Chapter 5

The next day I returned to de Mendit's office to collect the key to my shop. As usual his secretary showed me through to the office, she was in her early twenties and wiggled around seductively on high stilletos.

The promised paperwork had miraculously been completed overnight and the shop was, if not my personal property, then mine to do with as I saw fit. As he handed over the keys de Mendit smiled and gave one of his half bows.

"It has been a pleasure to do business with you", he said with the insincerety which can be mustered only by salesmen, policemen and born again Christians.

"Thankyou", I smiled in response.

I left de Mendit to calculate the margins on his next transactions. As his secretary escorted me to the door, I noticed that the magazine on her desk was open on the Astrology column.

"You believe in the stars?" I asked her. She told me that she always read the columns in the newspapers but didn't think

they were very professional. She did however believe in the power of the Tarot cards and regularly visited a well known local medium. I told her that the reason for renting the shop was to perform readings with a newly developed method of telling the future. She was immediately interested and asked me when the first consultations would be taking place. I told her that I hoped to be open within a week and that if she would like a free consultation I would send her an invitation. She thanked me and said she hoped to see me soon. As I left the office thinking of the wiggle I realised that I was going to enjoy my new profession.

I went directly to the shop to take stock of my acquisition and plan the layout of the consulting chambers. The rooms seemed smaller than I remembered. The outer room was only ten feet square, the inner ten by twenty. At the rear of the inner room was a small closet containing a toilet and washbasin. The whole shop was currently decorated with nicotine stained white paint. The single piece of furniture, a counter in the outer room, was of a design which would not have looked out of place in a Dicken's novel. It would be necessary to perform a complete refit of the premises.

I sat considering the problem for two or three hours. The first idea that came to mind was to outfit the room entirely in heavy fabric wall coverings of the type popular with Indian restaurants. The furniture would consist of heavily carved and guilded chairs, upholstered in burgundy fabric and gold tassels, reminiscent of cinematic representations of the British Raj. The consulting room would contain a similarly covered chaise longue and a heavily carved desk with matching captain's chair. To add credibility to my medical pretensions, along one wall I intended to place a large bookcase containing ancient leatherbound medical tomes.

On reflection my desire to produce something in the style of a nineteenth century gentleman's study was likely to appear more like a wild west whorehouse. This was unlikely to place my clients at their ease. Having dispensed with this idea I tuned my thoughts to something more modern and slightly clinical.

Starting with the consulting room. This would have pure white walls with the floor tiled in a black and white geometric pattern. The consulting couch would be a Barcelona chair in chrome and black leather. My desk would be a large oval of plate glass positioned on tubular chrome trestles, the chair to be a matching black leather and chrome design.

Everything would reflect the Bauhaus concept of form through purpose. In the outer room the theme would be continued with three chairs in black and chrome, the reception desk would again be in plate glass. As a counterpoint to all this modernity an old fashioned candlestick telephone and large leatherbound appointment book would repose on the desk. This plan appealed to the part of me that was becoming Dr. Schwarzball.

It was now approaching one o'clock and I set out for lunch having decided to pay a visit to the Chez Ghandi, a small restaurant a short walk away. No doubt my sudden desire to eat Indian cuisine was fuelled by a subconscious desire to furnish my consulting room in the style I first thought of.

The waiter showed me to a small table in the middle of the restaurant. As on my previous lunchtime visits I was the sole customer. The menu was presented with a flourish and my drinking requirements enquired after. I ordered a glass of beer and started to peruse the menu. This was in fact wholly unnecessary as I always ordered the remarkably cheep set menu. This consisted of a samosa or onion bharji as entrée, chicken or the somewhat cryptic, and always avoided, meat curry as main course, ice cream was available for desert. The whole served with papadoms, rice and nan bread as required. I ordered the bharji, chicken and ice cream, hoping that the latter two would not be served together.

