Travelogue 867 – August 31
So Many Homes
I’m excited for her. Of course I am. When you are witness to the beginning of a life, privileged to see the unfolding of a new story, you are joyful and expectant. You are also humbled.
My Baby. I’m sitting across the table from her. She’s sitting with her mama, and her sister is sitting with me on my side of the table. We’ve stopped for some snacks after playing in the park.
My Baby. My oldest. She is in a buoyant mood today. She’s been chatting without stop, telling herself stories. Actually, this is her happy state most of the time. She is a cheerful soul.
She will start school in a week or so. She has little idea what that means. She’s not thinking about it much. I am. I’m making myself melancholy thinking about it. “These are our last days,” I’m telling myself, with some melodrama. “She will make friends at school. She will fall in love with her teacher. Her world will expand, and Mama and Papa will start their long slide deep into the supporting cast.”
Every month, every year is the start of a new phase. But starting school! That is something too big to contemplate. I find it hard to absorb all that it means. You can’t see it all. What is clear is that the start of a big phase is also the end of a big phase. And this has been a time so special in my own life, that I can’t help but mourn. It has been just the four of us all this time.
Baby has been narrating a dream. She tells us she dreamt about her parents. “Their names are …,” and she hesitates. Menna quietly points to me and to herself. I watch with interest. “No!” Baby responds emphatically. “My parents live far away!” We laugh.
Everything Baby does, she does with urgency. She’s a passionate soul. But there’s also a mischievous (and miraculous) self-awareness. She’s laughing inside, with some special joie de vivre. It colours everything she does with such freshness that I’m continually charmed and admiring.
Explaining her dream, she leans over the table and looks into my eyes. She communicates with such earnestness and with mischief, I am captivated. Baby tells us she has many homes, and she has many parents. “I have so many homes.”
“Really?” I’ve seen Menna wanting to correct her. I’m hoping she doesn’t. I’m curious.
“In my home, the walls are pink, and the door is red.”
“Oh, that sounds beautiful.”
“You can visit,” Baby says graciously. “And Mama can visit. And Little Ren can visit.”
We are guests in one of her many homes.
Saturday, August 31, 2019
Wednesday, August 28, 2019
Travelogue 866 – August 28
Fictions – 4
She had risen above the maelstrom on the toes of her ballet shoes. Turning slowly on pointe, she had risen slowly above the land, freed from gravity.
She had laughed with joy the first time she had seen a pirouette. Her father had taken her to a ballet performance. She was only four then. She told everyone she was a dancer like her cousin. She had told her cousin, and her cousin had showed her how to do a pirouette.
It felt like being a leaf that was caught by the wind.
Fall was coming, her father said. She asked him often. Last year, they had walked together by the river every day, and they had stopped to watch the leaves. She asked him often when the autumn would start. Summer was too sticky. It would come soon, he said. Don’t worry, it will come. He had a gentle voice. It reminded her of the river.
Her father had taught her that Hiroshima was a city of six rivers. She would have liked to see them all. She was high enough now. Turning in the sky, executing perfect form, she could have surveyed the whole city below. But all she saw was grey, roiling dust and smoke.
After the light came these horrible clouds. It’s like they were alive and eating the sky. Would she ever be free of them? Now that she could dance in the sky, she would have liked to have the blue sky as her backdrop. Would there be any sky left? They were so hungry.
Fictions – 4
She had risen above the maelstrom on the toes of her ballet shoes. Turning slowly on pointe, she had risen slowly above the land, freed from gravity.
She had laughed with joy the first time she had seen a pirouette. Her father had taken her to a ballet performance. She was only four then. She told everyone she was a dancer like her cousin. She had told her cousin, and her cousin had showed her how to do a pirouette.
It felt like being a leaf that was caught by the wind.
Fall was coming, her father said. She asked him often. Last year, they had walked together by the river every day, and they had stopped to watch the leaves. She asked him often when the autumn would start. Summer was too sticky. It would come soon, he said. Don’t worry, it will come. He had a gentle voice. It reminded her of the river.
