Chapter 11: Les Singees a Paris

he weather was cool. It always seemed chilly in Paris, but the gray skies that hung perpetually over the city did nothing to dampen the mood of the four old acquaintances as they descended the steps of the Opera House, tickets still in hand, and dodged around the tourists and taxis that surrounded the small plaza outside. They quickly crossed the circle and continued south along one side of the enormous Grand Hotel, down the Avenue de l'Opera.

They had been together, more or less, since Tuesday, though their history as a foursome was a quarter-century further in the past. Two of them had started as actors, the other two as musicians, and for a few years earned their greatest fame as a quartet that was an unholy mix of the two performance arts. But they had chosen their directions years before they were brought together, and their congruence was to last only three years before their lines diverged again on the far side of celebrity.

Sony/Republic Pictures had flown them to Paris to complete some paperwork involving a joint project, paperwork that would keep them in the city until Monday. They were free for now, though, and while their professional artistic directions were as distant and unrelated as ever, the nostalgia of their past friendship was making itself known, dissolving what was left of years of discordance. They were enjoying each others' company.

"It's a damned shame the meeting with Zylinski had to be held today," said Peter. "I'd love to have seen Faust before it closed. So what IS this one, anyway?"

"Another Gounod opera. One of his later ones, around 1880 or '81; it hasn't been done here for years, tomorrow night's the big opening. Le Tribut de Zamora. Doesn't matter to me, I can't speak French anyway. I just love the opera here, and Gounod's not too bad." Micky smiled. "Besides, the Opera House is just across the street from the hotel, and as long as Columbia was bringing us here we should do the place justice. I can't believe Brooks is so busy that we had to come to Paris to do the contracts, but -- what the hell. Twist my arm."

"Don't kid yourself, Mick," Michael said as they reached the corner and waited for the light. "We're not here for the contract. Coulda done that at home. Columbia wants us here so we can spend some time together. They've got money ridin' on this movie, and if they're hoping for some of the 'old times,' they want to make sure we can still be friends. When we came out here back then -- what was that, '68? -- everything was still new to us. S'was before any of the acrimony. Paris doesn't have any bad memories for us; Al knows that. He wants us to remember those times. Subliminal, man."

The light changed to green. They resumed their walk, David switching sides across the wide sidewalk to talk with Peter.

"Beautiful here, isn't it?" Peter looked up at the buildings lining the Avenue. "I love that. Everything's eight stories tall, everything's got the same architecture, those rounded tops... It's not like L.A., L.A. clashes, it's like a canyon, like a... a... I dunno, you just feel tense. It's wrong. Paris is good for the soul. It's in balance. 'Specially now, it's getting dark, the lights are just coming on, it's beautiful. Why can't they do this in the states?"

David held off speaking for a moment and took in the view, attempting to see through Peter's eyes. "You're right, though I think it's unfair to compare L.A. with a human city. I don't know. Anyway, Pete, you're the one who hasn't been back to Paris in all these years, so -- after the Louvre, what are you up for?"

"Dave, I'd just as soon live the rest of my life there."

The cellular chirped. Nez pulled the phone from the inside pocket of his jacket and punched a button. "Yello? Oh, hi, Beth. Look, if it's Wes, tell him and his crew forget it, I'm not shaving the beard. I told him already, and he wasn't... No? Alright, sorry, what?"

As he listened, his pace began to slow, until at length he put his hand on Micky's shoulder and motioned him and the others off to the side.

"They're all here, too. Hold on, you tell 'em." He handed the phone to Micky.

Zan and I sat on the wild grass at the edge of the forest. The sun was about a half hour short of setting and the light was turning from white to yellow, the late-afternoon brass color that seems invigorating in the spring, but tinges the autumn afternoons with a palpable melancholy. The evening breeze was making itself known as we passed the mason jar of Kombucha tea between us.

The sense of urgency that I felt as I tried to reach the Shrine had melted, dissipated, as we shared our time. I knew I would get to the Shrine. I knew I would enter it. As I let the exigency and tension release, the memory of the Professor's computer monitor returned and I saw it -- I saw everything -- clearly for the first time in my ordeal. I had reached an epiphany in my journey, and was in a large way surprised at myself for not having seen it earlier.