While I was sipping my beer another customer arrived. The waiter was in the kitchen and the new client gave me a careful scrutiny before choosing a table and sitting down. I had removed my jacket and possibly, in the half-darkness of the restaurant, the combination of white shirt and moustache had led to me being mistaken for a waiter. It appears to be a universal law that all Indian and Chinese restaurants are endowed with the level of candle power which would prove an embarrassment on a child's first birthday cake. My paternal grandmother in fact refused to dine in such establishments on the grounds that she preferred to be able to see what she was eating.

The waiter returned from the kitchen carrying my onion bharjee. He ceremoniously placed it on the table in front of me. In an attempt at culinary sophistication the lonely little bharjee was accompanied by a piece of limp lettuce. He turned his attention to the new client.

To my surprise the man attempted to order in English. On closer inspection he was in fact dressed in the style favoured by financialy successful men who have entered middle age, the golf club look, smart casual dress accepted.

"Do you have a Beef Madras?" The waiter looked confused as neither of the words Beef or Madras appeared on the menu.

"Pardon, Monsieur".

The man immediately spoke louder and slower, confusing misunderstanding with deafness as have generations of English travellers. The technique is reputed to work in most circumstances.

"Meat, you understand meat".

The waiter appeared to understand 'meat'.

"Curry". The voice was now increasing to fog horn level. It was unnecessary for this word as the French have adopted the same word for curry.

"Hot curry, HOT not cold", the crescendo mounted to a climax. The waiter surrendered to the aural onslaught, made a note on his pad and was about to depart to recover in the kitchen when there was a final, and most impressive salvo.

"And, une beer", this was immediately understood. The English learn only three words in most languages, hello, goodbye, and beer. Unfortunately these are pronounced with such improbable accents that even they are not understood.

Somewhat battered by the exchange the waiter descended into the lower depths of the kitchen. I attempted to start a conversation with my fellow countryman.

"Is it only the English who eat in these places?"

He looked shocked to hear an English voice. I explained that I was in fact English and asked if he was in Paris for business or pleasure.

"Actually I live over at Deauville, have a little place there, quite convenient for Paris, been there about five years now". His conversation came out in short spurts."I'm having to move back to London as a tax exile, too expensive to stay here now. And what do you do here?" The final question was delivered in an abrupt, almost military manner.

Not wishing to have to explain the complexities of my new career I told him that I was working as a translator. This was partly true as I had recently completed a translation of a series of technical documents.

"You must be jolly near fluent then?" I admitted to having a useable knowledge of French, but explained that I had only been living here a few months and my accent needed improving. In fact for most Englishmen, if someone can string a sentence together in a foreign language, they are fluent. My main course arrived and the conversation stopped as I started to eat my curry. The Tax Exile opened his copy of "The Times" and began to read.

The restaurant had started to fill with people even though it was now half past one and a little late to start lunch. In Paris I had found it common to begin eating at twelve and continue until three. The phenomenon of follow-the-leader restaurant filling was not unusual. On a number of occasions I have entered an empty bar with a friend to enjoy I quiet conversation only to find that, within twenty minutes, every seat is taken.

This is not unique to France. When living in a small Cheshire market town I was visited by an old friend from my university days, Junior, born and raised in Nottingham although his parents are from the West Indies. We went out for a drink at a small traditional pub which was normally deserted except for market days. After half an hour, a group of three or four men entered and sat down at a table. Five minutes later another three arrived. Soon the whole room was full of men. Rather disconcertingly the majority looked the same, with short hair, bushy moustaches, leather jackets and jeans. As the room filled it had become apparent that this was not a normal night out on the town for the boys. I had noticed one or two men kissing when they met, not a habit displayed in conservative rural communities.

Junior had also noticed that something strange was happening. We looked at each other and continued talking, he significantly changed the subject to our respective girlfriends. I went up to the bar to refill our glasses and stood earwigging a conversation about the way gay men were treated in the farming community. It was clear that we had accidently stumbled into the only gay pub in rural Cheshire. When I returned to our table I found Junior trying to avoid the advances of one of the clientel. As I sat down at the table the intruder uttered an, "Oh sorry, I thought you were on your own", and minced off to find a new friend. We finished our drinks slowly not wishing to be intimidated by the situation. On leaving the pub we both had to stop at the first opportunity for a piss as neither of us had risked a visit to the toilets during the whole evening.