Her father had taught her that Hiroshima was a city of six rivers. She would have liked to see them all. She was high enough now. Turning in the sky, executing perfect form, she could have surveyed the whole city below. But all she saw was grey, roiling dust and smoke.
After the light came these horrible clouds. It’s like they were alive and eating the sky. Would she ever be free of them? Now that she could dance in the sky, she would have liked to have the blue sky as her backdrop. Would there be any sky left? They were so hungry.
Thursday, August 22, 2019
Travelogue 865 – August 22
Fictions – 3
It was a festive occasion. The mayor of Rotterdam was there with his wife, standing with several hundred other citizens in a circle around the sculpture. It wasn’t the most pleasant weather. It was a chilly day for May. A fog had settled over the big river and its city. Still, people had come out for the ceremony.
The occasion could have been a solemn one, since the sculpture memorialized the suffering of the city during the Blitz of 1940. The German air attack had wiped out the centre of the city. Most people standing there remembered the attack. They certainly would never forget the war. It lingered like the fog, lingered in the ongoing reconstruction and in rationing and other privations. And still, the people there were smiling. The years after the war were ones of sustained optimism.
The artist had come from Paris to oversee the installation. Ossip Zadkine was an odd-looking man, rail thin with a shock of white hair. His face was wedge-like, tapering to the chin, and fit with outsized ears. His movements were nervous and awkward. It was strange to think of him sculpting, shaping stone and bronze with the grace of a lifetime artist.
This huge bronze standing sixty metres high in the square was his creation, a bronze figure named “The Destroyed City”. Once the tarp was pulled from the statue to the crowd’s applause, it was revealed to be a towering Cubist depiction of a man with his head thrown back and his arms thrown high in the air in horror. There was a hole where the man’s heart would have been, symbolic of the city’s grief. The people in attendance stood politely in its presence, maintaining their circle, and commenting quietly to each other.
The dramatic effect of the piece was accentuated by the airy plaza, set between the busy avenue of the Westblaak and the harbour. The space underscored both the size and the insignificance of the artwork, even as the emptiness of the place portrayed the devastation the city suffered more poignantly than any sculpture.
There were others there. There were always ghosts at these events. Where there was something to mourn, there were plenty of mourners. The tall man moved toward the circle of people, approaching across the expanse of flagstones.
“Another damned ruined city,” he mumbled. “How many can there be?”
He would have been an awful sight if anyone could have seen him, one side of his face burn-scarred and his leather jerkin abraded and spotted with blood. He limped slightly, though it may have been with boredom, as he had been wandering for centuries, since he had fallen from the tower with his brother.
“And so which war is this? Which universe is this? A damn ugly one, I have to say. Everything is grey as slate.” The ghost had been drawn some ways just to witness the unveiling of this statue. He had lumbered through the centre where, eight years after the war, there were still broad spaces lying unnaturally vacant. It was ugly and familiar. He knew what it looked like when cities were set ablaze.
“And what is this monstrosity?” the dead soldier muttered, passing through the crowd and toward the artwork. He stopped to stare up at it. It was a statue. “Is this a god? It’s no king.” He glanced back at the living, who were still maintaining their circle, admiring and chatting quietly. “It’s a dark god,” he concluded, looking up again, “deformed and horrible. He’s calling down a curse, and his magic is melting him.” The ghost shook his head sadly. “This is how the war must have started. It was summoned by an evil god. After this, the fire rained from the skies.”
The ghost averted his gaze, and he stumbled forward again. “I have seen enough of fires from the skies. I wish the gods were done with fire.” Gloomily, he followed the harbour to the river. He lowered himself into the waters of the Nieuwe Maas. With laboured steps, he pushed through the silt at the bottom, following the current.
