head to look at the view. Of course not Boris, I said slipping it in my pants pocket without looking at it. Boris, your collar is twisted. I reached out and turned him around, pulled his coat open and slipped a small, folded ziplock bag into his front shirt pocket, then adjusted his shirt collar. A dazed smile appeared on Boris' face--a small boy being made presentable for church. 
Surely that isn't Sacre Coeur I said, looking over his shoulder. Boris leaned his cane against the security fencing, turned and bending forward, rested both palms on the low cement balustrade. Mais, surement vous savez... and once again Boris paused. Dropping down behind him I clamped my hands around his ankles and jerked up, and Boris was away. I reached out and grasped Boris' walking stick, its ivory head still warm, and glanced at my watch. It was just before eleven. We were actually a little early.
Six floors down below there is a narrow alley used during the week for deliveries and deserted on weekends. There would be no collateral damage to Galaries Lafeyette property or personnel. And the professional pick up I'd arranged should be there and gone, their ziplocked final payment dry and neatly folde.
On the way down the escalator I spotted a scraggly Guido, head down, scurrying up the escalator. He passed within a meter without seeing me. A little too close, I thought. On the main floor I allowed myself a glance up, once again, at the glorious Galaries Dome, then walked out through the front entrance.
Two blocks along Boulevard Haussman I passed a street person and his sleeping dog. Generously, I had worn it just this once, I slipped off my light nylon rain jacket with its rain hood and dropped it on his square of cardboard. Then I crossed Place de L'Opera, bustling with tourists and buses, descended the Metro stairs and used my Navigo Metro Pass to return to my Paris apartment.
I've been in Paris less than a week, but it seems longer. When Guido came on Tuesday, he was just a little late, I explained that Boris was away on a home exchange in Toronto in Canada and that I had changed the locks. I would still like him to deliver groceries but not to clean. He would of course continue to be paid. Guido did not look surprised.
I've begun to entertain and am hosting Yolande, a young Egyptian friend from San Francisco. Prefers white wine to red and loves Poulley-Fousse (2010) a very young wine but then Yolande is very young. Slim and athletic, large brown eyes, not much conversation, becomes impatient when I begin to talk about Paris and changes the subject. Did I have a dog? Is the handle on my walking stick real ivory? Do I really have an apartment in Barcelona? 
Boris left a very good map of Paris in the apartment and penciled in the location of recommended Brasseries and Restaurants. For breakfast we have tried L'Atlas on Rue de Buci where I ordered fresh orange juice, a cheese omelet, bread and coffee and Yolande had a croissant and chocolat chaud, all delicious and not expensive and the service was gracious.
This past Wednesday I'd arranged for us to take a tour of the Paris Opera, but we had only just arrived at the reception area with its decorative urns and tragic comedy wall sconces when, out of the blue, Yolande said he'd arranged to meet a friend for lunch.
Mais alors, vous savez surement... Paris can be a treacherous and sometimes a dangerous city.
NOTE: With a few exceptions the Paris views, Metro and bus lines, food and wine are all as described as of Summer, 2011.... Boris, of course, is away and Yolande seems to have vanished.