"I wouldn't have believed it", I laughed as we pissed up against a wall, the urine producing a large cloud of steam in the cold Autumn air. "Whenever I've been there before it was always empty except for a few old men playing dominoes in the corner". Gay pubs were to be found in the nearby city of Manchester but I had never encountered one in the rural areas surrounding it. An investigation on the following day revealed that Thursday was indeed 'Gay Night at the Market Tavern'.

I thought about the bushy moustaches as I sat in the Chez Ghandi eating my curry. This was not the simple procedure it sounds, the presence of Ferdinand on my upper lip ensured that every care must be taken to prevent the food depositing itself on his furry body. His tendency to attract pieces of debris had to be guarded against to prevent an unpleasant smell of rotting repast following my every movement. In addition the grooming required must be kept to a minimum to ensure a long and healthy life for the moustache.

Each mouthful was of a carefully measured size, my lips were opened as wide as possible and the fork carefully manoeuvred inside. I had spent a number of hours practising this in front of the mirror to enable me to perform the operation as smoothly and naturally as possible. Even with the utmost care a stray morsel would find its way onto Ferdinand's sleek coat. This was carefully dabbed away immediately with a napkin. The problem was even worse with a glass of beer, I had found that, in spite of the Madeleines' assurances the head from the beer acted as a solvent for the adhesive, it was impossible for Dr.Schwarzball to drink a beverage from his Bavarian Heimat.

I completed the meal with a small bowl of ice cream and a coffee, nodded to the Tax Exile, and left the restaurant. The afternoon was fine, Ferdinand had survived the curry unscathed, and Dr.Schwarzball felt content. I returned to the shop to continue with the preparations.

I had a small notebook with me to list all the changes which would have to be made. During the morning I had started noting down the necessary changes, the position of power sockets, light fittings, the exact dimensions of the rooms etc. One of the most important features of the shop was the small display window opening out on to the street. I was hoping to attract passing trade by using the window to advertise my services but was aware that incautious use of photographs might result in attracting the type of clients who normally frequent Pigalle.

I had decided that the window should contain only a card placed on a small artists easel. The card would be printed with my name, profession, pretensions and hours of opening. During the afternoon I tried to compose a suitable description of my services and found that it is surprisingly difficult to write an advertisement for a service which involves several minutes tit fondling.

My mind was continually led astray by catch phrases which would be more appropriate on the cards found in phone booths around Kensington. One of my favourites having been a poorly printed example showing a school mistress offering 'bottom marks for bad boys'. I was not enticed to phone the number leaving the service free for the far more needy British politicians.

After two hours I was still unable to come up with a suitable phrase. Schwarzball, the mammarologist, was proving exceptionally difficult to market. The only phrase I had generated was, 'Dr.Schwarzball your future in a fondle'. I felt however, that this was hardly in keeping with the doctor's serious medical pretentions. I set my notebook to one side and decided to go home for a bite to eat.

As usual the Metro was crowded with miserable looking commuters. I stood in the small space at the end of the carriage sandwiched between the door and two Africans talking an incomprehensible French dialect. I could only understand one word in ten but knew that the subject was highly amusing from the high decibel laughter that punctuated the sentences. I have always found laughter to be infectious and this occasion was no exception. By the time I left the train the depression that had set in during the afternoon's futile attempts to develop a slogan had completely disappeared.

Chapter 6

The next morning I felt completely refreshed and ready to continue with my preparations for Dr.Schwarzball's launch on the psychic circuit. I rose slightly late at nine thirty and prepared my breakfast. This was much the same every day. I first brewed a large jug of coffee and then ate the remains of the previous evening's baguette. After the baguette came the first cigarette of the day. The first cigarette is always slightly special, the body has been starved of nicotine during the night, the taste buds have recovered from the previous days onslaught, and you sometimes remember a little of the way the first few puffs tasted years before.