Fictions – 3
It was a festive occasion. The mayor of Rotterdam was there with his wife, standing with several hundred other citizens in a circle around the sculpture. It wasn’t the most pleasant weather. It was a chilly day for May. A fog had settled over the big river and its city. Still, people had come out for the ceremony.
The occasion could have been a solemn one, since the sculpture memorialized the suffering of the city during the Blitz of 1940. The German air attack had wiped out the centre of the city. Most people standing there remembered the attack. They certainly would never forget the war. It lingered like the fog, lingered in the ongoing reconstruction and in rationing and other privations. And still, the people there were smiling. The years after the war were ones of sustained optimism.
The artist had come from Paris to oversee the installation. Ossip Zadkine was an odd-looking man, rail thin with a shock of white hair. His face was wedge-like, tapering to the chin, and fit with outsized ears. His movements were nervous and awkward. It was strange to think of him sculpting, shaping stone and bronze with the grace of a lifetime artist.
This huge bronze standing sixty metres high in the square was his creation, a bronze figure named “The Destroyed City”. Once the tarp was pulled from the statue to the crowd’s applause, it was revealed to be a towering Cubist depiction of a man with his head thrown back and his arms thrown high in the air in horror. There was a hole where the man’s heart would have been, symbolic of the city’s grief. The people in attendance stood politely in its presence, maintaining their circle, and commenting quietly to each other.
The dramatic effect of the piece was accentuated by the airy plaza, set between the busy avenue of the Westblaak and the harbour. The space underscored both the size and the insignificance of the artwork, even as the emptiness of the place portrayed the devastation the city suffered more poignantly than any sculpture.
There were others there. There were always ghosts at these events. Where there was something to mourn, there were plenty of mourners. The tall man moved toward the circle of people, approaching across the expanse of flagstones.
“Another damned ruined city,” he mumbled. “How many can there be?”
He would have been an awful sight if anyone could have seen him, one side of his face burn-scarred and his leather jerkin abraded and spotted with blood. He limped slightly, though it may have been with boredom, as he had been wandering for centuries, since he had fallen from the tower with his brother.
“And so which war is this? Which universe is this? A damn ugly one, I have to say. Everything is grey as slate.” The ghost had been drawn some ways just to witness the unveiling of this statue. He had lumbered through the centre where, eight years after the war, there were still broad spaces lying unnaturally vacant. It was ugly and familiar. He knew what it looked like when cities were set ablaze.
“And what is this monstrosity?” the dead soldier muttered, passing through the crowd and toward the artwork. He stopped to stare up at it. It was a statue. “Is this a god? It’s no king.” He glanced back at the living, who were still maintaining their circle, admiring and chatting quietly. “It’s a dark god,” he concluded, looking up again, “deformed and horrible. He’s calling down a curse, and his magic is melting him.” The ghost shook his head sadly. “This is how the war must have started. It was summoned by an evil god. After this, the fire rained from the skies.”
The ghost averted his gaze, and he stumbled forward again. “I have seen enough of fires from the skies. I wish the gods were done with fire.” Gloomily, he followed the harbour to the river. He lowered himself into the waters of the Nieuwe Maas. With laboured steps, he pushed through the silt at the bottom, following the current.
Monday, August 12, 2019
Travelogue 864 – August 12
Fictions – 2
Pope of Fools
more apologies to Victor Hugo
In the twinkling of an eye, all was ready to execute the contest for Pope of Fools. Bourgeois, scholars and law clerks all set to work. The little chapel situated opposite the marble table was selected for the scene of the grinning match. A pane broken in the pretty rose window above the door, left free a circle of stone through which it was agreed that the competitors should thrust their heads. In order to reach it, it was only necessary to mount upon a couple of hogsheads, which had been produced from I know not where, and perched one upon the other, after a fashion. It was settled that each candidate, man or woman (for it was possible to choose a female pope), should, for the sake of leaving the impression of his grimace fresh and complete, cover his face and remain concealed in the chapel until the moment of his appearance. In less than an instant, the chapel was crowded with competitors, upon whom the door was then closed.
