~~~~~~

Don’t inhibit the habit -
the habit that lets me
feel happy, keep smiling
despite of my age.

Don’t inhibit the habit
that sometimes looks silly,
Or saucily frolics on
some rigid stage.

Don’t force me to settle
For dubious metal
That’s dull, full of dross
Not shiny or bright.

Don’t force me to tell you
Why now I don’t think through
The whys of my living or
consider what’s “right”.

Instead let me live life;
The life that I’ve chosen
Regardless of look or
of style or review.

Inhabit habitual
Life-full embracing;
It’s what I have chosen -
And worry, adieu.

Looking back at my life moving forward, I see now where the grace began to leech out, joy trickling away like water in a cracked pot.  Too many missions accomplished, too many cases closed.  Now my life is empty, awaiting closure.  Now my heart is filled with sadness, and loneliness – but at least it is still full of something.

Teddy looked up from his screen.  “What’s that?”

“Torst!  Damned dwarf is ninja-ing the loot!  His tanking sucks yet he rolled Need on both Epics that dropped, even though they’re not warrior gear.  Since they’re BOP he can’t even put them up in the Auction House, to him they’re vendor crap.”

“Maybe you should take a break, Grandpa” Teddy said, “after all, it’s only a game.”

Henry swore again, reinforcing Teddy’s notion of why his own mother had such a quick temper.

13, rue Thérèse is a most singular novel: perhaps not in subject matter (the reconstruction of a life from mementos and letters), but in style, substance, and subtext.  While it is deeply entrenched in the life (real or imagined?) of a woman who lived in France from the early to mid-1900s, it begins in the present day with Trevor Stratton, a scholar in 19^th century French literature from a Californian university, now teaching classes in Paris.

In his new office Trevor finds an unassuming box (surreptitiously left there by the enigmatic office assistant, Josianne) full of love letters, postcards, photographs, and other items belonging to Louise Brunet, an ordinary woman lost to history.  As Trevor uses these keepsakes to reconstruct Louise’s life, however, she becomes not only a mystery to be unraveled, but an increasingly sensual and passionate individual whose life lived against the backdrop of WWI grows more real and compelling with each new discovery.

As the novel progresses, we start to wonder just how it is that Trevor can seem to so easily deviate from perceived fact and conjecture using the evidence from the box to be able to reconstruct so vividly not only Louise’s actions and motivations, but also her imagination and the smoldering sexuality that lies so near to her core.  Before long we’re not sure if we’re listening to Trevor’s voice or seeing through Louise’s eyes as we slip back and forth between events of the early 1900s and the scholarly reports of today.  Trevor’s historical efforts are so well established, and yet so eerily prescient of the past – how could he be assuming so much with so little?

To say much more would rob the reader of the truly enjoyable unfolding of the events of this delightful debut novel, which would be a disservice to Ms. Shapiro’s efforts and talents.  However, I will relate that the items found in this unassuming tin box are not mere props to a dramatic story, but honest keepsakes of a life actually lived, granting the author with a cohesiveness that is immediately compelling – while the story may be imaginary, the life was not.  One can even utilize the appendix to access QR codes leading to 3D renderings of the very items cataloged in the story.  This credibility is layered throughout Ms. Shapiro’s fiction, and makes 13, rue Thérèse eminently readable with a haunting sense of believability even in what we know to be pure fiction.  It’s a wonderfully disorienting and yet solidly grounded read that is in turn sentimental, sobering and seductive.  A great book for those steamy days of summer – or anytime you want to be transported to a different time and place without leaving where you mundanely are.

“Bursting” is the perfect rose,
“Gentle” is the perfect rain,
“Morning” is the perfect freshness,
“Lady” is the perfect bug;
“Sparkling” is the perfect sexy,
“Sean” is the perfect bean;
“Enduring” is the perfect friend,
“Transcendent” is the perfect art,
“Genuine” is the perfect attribute,
“Repartee” is the perfect wit;
“Antic” is the perfect play;
“Reckless” is the perfect danger,
“Searing” is the perfect desire,
“Unfettered” is the perfect passion,
“Open” is the perfect response,
“Enfolding” is the perfect love,
“Peaceful” is the perfect aftermath.

“Here” is the perfect place -
“Now” is the perfect moment.