I have had a mixed relationship with tobacco over the years. At times smoking until I could hardly breathe, at others, stopping completely for months or even years in the interest of my health. One of the most important factors effecting my consumption is the environment in which I am living. When I am living and working with people who do not smoke, I do not smoke. When I am living and socialising with people who smoke heavily, I smoke heavily. I find my biggest challenge is when living in France or Spain where the anti-smoking lobby is not as strong as in England and I don't feel like a leper lighting up in a restaurant.

This morning I was sitting in my dressing gown, a richly embroidered Japanese design, which would not have looked out of place on Noël Coward. To complete the impersonation I only required a long ivory cigarette holder. I had brewed the coffee and eaten my baguette, next came the cigarette. I opened a new packet and extraced one of the thin white cylinders. Searching around the table top I realised I must have left the lighter in my clothes when I took them off the night before.

I got up from the table and went to find the trousers I had been wearing the night before. I slid my hand into the right hand pocket. A set of keys for the house, a set of keys for the car, a mucus encrusted handkerchief, some loose change. No lighter.

I looked under the chair my clothes were thrown on. No lighter. Inside my shoes. No lighter. Under the bed. No lighter.

Becoming steadily more desperate I went to look in the coat I had been wearing the night before. No lighter. The lighter had disappeared. I was becoming steadily more desperate to light the cigarette which was hanging dejectedly from my lips.

The flat was equipped with only a small electric hot plate for cooking. This was still warm from when I had made my coffee. I turned the heat to full and waited for the plate to start glowing, at last there was a dull red gleam. It appears to be normal for hot plates in France to be barely capable of boiling water, this one was no exception. I touched the tip of the cigarette on the hot plate, there was a smell of smouldering tobacco but no reassuring glow. I removed the tip from the heat and found that the end had glued itself to the plate. As I sat looking at it, the tobacco on the plate released a small plume of mocking smoke.

The flat also possessed a gas fired water heater and I looked to see if the pilot light was lit. Normally I turned the heater off when not in use in the interests of safety, having heard numerous stories of British tourists being killed by carbon monoxide poisoning. Occasionally I forgot and have still lived to tell the tale. Unfortunately this morning the heater had been turned off. Although fitted with an electronic lighter this functioned very erratically and I had always had to resort to using burning pieces of paper to light the wretched thing. This morning was no exception. I opened the valve on the gas cylinder and went to try and ignite the pilot jet. I held the gas control down in the ignition position, waited for the smell of butane and then started frantically pressing the button to light the jet. Press, press, press, press, press. A flash of blue from the jet. The flame failed to hold. Press, press, press, press, nothing. I continued with this process for ten minutes with a steadily increasing smell of gas invading my nosrils. Not wishing to become the first exploding mammarologist I gave up and opened the window for some fresh air. It looked as though I would have to do without my cigarette this morning.

Next on the morning routine was a shit. I have always been an extremely regular person regarding my personal excretions and shortly after eating my breakfast a trigger mechanism inside me insists on a visit to Dr.Crapper's excellent invention. This morning was no different. In case it proved to be a long confinement I selected a book from the shelf and entered my meditation chamber.

I removed my dressing gown and hung it on the small hook attached to the back of the door. Standing there, naked, I lowered myself down on the bowl. It was an especially ancient example with immovable brown stains down the back of the pan. The plastic seat had a crack in it and one broken hinge necessitating very careful placing of the buttocks to avoid a rather painful nip when standing up. I opened my book, this had proved an unnecessary precaution. As I read the first line my anal sphincter opened with a loud fanfare and yesterdays curry erupted into the daylight. I felt a splash of water on my behind and felt an overpowering sense of satisfaction. The previous days I had been somewhat constipated resulting in half an hours straining to produce two or three hard, walnut sized, turds and a sore anus.

The laxitive power of a good curry had worked again. One of the few things I miss when living outside England is a good curry and its attendant faecal pyrotechnics. This mornings performance had almost made up for the nicotine starvation. I savoured the odours for a few moments before commencing the clean up operation. I removed two sheets of paper from the roll of toilet tissue and folded them in half. The splash had suggested that extra precautions would be required to prevent my digit passing through the paper. I took the sheets in my hand and started to wipe. I could feel the warm slippery softness through the paper. I held it up to carry out an inspection, the sheet was covered in light yellow-brown shit of the consistancy of warm axel grease. I felt proud of the mornings performance and continued to wipe until the paper came up clean.