The grimaces began. The first face which appeared at the aperture, with eyelids turned up to the reds, a mouth open like a maw, and a brow wrinkled like our hussar boots of the Empire, evoked such an inextinguishable peal of laughter that Homer would have taken all these louts for gods. A second and third grimace followed, then another and another; and the laughter and transports of delight went on increasing. There was in this spectacle, a peculiar power of intoxication and fascination, of which it would be difficult to convey to the reader of our day and our salons any idea.
Let the reader picture to himself a series of visages presenting successively all geometrical forms, from the triangle to the trapezium, from the cone to the polyhedron; all human expressions, from wrath to lewdness; all ages, from the wrinkles of the new-born babe to the wrinkles of the aged and dying; all religious phantasmagories, from Faun to Beelzebub; all animal profiles, from the maw to the beak, from the jowl to the muzzle. Let the reader imagine all these grotesque figures of the Pont Neuf, those nightmares petrified beneath the hand of Germain Pilon, assuming life and breath, and coming in turn to stare you in the face with burning eyes; all the masks of the Carnival of Venice passing in succession before your glass,—in a word, a human kaleidoscope.
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” shouted the people on all sides. That was, in fact, a marvellous grimace which was beaming at that moment through the aperture in the rose window. After all the pentagonal, hexagonal, and whimsical faces, which had succeeded each other at that hole without realizing the ideal of the grotesque which their imaginations, excited by the orgy, had constructed, nothing less was needed to win their suffrages than the sublime grimace which had just dazzled the assembly. We shall not try to give the reader an idea of that tetrahedral nose, that false mouth; that little squinting eye under red, bushy, bristling eyebrows; of those teeth like the embattled parapet of a fortress; of that callous lip, upon which these teeth encroached, producing the grin of a hungry weasel; of that soft chin; of that leathery skin of unnatural colour; and above all, of the expression spread over the whole; of that mixture of malice, amazement, and greed. Let the reader dream of this whole, if he can.
The horrible mouth opened, and it spoke to the crowd in the chapel. “You remember the word deplorable? You remember when Hillary used the word deplorable? She used two words. She used deplorable and irredeemable, right? I said, what a terrible mistake that she used the word irredeemable, but it turned out to be deplorable. Deplorable was not a good day for Hillary. Crooked Hillary, she is a crooked one. Crooked. Crooked. She is crooked.”
People were perplexed. They were silent. and then they applauded again. The acclamation was unanimous; people rushed towards the chapel. They made the lucky Pope of the Fools come forth in triumph. But it was then that surprise and admiration attained their highest pitch; the grimace was his face.
Master Coppenole, in amazement, approached him.
“Cross of God! Holy Father! you possess the handsomest ugliness that I have ever beheld in my life. You would deserve to be pope at Rome, as well as at Paris.”
Fictions – 2
Pope of Fools
more apologies to Victor Hugo
In the twinkling of an eye, all was ready to execute the contest for Pope of Fools. Bourgeois, scholars and law clerks all set to work. The little chapel situated opposite the marble table was selected for the scene of the grinning match. A pane broken in the pretty rose window above the door, left free a circle of stone through which it was agreed that the competitors should thrust their heads. In order to reach it, it was only necessary to mount upon a couple of hogsheads, which had been produced from I know not where, and perched one upon the other, after a fashion. It was settled that each candidate, man or woman (for it was possible to choose a female pope), should, for the sake of leaving the impression of his grimace fresh and complete, cover his face and remain concealed in the chapel until the moment of his appearance. In less than an instant, the chapel was crowded with competitors, upon whom the door was then closed.
The grimaces began. The first face which appeared at the aperture, with eyelids turned up to the reds, a mouth open like a maw, and a brow wrinkled like our hussar boots of the Empire, evoked such an inextinguishable peal of laughter that Homer would have taken all these louts for gods. A second and third grimace followed, then another and another; and the laughter and transports of delight went on increasing. There was in this spectacle, a peculiar power of intoxication and fascination, of which it would be difficult to convey to the reader of our day and our salons any idea.
