The Paris sunshine stretched out the morning

as though sheets of puff pastry

had been laid out and baked under a blasting

furnace and the fluffy flakes had found

time to build a type of intimate imitation

that the day

would be memorable.

 

The hotel was not the type of place

in which to soak up culture

and the talk of visiting  Sacré- Cœur Basilica, success,

and finding the remains of Jim Morrison’s past, failure,

so the local French Arabia café became the pit stop

in which to fuel up on coffee beans, steaming

water pouring from the metal three foot

urn and the shattering earthly hiss

that masked the surprise of seeing two women

walk in as a party of four.

 

I was the only one who spoke any semblance of French,

rusty at best, downright stupid at worst but ever

the idiot abroad I always liked to keep

up with the locals so I threw my crusty

baguette into the arena and in a language

broken by distance and memory

of a Polish woman who I adored,

I laid my best shot out there.

The silence was deafening, I may as well

have been Hal stood at the gates of future

Shakespearian stardom

but with Falstaff’s wit being

taken in by Mistress Quickly

and my loins shaking

as all eyes were upon the stupid Brit

in a room full of second language

French speakers.

 

I held my own with confidence,

after all the previous night

I had ordered steak so rare that

The chef positively glowed

as he prepared the parody of cow

and yet here I was ready to mirror that travesty

of misrepresentation.

 

“Four coffees please with cold…”

I stopped I could not remember the word for milk,

my fellow Musketeers shuffled nervously,

run back to England, forget

Mon Maître, never see Notre Dame,

miss Marillion in the Opera House, for this was make or break,

this was death and glory on the battlefield

of grade four O-Level French,

why didn’t we go to back to Poland where my French

tongue was always appreciated more.

I panicked, inwardly, sweat poured

like the condensation on the small café window

and a nation of Arabic eyes were upon me.

I mimed.

 

I mimed, like Marcel Marceau I mimed

and my drama skills didn’t let me down

as I intimated the action of milking a cow and the crowning

Hal like glory of confidently bellowing the word

Moo

to an awaiting audience and the plaudits of applause, the flowers,

the rave reviews, five star luxury

and a tour of Europe and the Americas awaited, doors opened,

women would fall at my feet and threaten to

kill themselves if I refused their advances

and men would clap me on the back,

smile and give me the knowing look

that I breached the wall dear friends

but not on Crispin’s Day.

 

Silence,

foolish silence,

the clock ticked and no one moved,

five star hotels and maids coming to turn down

my bed forgotten, now they would just turn down

my bed and whisper behind my back

of the man who started the latest

Anglo-French war, Falstaff indeed.

 

Laughter,

loud and joyful laughter,

French maids eyes glistened

and I was cheered as they all pointed

at me, the stupid Brit whose mime made their day

and they cheered and infront of me some made the same action…

at least it looked that way

but they were doing it from side to side

instead of up and down, funny mime for a cow being milked…

 

Heroic,

Amazed by my perversion of a show

I still came out of that café with honour…

Moo

For at least instead of paying ten Euros

I got told to pay just five

and merci for the floor show,

my one star review a hit.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015