I dismounted from my thrown. In my excitement to turn around and inspect the stools before flushing I forgot about the condition of the seat and received a blood drawing nip to my right cheek. I clenched my teeth and, using the handkerchief from my dressing gown to stem the flow, continued with my inspection. The basin was completely covered in splashes of brown with a large thick run down the back into the muddy coloured water. This made up for the pain in my buttock. I lifted the handle to flush the masterpiece away. I had often wondered about mounting an exhibition of photographs showing a weeks production with details of the dietry products used. I still felt that this had possibilities and made a mental note to try it if Dr.Schwartzball failed me.

Satisfied with the day's defaecation, I put my dressing gown back on and headed for the shower dabbing my wound with a handkerchief. Unfortunately all the water heating came from the same gas heater which I had been unable to light for my cigarette. I prepared myself for an icecold deluge. I threw the dressing gown down on the bed and headed into the shower room. The cubicle in which the shower was situated had no natural light and was ventilated by a six inch diameter hole into the kitchen. The steam from the shower had resulted in the softening of the plaster immediately above and surrounding the duct, this had now started to crumble and from time to time pieces would fall into the food I was cooking directly beneath. On one occasion a girlfriend had suffered a broken tooth as a result of the fallout. Strangely, I never saw her again.

I held the head of the shower in my left hand and pointed it away from my body as I turned it on. An ice cold jet came from the rose. Even the splashes bouncing back off the walls were giving me goose pimples. With a display of courage, or its close relation, foolishness, I directed the spray onto my torso. The result was a scrotum shrivelling shock which subsided after a few seconds inundation. I washed my hair and body as though the water was an exotic substance of a value greater than gold. On leaving the shower extensive rubbing with a rough towel was required to restore my circulation, particularly to my genitals which had all but disappeared as a result of the arctic conditions. It is a mystery to me how the Eskimos ever manage to father any children.

Having survived the shower I turned my attention to my injured buttock. The nip had stopped bleading and was showing signs of local bruising, I took a tube of antiseptic ointment from the medical cabinet and removed the cap squeezing a small blob onto my finger, this was carefully administered to the wound.

Having attended to my injury I turned my attention to dressing myself. This was the point in the day when I became Dr.Schwarzball. I always start to dress from the bottom to the top, today the first garments were a pair of Argyle socks, next a pair of slightly faded but still usable Y-fronts, then a white shirt. At this stage I still felt like myself and had not started the transformation proper to mammarologist. The doctors suit was the next item, this was carefully hung each night and the trousers pressed in an electric trouserpress purchased specially for the purpose. The doctor must be immaculately presented at all times.

After dressing I shaved my chin with an electric razor, I have never mastered the art of wet shaving having been given an electric razor by my father when my beard started to grow. It was no longer necessary to shave my upper lip as Ferdinand's depilatory action kept it completely hairfree. I carefully brushed my hair and commenced the moustache installation procedure.

Ferdinand lived in a small carved wooden box I had purchased at a flea-market. Its original purpose was unknown but the erotic carvings on the lid suggested it was of Far Eastern origin. I kept the adhesives and solvents in the box along with a small comb for maintenance purposes. I removed Ferdinand from his lair and carefully combed him before laying him on one side while I unscrewed the cap from the adhesive bottle. The top of the bottle contained a small paintbrush for applying the adhesive. Three small drops were dabbed onto each side of the moustache, left for thirty seconds to become tacky and then all was ready for the attacment. The mounting of Ferdinand on my lip was performed with a smoothing action starting at the middle and working to the outside on both sides. He was allowed to settle for a minute before his waxed tips were twisted to the required angle. After this I became Dr.Schwarzball, tied my bow tie, was ready to face the world and find a lighter for my packet of cigarettes.