Let the reader picture to himself a series of visages presenting successively all geometrical forms, from the triangle to the trapezium, from the cone to the polyhedron; all human expressions, from wrath to lewdness; all ages, from the wrinkles of the new-born babe to the wrinkles of the aged and dying; all religious phantasmagories, from Faun to Beelzebub; all animal profiles, from the maw to the beak, from the jowl to the muzzle. Let the reader imagine all these grotesque figures of the Pont Neuf, those nightmares petrified beneath the hand of Germain Pilon, assuming life and breath, and coming in turn to stare you in the face with burning eyes; all the masks of the Carnival of Venice passing in succession before your glass,—in a word, a human kaleidoscope.
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” shouted the people on all sides. That was, in fact, a marvellous grimace which was beaming at that moment through the aperture in the rose window. After all the pentagonal, hexagonal, and whimsical faces, which had succeeded each other at that hole without realizing the ideal of the grotesque which their imaginations, excited by the orgy, had constructed, nothing less was needed to win their suffrages than the sublime grimace which had just dazzled the assembly. We shall not try to give the reader an idea of that tetrahedral nose, that false mouth; that little squinting eye under red, bushy, bristling eyebrows; of those teeth like the embattled parapet of a fortress; of that callous lip, upon which these teeth encroached, producing the grin of a hungry weasel; of that soft chin; of that leathery skin of unnatural colour; and above all, of the expression spread over the whole; of that mixture of malice, amazement, and greed. Let the reader dream of this whole, if he can.
The horrible mouth opened, and it spoke to the crowd in the chapel. “You remember the word deplorable? You remember when Hillary used the word deplorable? She used two words. She used deplorable and irredeemable, right? I said, what a terrible mistake that she used the word irredeemable, but it turned out to be deplorable. Deplorable was not a good day for Hillary. Crooked Hillary, she is a crooked one. Crooked. Crooked. She is crooked.”
People were perplexed. They were silent. and then they applauded again. The acclamation was unanimous; people rushed towards the chapel. They made the lucky Pope of the Fools come forth in triumph. But it was then that surprise and admiration attained their highest pitch; the grimace was his face.
Master Coppenole, in amazement, approached him.
“Cross of God! Holy Father! you possess the handsomest ugliness that I have ever beheld in my life. You would deserve to be pope at Rome, as well as at Paris.”
Monday, August 05, 2019
Travelogue 863 – August 5
Fictions – 1
A New York Yankee
apologies to Victor Hugo
On that day, there was to be a bonfire on the Place de Grève, a maypole at the Chapelle de Braque, and a mystery at the Palais de Justice. It had been cried, to the sound of the trumpet, the preceding evening at all the crossroads, by the provost’s men, clad in handsome, short, sleeveless coats of violet camelot, with large white crosses upon their breasts.
The populace thronged the avenues of the law courts in particular, because they knew that the American ambassadors, who had arrived two days previously, intended to be present at the representation of the mystery, and at the election of the Pope of the Fools, which was also to take place in the grand hall.
The palace place, encumbered with people, offered to the curious gazers at the windows the aspect of a sea; into which five or six streets, like so many mouths of rivers, discharged every moment fresh floods of heads. The waves of this crowd, augmented incessantly, dashed against the angles of the houses which projected here and there, like so many promontories, into the irregular basin of the place. In the centre of the lofty Gothic façade of the palace, the grand staircase, incessantly ascended and descended by a double current, which, after parting on the intermediate landing-place, flowed in broad waves along its lateral slopes,—the grand staircase, I say, trickled incessantly into the place, like a cascade into a lake.