Pretty dumb idea, I thought. I enter the pyramid, probably at the same time as the Monkeeheads in the real world enter the Hall of Fame. Convergence, synchronicity, something like that. And then, woo-oo-oooo, magic happens, I wake up in Cleveland, everybody goes home, happy ending. Doesn't get much more simplistic than that, does it, I thought to myself. I was embarassed at the prospect.

"Is this it, Zan? Is this where I've led myself?"

Zan took a sip from the jar, swallowed, then looked up in silence for a moment. "You never know, Nick," she said without changing expression.

"Never know? I think you're wrong, Zan. I feel like I'm writing this, like I control everything that's been happening here. In fact, not just here; it's like, I'm controlling what's happening back in the 'real world,' too, where I'm unconscious and Mel and everybody are on their way to the Hall of Fame. Does that sound... I don't know, conceited or something?"

"Sound? Why do you care about the sound? Sound is transitory. It's here, then fades, then... there's no trace. Maybe it echoes. Maybe not. Don't worry about sound, Nick. Same thing goes for being in control."

"Nice thought, Zan, but I still think you're wrong. If you're good, you stay in control. Look at Bill Gates. Look at Roosevelt. Look at..."

"Birds."

"What?"

"Birds, Nick. Did you ever watch birds? I mean, really watch them? In flight? One bird is in control of the flock. That bird determines speed, direction, everything. But it also knows that it can't stay there forever. At some point it gives up its position, and moves to the rear of the flock. Another bird takes over. Maybe the first bird will return at some point to the head of the flock, or maybe not. Maybe it dies. It doesn't matter. The flock goes on."

I remembered.

Everybody in the Cleveland half of the caravan, miraculously, found parking spots within three blocks of each other and had reconnoitered at 9th Street. From there they began the trek to the Hall of Fame, a journey complicated somewhat by the presence of police lines closing off many of the streets.

There were now close to sixty Monkeeheads, and it was getting difficult to keep track of everyone; not just the newbies that had joined the caravan since the turnaround outside Texas, but even the charter members found themselves shouting to be heard through the crowd. The mass of strangely-dressed (yet oddly compelling) people moved in a fashion similar to an amoeba, with a few striking off in one direction, followed by a bare majority of others as yet another group pushed off on their own vector. Yet, all in all, they were heading in the right direction.

The mood had altered subtly, however, since the group left the closed Denny's. It was openly blamed on the marathon drive, but what its real causes were remained unexplored. There was a tension, perhaps, a feeling not unknown to newlyweds after their first few months together, the ennui and associated depression that accompanies the mistaken belief that there was nothing new left to learn about each other. Nightgown was the most visibly downcast, and Tami and Heather (who had skitched on when the caravan blew past her home in St. Louis) were walking with him, arms around his waist. Hoo and Tink were off on the street side of the sidewalk talking excitedly with Smilin' Alan, when Lou interrupted them to mention that he was looking for Melhi, but couldn't find her anywhere in the crowd.

"She was in the lead microbus," Hoo said, " with Beautymoon* and Nightgown and, um, let's see, I think Tami and Rob. Tam!"

Tami pardoned herself and weaved her way over to Hoo. "What's up?"

"Have you seen Melhi? Lou was looking for her."

"She WAS with us, at least, back around the corner. She and Heath turned down this block and we followed. I thought they went down this block, anyhow. Didn't they?"

"I didn't see her. Mel? MEL!! HEATH!!"

Some other members turned to see what the cause of the disruption was, and then started breaking free of the group to help find the missing members. Tami grabbed Rob and Kymberlee, who had paused at an outdoor vegetable stand to pick up some asparagus, and they ran back the way they had come to see if there was any sign of them; Davi3d ran in the opposite direction, across the street, to check through the glass at an open repair shop. It started to dawn on the group that others were missing, too.

One by one, the group started to splinter. More and more it became clear that the Hall of Fame, the music, was no longer their goal. Now it was all they could do to stay together.