The sun luxuriated in the privilege of wrapping the Paris late morning in a cloak of warmth, and of brushing the morning-only puddles once over lightly with a primer coat of smooth, semi-gloss shine. The black faces of the Moroccan street sweepers gratefully relaxed the tension that had armored them against the indignity of the chilly Isle de France break of day. They slung their witches brooms of bundled sticks back into the caddy, stepped back onto the running boards of their Ville de Paris min-vans, and putt-putted on down the road to complete their part of every morning’s intense sweep and scrub of the dear heart of Paris.

The author sat in the window corner of L’Autre, and smiled at the pat perfect ness of his situation here - here in Paris, here on the Rue des Ecoles, here in the bistro dedicated casually to great authors of days gone by, here in the here and now. He had just then laid his plume on the small circular table that took up the two feet that separated him from the window glass that shrugged off the late morning street scene – of the Latin Quarter as seen through the mobile grime of the few early morning late spring tourists. The pen had made the remarkably few marks needed to bring the manuscript beside the pen to pat perfect-ness, so close as it could be approached prior to the purgatory of edits by others.

A smile, a bigger smile, and then an uncontrollable head wide grin signposted a satisfaction so, so sweet. Bill Constant sought the support of the frail cane chair’s back as he leaned both literally and metaphorically away from the emotions he was compelled to process. Come comprehensive success or universal scorn, the main mast of the ship was raised. He had a draft of the novel, the second, hear that word closely, the second novel. Not the first, maybe fluky effort, which any flunky with half a life behind him might bring to half-life. No, the second novel, the professional effort, professional in that it is propelled to being, slung out of the matrix of serious interrelationships; between, amongst, around, about, because of, as a result of – reading publics, publishers, agents, friends, family, fiends, and phantasms. In a few words, a second novel had been inevitably required. He needed to cough up a second novel - to be for real.

He had, come hell or hysterics. The next thing to do? In micro, maybe pay the tab. ‘Serveur, l’additone?’ In macro? Play out the rest of the week, the last of the time he had reserved for the final edit? The surplus time he noted with satisfaction. Bill had completed the nit-picking sooner than expected, as he had the prior series of edits for style, and the prior edits for coherence, as he had the prior re-drafts for sense, and the prior major re-writes for purpose, as he had the original blank paper efforts of imagination, and as he had the initial research, such as it is for fiction. That all being true, the newly professional author luxuriated in options - stay on in Paris for a few more carefree days, because its always correct to stay on in Paris. Or check out of his ten foot by twelve foot flop at Le Moderne St. Germaine and push on to check into an eight foot by ten foot demi-flop in London, because its always correct to push on to London.

Monsieur Constant’s publisher’s European reps worked out of a micro office in London. Another smile indicated the author’s pleasure, besotted as he was with words at that time, at the notion of these chain-smoking, grey skinned Brits of his acquaintance ‘working out.’ - anywhere, anytime, for any reason, save perhaps if casual sex qualified as working out.

Paris is great, Paris is fine, Paris is beauty, and Paris is wine. But London is fun town, so London-ward he was bound. The check came and went back again with the publishing company credit card. Bill cradled his marked manuscript in his arms in the manner of schoolgirls in the times before backpacks and without boyfriends, swept his eyes slowly over the cookie-cutter-for-American-custom-but-cute-anyway interior of the bistro, and swooshed through the always open door – conscious of and reveling in the playacting artsy-ness of his bearing.

The waiter (Rafel by name) smiled a private smile generated by what he took for insider information about the artist’s truths and the artists’ affectations. The smile gradually faded as the softly sad facts, the facts of his own state and state of mind returned, more as a fog than a cold shower, but still unmistakable – his was outsider information. From all that his life had so far shown, he was not destined to come inside and warm by the muse’s fire. So what! He was French, and that was certainly something. The waiter cleared up the meager mess - a plate, a smaller plate, a knife, a fork, a spoon, a tasse, and a glass. That’s how he recited to himself as he cleaned up. He knew he was a versifier and not a poet. But he was French, and that was certainly something. The waiter spotted a small stack of loose papers on the companion chair to the one Bill had sat in. picked them up, rolled them up and tucked them under his arm, before semi-swooshing through the swinging doors to the kitchen. He good-naturedly popped a favourite English expression back over his shoulder, “Fu-kin-gh tourist!

Subject: Version Control
Bill,
Don’t send me any e-files of the manuscript until you are at the stage to submit to publisher. You don’t need agent’s help working out kinks, plus security is an issue over internet. Hope Paris has been more than a place to work.
Ron

Subject: Re: Version Control
Okay, you the boss. Paris just (terrific) atmosphere so far, but soon will do the town!