Death of Jackie

(Paris, France)

"It is the death of Jackie. Last night." I look at the "backup guardian" and am just in shock. She's crying and I don't really know what to say. I have seen this woman, along with Jackie, almost every day that I have been in Paris. Every day that I am not travelling, but trying to live some sense of a Parisian life. I am no Parisian and I really don't know very many Parisians. Just ex-pats from other countries trying to play the Parisian.

So Jackie died. The first Parisian I ever met.

I remember when we were locked out of the apartment and I spent 15 minutes try to explain what was wrong. It was a Sunday which means that this was really a bad situation. I drew pictures and motioned like I was trying to open the door. And finally, finally after every possible attempt of non-language based communications, he says to us, "This not good."

He climbed around the balcony to let us in. Fourth floor and he swings way out to sneak around the dividers from my apartment to the next one down. The woman from the next apartment clings to me. She whispers to me in French. I know exactly what she's thinking by her grip on my arm.

"Please Jackie," I say. "Please."

Jackie would always say to me "ELLO LINDA" any time I came in. (The Frenchies never can put that H on the front of a word.) I never had to get out my cardkey to get in the building. He would see me coming and hit the button and I would be in. I would say, "Bon Jour" and he would say, "Good night". I was just as incorrect as he was and we both would just laugh. That was all his English; that was all my French.

He would mimic my running to see if I was going out in the park. I would invite him to go, "Come, Come." He would laugh, holding his big stomach as his excuse.

I am not sure what happened to Jackie. And unless I see the other Americans in our building and they happen to know, I will never find out. "The death of Jackie, the death of Jackie," I say to myself.

I hope we have another guardian who will dispel the stereotypes of the Parisians. But, who knows ... maybe Jackie wasn't a Parisian any way. I always suspected he was a lost country boy who took that job so he could be close to the trees, to gaze to the park across the street.