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Show a short story Gabriel Passey by Sylvia M-. Goller London, England Sun pours gently down on the wide Paris boulevard. Traffic jolts past on the cables, brakes and hooters screech, and the shop windows win-dows are hidden from view by the moving crowds. On one of the tables of an out door cafe two girls are sitting, drinking coffee and gazing with the bemused, happy eyes of tourists at the sun-splashed street in front of them. "Just look, Maureen it's all so lovely. Why doesn't London look like this?" "Who knows, who knows, who knows?" answers Maureen, singing sing-ing the words. "But this is Paris, Paris, Paris, the city where tout est possible. In Paris town Where we sit down Tout est possible And dreams come true!" Out of the moving trail of passers-by one man stopped for a moment. "Quelle jolie oix!" he called out. Maureen smiled and blushed. "Vous estes anglaises?" he asks. A few minutes later he is sitting at their table and has asked the waiter to bring three more coffees. He cups his head in his hands and leans across the table, eyes glinting glint-ing deliciously. "And now, mademoiselles, tell me your names. You with the beautiful eyes, what are you called?" "Rebecca". "Re-becc-a. Ah, que c'est un joli nom. Et vous, mademoiselle, qui chantait si bien tout a l'heure?" "Maureen" "Do you know that you have a way of using your hands when you sing which is marvelously expressive?" expres-sive?" "Have I?" "Bien sur. Ca ma' frappe. Have you ever thought of singing professionally?" pro-fessionally?" "Oh yes! I've always wanted to be a pop-singer. You know, like Sandie Shaw." "Oh really? Do you know any of our French singers? Jonny Halliday, Eddie Mitchell, Mirielle Matthieu?" "Oh yea and Charles Agnovour. Oh, I adore Charles Agnovour!" "Agnavour? Ah our il ne chante pas trop mal. Mais c'est un type un pen . . . de'mode', vous savez?" Maureen not understanding smiled and nodded enthusiastically. Rebecca understood no better. But on her face was an unconscious smile as she watched the man. His eyes were charing wells of expression, ex-pression, glittering with amusement or half-closed in earnestness, and as his lips moved his long brown hands threw out gestures into the sun-hazed air. Rebecca sat back in her fragile metal chair and through her mind ran the ridiculous words of her friend's doggerel verse: "In Paris town Where we sit down Tont est possible And dreams come true." "Tont est possible . . ." and here before her was a man with glittering glitter-ing humurous eyes and Gallic gestures; ges-tures; there they all were in a Parisian street where the sun warmed the air and the shops. Paris . . . (To Be Continued) |