Above their heads was a double ogive vault, panelled with wood carving, painted azure, and sown with golden fleurs-de-lis; beneath their feet a pavement of black and white marble, alternating. A few paces distant, an enormous pillar, then another, then another; seven pillars in all, down the length of the hall, sustaining the spring of the arches of the double vault, in the centre of its width. Around four of the pillars, stalls of merchants, all sparkling with glass and tinsel; around the last three, benches of oak, worn and polished by the trunk hose of the litigants, and the robes of the attorneys. Around the hall, along the lofty wall, between the doors, between the windows, between the pillars, the interminable row of all the kings of France, from Pharamond down: the lazy kings, with pendent arms and downcast eyes; the valiant and combative kings, with heads and arms raised boldly heavenward. Then in the long, pointed windows, glass of a thousand hues; at the wide entrances to the hall, rich doors, finely sculptured; and all, the vaults, pillars, walls, jambs, panelling, doors, statues, covered from top to bottom with a splendid blue and gold illumination.
The two extremities of this gigantic parallelogram were occupied, the one by the famous marble table, so long, so broad, and so thick that, as the ancient land rolls say, “such a slice of marble as was never beheld in the world”; the other by the chapel where Louis XI had himself sculptured on his knees before the Virgin. This chapel, quite new, having been built only six years, was entirely in that charming taste of delicate architecture, of marvellous sculpture, of fine and deep chasing, which marks with us the end of the Gothic era. The little open-work rose window, pierced above the portal, was, in particular, a masterpiece of lightness and grace; one would have pronounced it a star of lace.
In the middle of the hall, opposite the great door, a platform of gold brocade, placed against the wall, a special entrance to which had been effected through a window in the corridor of the gold chamber, had been erected for the American emissaries and the other great personages invited to the presentation of the mystery play.
All at once, the door of the reserved gallery which had hitherto remained so inopportunely closed, opened still more inopportunely; and the ringing voice of the usher announced abruptly, “His eminence, Monseigneur the President of the United States.”
The President halted for a moment on the threshold of the estrade. While he was sending a rather indifferent glance around the audience, the tumult redoubled. Each person wished to get a better view of him. Each man vied with the other in thrusting his head over his neighbour’s shoulder. He entered, then, wearing a fine scarlet robe, which he carried off very well, bowed to those present with the hereditary smile of the great for the people, and directed his course slowly towards his scarlet velvet armchair.
Stopping at the balustrade, the President spoke to the crowd.
“It's great to be back in this country that I love. I love this country, very special, very, very special, on the banks of the beautiful Seine River with the hardworking patriots of the French heartland. Thank you, Paris. We love you Paris. So we've got thousands of people standing outside, and I asked the officials, can we sneak some up along the aisles?
“Can they sit on the stairs? But I'll tell you what, this is some crowd, some turnout. We've sold tens of thousands of tickets, and you know what the sale price is, we keep it nice and low, we keep it nice and low. But there never has been a movement like this. This is a movement the likes of which they've never seen before, maybe anywhere, but certainly in this country. If I hadn’t won the 2016 Election, we would be in a Great Recession/Depression right now.
“I was watching the so-called debate last night, and I also watched the night before, that was long, long television. And this morning, that's all the fake news was talking about that. The people I saw on stage last night, and you can add in Sleepy Joe, Harris, and the rest, will lead us into an economic sinkhole the likes of which we have never seen before. With me, only up!"
Fictions – 1
A New York Yankee
apologies to Victor Hugo
On that day, there was to be a bonfire on the Place de Grève, a maypole at the Chapelle de Braque, and a mystery at the Palais de Justice. It had been cried, to the sound of the trumpet, the preceding evening at all the crossroads, by the provost’s men, clad in handsome, short, sleeveless coats of violet camelot, with large white crosses upon their breasts.
The populace thronged the avenues of the law courts in particular, because they knew that the American ambassadors, who had arrived two days previously, intended to be present at the representation of the mystery, and at the election of the Pope of the Fools, which was also to take place in the grand hall.