I checked the mail box as I left the appartment, nothing but junk mail which was consigned to the dustbin conveniently positioned adjacent to the boxes. I set off towards the Metro station, ten minute's walk from the apartment. I had been walking two or three minutes before realising that I had forgotten my briefcase, cursing, I returned to the appartment and set off again with the briefcase. At the station I stopped at the Tabac to buy a lighter and packet of cigarettes. The train was packed as usual with a mixture of commuters and tourists, after three stops there was an announcement over the tannoy, the train service would be disrupted between the next five stations. The passengers looked around at each other with a mixture of resignation and annoyance, I knew what to expect, the last time this happened it had taken over an hour to cover a distance which normally took ten minutes. The weather was fine so I decided to walk to the shop, after all, it was only half an hour away.

I arrived at the shop hot and sticky with sweat. As I approached the door I felt a large drop land on my head, there were no clouds in sight. Tentatively I reached up to feel my head, the worst was confirmed, one of Paris' many pigeons had deposited a load on my head. My fingers descended covered in dark green slime. After this nothing else could possibly go wrong. When even the birds shit on you, you know that you are at the bottom of the heap. I felt lucky today.

I entered the shop and cleaned my hair under the tap in the toilet, pieces of green excrement soon covered the basin, it is surprising how much shit a pigeon can produce. I dried my hair on the paper towels left by the last occupant of the premises. At last I could relax and have the first cigarette of the day, I inhaled deeply, it was now nearly twelve and time to think about lunch. I decided to phone Hervé.

"Allo, oui?" The reply was always the same and almost instantaneous as though he spent his whole day in anticipation of an important phone call.

"Bonjour Hervé", as usual he recognised my voice.

"How are you?" He had not seen me for some weeks while I had been working on Dr.Schwarzball. I explained that I had been developing my project for the Voyant and that we should meet for lunch so that he could see my progress. As usual we agreed to meet in the reception of the company he worked for at half past twelve.

I arrived slightly early to give myself the opportunity to talk to Francoise, the receptionist. To reach the reception area it is necessary to descend a staircase to a level below the street. I walked up to the desk and asked for M.Lefaure. At first Francoise failed to recognize me. She looked at me two or three times with her dark eyes.

"Your name please?"I wondered whether to continue with the deception but decided not to. I gave her my name.

"It is you, I thought I knew the voice!" She had brown hair which matched her eyes. When she smiled you always felt that it was specially for you. Who knows, perhaps for me it was?

She phoned Hervé on the internal network.

"Tell him it's Dr.Schwarzball to see him", she winked at me. "He says he'll be down in a few minutes, why have you not been to see me for so long?"

I explained that I had been starting a new career as a Voyant.

"And this is why you have the new suit and the very handsome moustache". I nodded not wishing to admit that the handsome moustache was not exactly my own.

"Will you do a reading for me?" she asked with one of her most seductive smiles. It was impossible to refuse the request. I told her that I was not actually opening my consulting rooms for another week but that if she would like a private seance we could meet up one evening. I was surprised how quickly she accepted the invitation, perhaps the smile was reserved only for me after all. We agreed to meet the next evening after she had finished work at eight. As I finished concluding the details Hervé arrived. His face broke into a wide grin the minute he saw Ferdinand.

"What the hell is this thing?" pointing at Ferdinand.

"Dr.Swingingthing I presume?"

"Schwarzball" I replied in my most serious voice, offering my hand in an exagerated manner.

We set off for lunch, I waved and smiled to Francoise, she blew me a kiss. Hervé looked at me questioningly.

During the short walk to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs canteen I told Hervé the details of my preparations regarding Dr.Schwarzball. He was particularly impressed by my new costume and the effect it had on Francoise.

"So you are giving her a private seance tonight?"