~~~~~

The chasm suddenly loomed before him, and he reined up hard to keep his mount from plunging into the black depths.  “Damn,” he swore, breathing hard.  The others pulled up, horses nervously snorting and dancing at the edge of the cliff.

“They’ve driven us farther South than I realized,” he announced, edgily.  “We can’t outrun them, and we can’t double back.”

“We split up, then”, the thief said.

“No!”

“Listen, you must trust me.  Lead them on; I’ll hide the Princess in the valley until they pass, then escort her to safety.”

Their only chance – but he didn’t like it.

Ignorance spews from the mouths of the rabble
as if rage could bind and derision unite.
Instead…
Dispirited mothers drown their babies.
Self-righteous neighbors stone daughters for inherited sins.
Soulless children murder for trifles.
Opulent kings strafe their subjects for daring to dream.
Greed reigns.

She sits in her darkened room
bathed in despair,
dreaming of lilacs,
praying for spring.

~~~~~~~~~

PART 1 (school girl)

“You watch your tone of voice when you talk to me, young lady.”

My mother stood impervious, a slight flaring of her nostrils the only indication that she was not in total control.  I wanted to be as calm as she was, as unemotional, but the more I tried to reign myself in, the hotter the anger in me burned.  The biggest frustration was, I wasn’t even sure what the anger was all about.  It simply was.  So I went with the easiest solution – a lie.

“Well, if you would just listen to me, perhaps I wouldn’t have to yell!”

PART 2 (teenager)

“Hi.”

My heart thrilled when I heard his voice.   How a single word could affect me so, I didn’t know, but it did, it did, oh, it did.  That word evocative of his shy smile, the dark eyes almost hidden behind a veil of soft bangs.  And now, we were connected by sounds carried through wires and cords, so close.  I was glad my parents were in the living room, my father reading the paper in his easy chair and my mother watching some variety show on television.  They would not see the blush that rose in me.

“Hi, back.”

PART 3 (college student)

“No, relax your jaw.  Disengage it.  Make sure your throat is open – support with the diaphragm, the diaphragm!”

Madame Lang was animated, her hands moving from her own jaw, swiping down her throat, clenching and opening in front of her abdomen.  Her own voice was assertive and I had to concentrate on not tensing up.  But it was working!  As I followed her instructions, I could hear my voice growing bigger, stronger, more resonant.  It also was very close to being out of control, but even that was exciting and amazing.  I was singing!

“That’s it, keep going!”

I did.

PART 4 (young adult)

“You have a voice for sex”, he said, languidly.  Then, musing: “We should set up a 900 line – I bet you could make a killing.”

It’s not like I hadn’t thought about it before, especially when times were hard, like now.  But the cost would be too high.  “So you want me to learn to fake it really good and croon ‘oh, baby, baby… yes, god, now’ while painting my toenails?  You want sex to become rote, something I could turn on and off, like a robot?”

“No, never that,” he said, smiling, and pulled me back down to him.

PART 5 (older adult)

Her voice had grown so frail.  Through the phone connection, I could sense how lost she had become, how delicate.  To be expected from someone in her 83^rd year, but still hard to accept.  My mother had always been so strong, so sure of herself.  Now she could barely speak a sentence without pausing to search for a name or even a word; what had once been familiar eluded her.  Her world had telescoped down to medical conditions, medical personnel, and a litany of friends who were ill or dying.  Yet she did not sound despairing; that was my predicament.

*******

Stupid fucking designers.  Like fat women don’t want sensible clothes.  No, they have to be beaded or spangled or have ruffles big enough to hide the china in.  Or some stupid print of butterflies or seashells, or flowers the size of magpies.  Ever hear of a simple oxford shirt, you twits?  Made of actual cotton, without boat-sized cuffs or pleated yolks or stripes in spearmint and fucking cotton candy?  And what about those of us who aren’t statuesque with huge boobs?  Yeah, I know it’s my fucking fault I’m fat, you think I’m not reminded of that every fucking day?

Now my days are suddenly idle, and I feel myself growing soft and indistinct.  Try as I might (yet I don’t, or can’t) I sputter and stall, fading into mediocrity.