A SHORT STORY TOLD IN POETIC PROSE BY UYEN NICOLE DUONG NHU-NGUYEN: On The Streets of Paris

A short story told in poetic prose:

On the streets of Paris

CHAPTER ONE:

Autumn is in the air,

I’m café-sitting,

somewhere in a neighborhood of Paris

(Montmartre? St. Germaine des Pres? Marais? Or the 13^th District?

Well, it matters not

My Paris is where a dream is caught

I’m flashing a black-and-white photo,

already turning yellow,

curled and frayed,

as old as my way…

“Have you seen my childhood fiancé,” I ask, stopping pedestrians,

“I know not what he looks like now, except this,” I point to the black-haired boy,

docile in his white shorts and socks,

sitting on some steps, some porch,

some house, somewhere on Earth,

Next to a wide-eyed girl, with a bow on her hair,

a flower she holds, debonair,

her right arm swung over his shoulder, to love is to care

“A pair we were,” I say, proudly,

“this photograph: our lives,

as grand as this Parisian sky.”

I close the flaps of my Bohemian scarf,

and smile at the sight of my other half

Soon, winter will hit us with its cold air,

and Paris will turn as white as my hair, ‘

the falling strands will split even more,

 to the rhythm of Parisian snow

Fellow pedestrians, I declare solemnly,

Help me find him, till eternity

I want to find him before the cold gets us

And ask him to make whole for the two of us

And tell him, too:

France has long left L’Indochine

The Liberation Army has withdrawn from our beloved Hue

the Tet Offensive cries not yet forgotten

already Boat People have crossed the ocean

The country now has a new boss

Sweet childhood is forever lost

Around me, the pedestrians of Paris whisper:

Are you the witch of Brunswick

playing the old gypsies’ trick?

Or the madwoman of Chaillot, 

looking for her predestined beau?

Oh no, I say,

I have my way

He who was taller, nicer, but not wiser:

When we played house, he was my butler

Playing doctor, he was my patient

Playing classroom, he was my student

I once gave him an order:

Go first, brave one, and return to stay, forever…

“We look good together,” I point

“Two lovely children,” the pedestrians marvel, with disbelief:

“Madame, this photo no longer exists

Your memory, maybe, but not his

Childhood was gone, so was the promise!”

“Do you remember, Madame, Who, When, and Where?”

Reality kicks in:

Who, When, and Where?

I cover my face with my scarf

and stagger down, near-collapse

Too much café sitting should make me weep

So let me bend, and forever sleep…

CHAPER TWO:

It is then that I hear him,

A man who looks covered in dust:

Old like a picture book,

Yet young like tomorrow,

He’ll stop the Parisian snow…

“Madam,” it is I who know Who, When, and Where

WHO: it’s your poodle Kiki,

Like the essence of me,  

who nestles next to your feet

to keep you warm, loved, and safe

WHEN: A time that belongs only to us,

captured in a photograph

that survives the ocean

and resets the clock, our life has just begun 

WHERE: Our imperial city of Hue has a French architect

who builds a stucco villa with limestones that crack

For us, he paints it white

To give us the color of sunshine

So I open my eyes and look

Here is the man, white-haired, frail and stooping over a cane, but his eyes sparkle a thousand words

He knows about the white villa, my imperial Hue, and my Kiki

He knows what it’s like to have been me

He is extending his hand…

So I get back on my feet, and reach out, as the pedestrians part:

“Here come les Gendarmes, take the old woman, and her scarf…”

“Your passport, Madame, vous etes …Vietnamienne?”

“No, that part is gone. L’Amerique, L’Amerique…

I don’t need a shelter for that which no longer exists”

Yet I see the old man, who turns and speaks
“everything is fine,” he nods to the French police

“Madame,  you can still have your dream on the streets of Paris

The photograph is yours, and also his

Here is your passport back…Madame, you are American,

This gentleman will take you home, and he is…Canadian!”

UND copyright July 28 2017

DNN copyright 7/28/2017 A sh