I admitted to this coup as we arrived at the canteen. I passed through the metal detector with no problems, then came the visit to the desk to gain me a visitor's pass in exchange for my passport. The security officer looked at the photograph in the passport and then at me. He looked again at the photograph, unfortunately my disguise had become too perfect, I no longer looked like myself. He asked for further evidence of my identity, I offered my credit cards and driving licence. He was still doubtful, he kept looking from the photograph to the reality and back again. In the end he shrugged and handed me a visitor's form to sign, the form included a duplicate sheet and was signed in ball point pen. He gave me the top copy to keep and attached the duplicate to the passport with an elastic band, this was thrown into a draw at the back of the desk. Hervé and I descended into the depths of the subterranean canteen.

The canteen was self service with the food arranged on stainless steel racks. I chose egg mayonaise followed by turkey escalopes and tarte au citron to finish. This was all to be washed down by a third of a bottle of rosé. The required plates were placed on the tray and transported to the pay till where Hervé paid for the meal with a complicated combination of luncheon vouchers. We now circulated for two or three minutes looking for a free table.

At last we found a space close to a wall with a seat's space between us and the next diners. By now I had brought Hervé up to date with the story of Schwarzball's progress. He was especially intrigued by the story of Ferdinand's acquisition and insisted that a demonstration of the attachment procedure would be required on the next visit to my appartment.

I explained that I was having problems writing the card for the window of the shop, I also needed an advertisement for the press and a publicity stunt to interest the television companies in me.

"The card for the window is no problem, just give the hours for the seances and your profession". This sounded good advice, I had spent the best part of an afternoon worrying about a problem that did not exist. The simple solutions are nearly always the best.

"For the advertising do the same and place the advert in the section for Voyantes and Astrologues, people will be interested in a new method, so you just wait for the phone to ring".

"You think so?" I was rather more doubtful.

"Of course, no problem. For the television, I'll talk to some friends who work for Canal Z". Canal Z was one of the numerous cable channels available in the Paris area, it specialised in the more bizarre aspects of French culture, unfortunately, not being equipped to receive cable, I had been unable to see very many of the broadcasts. If I could perform an on screen seance this would guarantee some notoriety in the Paris area.

"Anyway, if Francoise is typical you won't have any problem making appointments". Hervé revealed that he had tried on a number of occasions to persuade the pretty receptionist out for a drink only to meet with zero success.

We finished eating our lunch while discussing one of Hervé's favourite topics, Paris scrap yards. He spent most of his weekends touring the car breakers looking for interesting cars. When I had been looking for spare parts for an old Citroën he quickly found them in a small yard to the south-west of Paris. His latest project was a Toyota sports car from the nineteen seventies. He explained that he had found another two in a yard near Chartres and would be spending the weekend dismantling them. One was fitted with a large number of period accessories and he particularly wanted to transfer these to his car.

After lunch we smoked two or three cigarettes and drank a coffee before leaving the canteen. I collected the passport from the desk, it was a new security man, less scrupulous than the last he returned the passport to me without checking the photograph. I left the building through the metal detector and quickly glanced at the image on the X-ray machine used for checking handbags, as usual it showed a bag containing a strange mixture of metallic objects. I was intrigued by this image as it never changed. The position of the bag moved from time to time, sometimes higher, sometimes lower on the screen, sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right. What was the purpose of the bag? Was it to check the operation of the equipment or simply that someone's hand bag had stuck in the machine and they had forgotten to ask for it back. I found this unlikely as the anticipation of the quality of the food was not sufficient to cause a lapse in memory of this magnitude.

We walked down the street talking about things of little consequence in the way that many days and hours are pleasantly wasted. When the time came for our paths to part we shook hands.

"Good luck tonight with the seance", Hervé gave a smile, "And don't forget I want to be trained as an assistant", he added.

I winked back, "I'll tell you how it goes".

"Thank you, but I prefer to use my imagination!"

We parted and I set off to take a stroll along the Seine towards my shop. As I passed under one of the bridges near Notre Dame I stopped to listen to a singer performing pieces in latin. He was in his twenties but still had the pure voice of a boy soprano. The voice was full of sadness as though the singer was crying inside for a part of life he would never know. As I watched him he looked directly at me and I could see tears in his eyes. The voice haunted me as I walked back to the shop, small snatches reaching me on the wind as I walked along. I remembered the face and the voice.