by Gabe Murillo-Torres

I figure that because of the restaurants, bars, and people there is much opportunity to complete my homework assignment here along Rue du Faubourg. One of our classes in Paris is teaching us about Parisian culture and how to observe it. My assignment is to go outside, pick a spot to rest, and record as much as my five senses could perceive. Anything I can describe goes right into my notebook. Walking along the street, I note that the April sun is not beaming but shining enough to feel its warmth today. Once I have enough notes, I can leave and write a small report on Paris’s environment.

A woman of maple skin wearing a white dress with green and red lining catches my attention. I cannot look away because she’s riding a taco. Beside her reads, “Noma’s Tacos.” It’s the sign for this wall-to-wall food stall. Half the facade of Noma’s Tacos is a metal counter; the other half is a rolling shutter, like one in an American food court. I write this detail down in my journal and order a burrito. In front of the counter are two circular tables and two metal, neon-red stools for each.

I sit down and note the street’s sounds: The laughs, the honking car moving down the single lane, and the bike bells enter my journal as notes. I do not see that approaching from behind me is the homeless man. He has a grey buzzcut and brown eyes, almost-black. His skin is that of milk chocolate. He wears a draping, camel vest like a zookeeper’s. Underneath, his long sleeve shirt of dark-green camouflage constricts his frail torso. I hear his slurred song growing in volume.

“Excusez-moi,” the man calls to me, “Avez vous une cigarette?”

“Cigarette? Non?” I apologize, lying, as the first pack I bought here still remains in my messenger bag. I am not smoking as much as I predicted. The logical act is to hand them all over; however, I don’t want to feed the birds. They’ll return.

He then slurs something so incoherently that I don’t think Parisians can understand him. Trying to ward the homeless man away, I say, “I don’t speak much French, sorry.”

“I am the best at English!” The man put his arms up like there was a field goal. “It’s all good.”

“Where are you from?” I ask this because his accent sounds closer to American than any other Parisian imitate.

“Right here. This city is my home.”

“Have you travelled a ton?” I need an explanation as to how a homeless Parisian acquires a foreign accent.

He says nothing but closes his eyes, leans forward over the table, and undulates his pointed fingers, imagining himself conducting a concert. “Play Dua Lipa,” he says, keeping his eyes closed.

“What?” Is he really requesting that?

“Play Dua Lipa.”

To my left, Parisians of all colors speed-walk past Noma’s Tacos. Some of them are on the phone; some are with friends. The ones alone are cutting up around the others. Thousands of Parisians walk, hundreds are tourists, some are students, but none stop this man from making his demands. It’s like I meant to entertain him. Having written enough notes, I replace the journal with my phone in my jacket’s pocket and open Apple Music to play “One Kiss.”

The man closes his eyes, raises his hands to shoulder height, and gently sways them. He gives the song a minute before demanding, “Play ‘Levitating’ now.”

That song isn’t in my library, so I play the first version to appear, which features DaBaby.

“No, no, no! I don’t like him.” He scrunches his face as if the song tastes sour before adding, “I only wanna hear Dua Lipa. Play the one without him.”

I pause the song and set my price: “I’ll play it if you can tell me where you learned to speak English so well.”

“Dua Lipa.”

“I’ll play Dua Lipa when you answer my question. I’m here eating my burrito, and you’re here asking for music.”

“Dua Lipa. Now, play Dua Lipa.”

“Whatever,” I reply, putting my phone away with my journal in the interior pocket of my jacket.

The homeless man sits down on one of the stools. “Please, can you play Dua Lipa? She is my favorite. I have no phone, but you have music on yours.”

He does not leave me alone, but I am starting to prefer his presence. Besides his scent of vodka, I can record this experience for my assignment.

After a few more songs, he asks, “What are your thoughts?”

“My thoughts?” I respond.

“You are a writer, no?”

“No, I only write for school assignments.”

“Well, what did you write?”

“Bunch of business names and all the street art/tags.”

“Let me write. Give it to me.” The man starts writing many illegible letters. One of the few legible words he writes are names of nations: Algérie, France, and the USA.

I feel bad. This man is giving me so much content to write on for free. “Look, I have cigarettes, but I don’t have a lighter. I just gotta know, how does a man living on the streets of the tenth arrondissement pick up English? I mean, you’re obviously drunk right now, yet your English is fantastic!”

“Dua Lipa.” Before I can comprehend that Dua Lipa is his English instructor, the man gets up and approaches each pedestrian with begging hands. He moves swiftly, hopping in a waddle from person to person.

I take the last bites from my burrito while the man is gone. As I am wiping the napkin against my lips, a lime-green, mini lighter bounces off the table with a clang. When I look to the floor, the man is back, picking up the lighter and placing it on the table.

“We’ll take a selfie now.”