The palace place, encumbered with people, offered to the curious gazers at the windows the aspect of a sea; into which five or six streets, like so many mouths of rivers, discharged every moment fresh floods of heads. The waves of this crowd, augmented incessantly, dashed against the angles of the houses which projected here and there, like so many promontories, into the irregular basin of the place. In the centre of the lofty Gothic façade of the palace, the grand staircase, incessantly ascended and descended by a double current, which, after parting on the intermediate landing-place, flowed in broad waves along its lateral slopes,—the grand staircase, I say, trickled incessantly into the place, like a cascade into a lake.
Above their heads was a double ogive vault, panelled with wood carving, painted azure, and sown with golden fleurs-de-lis; beneath their feet a pavement of black and white marble, alternating. A few paces distant, an enormous pillar, then another, then another; seven pillars in all, down the length of the hall, sustaining the spring of the arches of the double vault, in the centre of its width. Around four of the pillars, stalls of merchants, all sparkling with glass and tinsel; around the last three, benches of oak, worn and polished by the trunk hose of the litigants, and the robes of the attorneys. Around the hall, along the lofty wall, between the doors, between the windows, between the pillars, the interminable row of all the kings of France, from Pharamond down: the lazy kings, with pendent arms and downcast eyes; the valiant and combative kings, with heads and arms raised boldly heavenward. Then in the long, pointed windows, glass of a thousand hues; at the wide entrances to the hall, rich doors, finely sculptured; and all, the vaults, pillars, walls, jambs, panelling, doors, statues, covered from top to bottom with a splendid blue and gold illumination.
The two extremities of this gigantic parallelogram were occupied, the one by the famous marble table, so long, so broad, and so thick that, as the ancient land rolls say, “such a slice of marble as was never beheld in the world”; the other by the chapel where Louis XI had himself sculptured on his knees before the Virgin. This chapel, quite new, having been built only six years, was entirely in that charming taste of delicate architecture, of marvellous sculpture, of fine and deep chasing, which marks with us the end of the Gothic era. The little open-work rose window, pierced above the portal, was, in particular, a masterpiece of lightness and grace; one would have pronounced it a star of lace.
In the middle of the hall, opposite the great door, a platform of gold brocade, placed against the wall, a special entrance to which had been effected through a window in the corridor of the gold chamber, had been erected for the American emissaries and the other great personages invited to the presentation of the mystery play.
All at once, the door of the reserved gallery which had hitherto remained so inopportunely closed, opened still more inopportunely; and the ringing voice of the usher announced abruptly, “His eminence, Monseigneur the President of the United States.”
The President halted for a moment on the threshold of the estrade. While he was sending a rather indifferent glance around the audience, the tumult redoubled. Each person wished to get a better view of him. Each man vied with the other in thrusting his head over his neighbour’s shoulder. He entered, then, wearing a fine scarlet robe, which he carried off very well, bowed to those present with the hereditary smile of the great for the people, and directed his course slowly towards his scarlet velvet armchair.
Stopping at the balustrade, the President spoke to the crowd.
“It's great to be back in this country that I love. I love this country, very special, very, very special, on the banks of the beautiful Seine River with the hardworking patriots of the French heartland. Thank you, Paris. We love you Paris. So we've got thousands of people standing outside, and I asked the officials, can we sneak some up along the aisles?
“Can they sit on the stairs? But I'll tell you what, this is some crowd, some turnout. We've sold tens of thousands of tickets, and you know what the sale price is, we keep it nice and low, we keep it nice and low. But there never has been a movement like this. This is a movement the likes of which they've never seen before, maybe anywhere, but certainly in this country. If I hadn’t won the 2016 Election, we would be in a Great Recession/Depression right now.
“I was watching the so-called debate last night, and I also watched the night before, that was long, long television. And this morning, that's all the fake news was talking about that. The people I saw on stage last night, and you can add in Sleepy Joe, Harris, and the rest, will lead us into an economic sinkhole the likes of which we have never seen before. With me, only up!"
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