The Mask of a Spring Morning
I hauled back the heavy glass door and walked out of Breakfast in America, out onto the narrow and crowded Rue Malher. A scarlet red cloth roof that protruded out of the 50's themed restaurant shielded me from the blazing sun that was now taking its place in the midst of a spring morning. I waited for my friend to say the final goodbyes to the friends inside. The buzz of the blooming city, filled with distant chatter and car horns, polluted the air and conflicted with the relaxed 50’s jingles that I had grown accustomed to over the course of my lengthy breakfast. As Stef walked out, we both pulled out our wallets and pooled the money that had survived the morning feast. Thirty-five euros, more than enough to make it home comfortably.
We lightheartedly walked out to the nearest busy avenue; adjacent to it was the glimmering River Seine that bisected the city, and whose captivating beauty seemed amplified with the aid of the brilliant sun. We sat down on the thick, concrete handrails that shielded the street from the river meters below. The weather’s cheerful splendour was truly contagious. As there was no immediate need to get home quickly, we decided we too would stall and enjoy the day, like the masses of delighted people that walked the same gravel path.
We continued along the walkway, as the typical Parisian sights began to surround us: the boulangeries, packed to the brim with people buying the days bread and enjoying a nice weekend breakfast. Street artists, exhibiting their art to passer-bys as if they were holding million a dollar auction at the Louvre. The towering spirals of the Notre Dame cathedral in the distance, as its large, resonating bell boomed, piercing the city atmosphere to indicate 10:00 am. The street performers acting like statues, coming to life at the drop of a coin. The heart wrenching sight of poor beggars earning their meager livings through pity. The sorrow and hopelessness in their faces unlike the vibrant happiness of the people that walked past without noticing them, at most, slightly changing their trajectory to avoid the touch of the filthy bundle of clothes and beat up mattresses that they called home. Life had placed them in an unfortunate situation, in a isolated abyss where they had helplessly fallen into or ended up in due to their own foul choices. Though I knew there was nothing I could do to clear the anguish that clouded their lives, I did have the power to help the best I could. I walked up to one of the outcasts, a slouched, hopeless figure that kneeled patiently before an empty plastic cup and dropped a coin in. He looked up at me and graciously smiled.
Suddenly the vibrant crowd we were a part of seemed to disperse, with people either crossing the street, stopping at one of the numerous art stands or simply sitting down for a rest at one of the convenient benches, uniformly placed along the path. The sound delighted chatter that complimented the weather soon replaced by the lonely, somber sound of the gravel crunching beneath our feet. The straight path, boarded by the river on one side and blooming trees on the other, seemed longer than ever as a sense of desolation surrounded us and the beggars, now the only ones that walked the same path as us.
Two hooded and suspicious looking men leaned against the handrail bordering the river ahead of us. They looked our way and suddenly, their bulking, dark silhouettes quickly began to move towards us while their dark brown eyes, focused and determined, interlocked with mine. I was nervous, unsure at what they wanted, hoping they were just in a hurry and that we were merely obstacles in their paths. They stopped right in front of us and suddenly we were cut off, isolated from the vibrant morning that resumed on the other side of the street. They looked down, towering over us, the features of their dark, young faces, around 25 years of age, were hard to make out with the blinding sun behind them. I tightly clenched my phone in my pocket, unsure what was going to happen. One of the men reached inside his leather jacket, still maintaining a forceful glare. I felt an adrenaline rush, were we really going to be robbed in plain sunlight within the sight of hundreds of pedestrians? The man finally pulled out a poorly written sign, saying they were deaf and mute and were collecting money for their charity, all accompanied with a wide, unexpected smile. They handed us a waiver, asking us for some basic information and for us to make a small donation to their cause. I immediately felt a sense of relief, Stef however didn't seem so. He kept his head down as to avoid the hypnotising stare, discreetly nudging his head signalling me to keep walking, but it was too late, I was paralysed by the gaze of the men, unable to follow Stef’s crucial commands.
“Lets go man”, he said, one last attempt at freeing us from the situation, but it proved useless.
Stef had lived in the city much longer than I had, he knew Paris and how things worked, who to trust and who to stay away from. The hope for an easy escape was gone as a look of anxiety filled Stef’s eyes. We immediately tried into dismiss the men, making gestures with our hands, pulling out our pockets, trying to communicate to our deafened oppressors that there was nothing we could do for them. They simply smirked and persisted making pleading gestures, following us when we tried to walk away, getting closer and more aggressive by the second. I didn't feel comfortable and I knew that we, at that moment were their only targets, their only prey. Hoping to get them off us I accepted the waiver, sealing my ill fate. I signed a fake name, wrote a random phone number and an illegible email address and promised five euros to their cause. I returned the pen to the man, handed him the insignificant, green bill from my nearly empty wallet and continued walking.
Unbelievably, I felt a cold, rough grip, clenching my shoulder from behind. I quickly jerked, breaking the hold and turned around. The penetrating glare of the pitiful handicap was now hostile; furious as he looked down at the bill I had handed him and made a gesture, a nodding of his head, communicating his disappointment in me. Stef and I took a few steps back, but the men surrounded us. For once I felt the despair of a beggar, unnoticed by the river of people that then flowed past me like if I was a bundle of dirty clothes or a beat up mattress, who continued their pleasant morning routines, careless, distracted, fooled into believing that nothing was wrong by the beautiful mask of that morning. The pain of being abandoned, isolated, forced into submission when the slightest of interventions could have saved us consumed me.
The man made a quick gesture with his hands, demanding more, enforcing his command with his aggressive stare. I reached in into my wallet, my hands now slightly sweaty and tingling with fright. We handed the men more money, the little money we had left until their furious eyes soothed into cheerful ones as they smiled and quietly laughed among themselves, congratulating each other for their achievement. They smirked, thanking us for our generosity and walked off, as if nothing had ever happened. Defeated and confused, we did the same.
We tried to laugh it off, trying to make humor of the fact that we were now stranded on the other side of the city, without money to earn the aid of strangers, unwilling to call Stef’s father and let him know what just happened. We were again left to face our troubles on our own, just as this world expected you too.
Like a rainbow after storm, the bubble of our isolation, that seemed to separate our despair from the good Samaritans around us dispersed, as we were re-introduced into the river vibrant life. We were no longer fooled by this glorified reality; we had seen the corruption veiled by the mask of that morning.
We marched on knowing that we had a very long way to walk. Ahead of us other people, with the same signs, members of the same "charity" we're trying to play their trick on some adults, trying to gain their pity and earn some more euros only to be immediately dismissed. It did not work once. Everyone knew these people were crooks, everyone but us; they had abused our ignorance. It seemed that everyone knew that these people were crooks, yet when the hundreds that walked past us saw that they had captured us, that we had fallen in their trap and were now at their mercy, they did nothing.
If only we had been a little older, a little more mature and a little more experienced, like the adults who were able to escape that which broke us. If only we had known that we were not invincible, that there were people out there willing to hurt us. If only we had known that the beautiful day merely masked the tainted heart of the city we lived in and that the city of light also shone with darkness. If only we had known, we wouldn't have walked all the way home.