I pull out my phone, and he puts up a peace sign. A few cigarettes in my messenger bag await the man as for the experience, for the privilege to write on the time I got to entertain the King for Paris. I reach into my bag, grab the pack, and ask, “Is Dua Lipa all you listened to, to learn English, or do you have other favorites?” Footsteps tapping, a bicycle chain whirring, and the jingling of jewelry leave me alone, again, at Noma’s Tacos. He made his flight before I could reward him.

After a week and a half, I and a few friends (T, R, and J, who are also on the program) met in the fifteenth arrondissement at Café Beaugrenelle for dinner. The restaurant sits at the corner of a small five-way intersection, small because each converging street has two or less lanes. Having nowhere for us to sit indoors, the waiter asks us to eat out on the side of the restaurant, which would be fine if it were not for the pouring rain. Although the awning is doing its job, the splashback from the floor is slowly moistening my ankles.

The waiter comes to ask what we want to drink. Randy and Tamao order water, but Jason and I order beer, blonde.

“You’re having a beer this early?” Randy asks Jason and me.

“Hey, it’s nine o’clock on a Saturday,” Tomao says.

“Is it actually?” Jason asks

“Yeah, and the regular crowd’s shuffling in,” Tomao says in a serious tone.

“Is that Piano man?” I ask.

“Of course it is; Tomao’s always making references,” Jason says.

“Excusez-moi,” the waiter says upon returning, “but I have your drinks. Are you ready to order?”

“Oh, I need a bit more time to decide,” I reply as I flip the menu to the side with food for the first time.

“It’s no problem,” the waiter says.

We shout, “Merci,” as the waiter zooms around the corner.

“I’m just saying, we’re at a nice restaurant,” Randy says, bringing us to the previous subject, “Order like a wine or something at least. I mean, look behind us; you can see the Eiffel Tower.” Randy, who sits abreast me, points his thumb backward.

“No way,” I mumble as I turn around. Long down the road across the intersection, over silhouettes of tree canopies, the tower peaks shimmering. The spotlight pushes faintly through the light fog, but I can see enough. “Holy shit!” I yell, turning back around, “That’s been there this whole time?!”

“It’s been there for a while now,” Tomao quips.

I take a minute to admire the tower glittering like a beacon before turning to my beer. All is silent as we take our first sips except for the sound of rain taps against the awning. Then, the sound of raspy, low, slow, open-mouth humming slowly rises in volume. A man is approaching from behind Randy and I. As he passes my right, I try to ignore him, but he walks so slowly that he tempts me to make an observation. He wore a blanket for his cape, off-white with brown spots from stains.

“Excusez-moi,” the man says, turning toward our table with a Starbucks cup, “Avez-vous de la monnaie?”

“Non, désolé,” Jason apologizes for us.

Trying to avoid eye contact, I wait for him to turn away before observing him again. I watch as he throws his cape over his head before he ventures into the rain. I listen to him sing his marching cadence:

“I got you, moonlight, you’re my starlight.”

It couldn’t possibly be him? We’re a whole different side of Paris. I shout, “Wait,” and open my photos to last Wednesday. “C’est vous,” I say, pointing to the selfie of us.

The man places his face an inch from the screen and calmly states, “Yes, that is me.”

I show everyone else the selfie of myself and the man. Each look at my phone is another jaw dropping.

Of the three others, one word comes from Tomao, chuckling, “Gabe.”

When no one else speaks, the man gives us a short sermon about tourists coming to the Eiffel Tower, or something about that. None of us can understand more than a few words through his mumbling.

“Listen, I wanted to thank you for the lighter,” I said, “ I wish I had cash on me, or anything that I could give.”

The man, upon hearing this, funnels the change from the cup and down into the pockets of sweat pants. Holding out his empty cup, he demands, “I want beer.”

I pour enough for a few gulps, and he brings the cup to his mouth.

“Eh,” our waiter growls as he turns the corner. “Allez,” he says, shooing the man away. “I apologize if he was bothering you. I hope he did not ask for food. Tourists, they give them food and they come back, like the pigeon. Vous, you decided what you are going to order?

Fleeing in a backpedal, the homeless man bellows in response. He runs away back to the tenth arrondissement, where they don’t treat him like vermin. He’d find a mattress and move into an alcove between two protruding storefronts along Rue de Faubourg. Sometimes, I’d see him sleeping; most times, he was missing. Never was I able to catch him awake. He could go anywhere in the tenth arrondissement. With no home, anywhere, he can roam. The city, to him and I, is his kingdom.

“I feel like this is Gabe’s Paris, and we’re just living in it,” Tomao says after we give our orders.

“How?” I ask.

“That’s the same homeless man you told us about last week, right?” Tomao asks.

“Yeah, but how does that make this my city?” I ask.

“You said you saw him in the tenth arrondissement,” Jason added, “We’re in a whole different part of the city. This wouldn’t happen to anyone else on the program.”

“You’re like the king of Paris,” Tomao says.

I responded, “If that were true, he’d recognize me, not the other way around.”