From Merlin Monroe's "Legacy news"... Sybil as a child at the Café Papillon Dérangé...

Oh, how I hoped I would grow up to be Jane Austen… or maybe Elizabeth Bennett!

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A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…" (Part One)

1990: To live large or to live simply. Do I start at the beginning, or at the end? I had finally moved out of my parents' basement in Ohio, and I suppose you could say I was whisked away to Never-Never Land when I stumbled upon what was reported to be one of Napoleon's many “stays” in Paris. With broad winks and sweaty giggles, Mme. Painne-d'épice, the plump landlady, pressed her great squishy bulk against me as she confided that one or two of the little corporal’s several mistresses might have lived in this very building… perhaps even in the attic which had been converted into the garret I was to rent. And while her cheerful chattering and chuckling faded into a soft jumble, I imagined that during his rise to power, Napoleon, “Le Petit Caporal” himself might have beheld much the same view of the enchanting, mesmerizing, fantasy world of Montmartre. … “You zee dat leetle house over dare?”, Mme. Painne-d'épice whispered as she nudged me... and she began the tale, the first of several about that little rooftop maisonette with the garden that I beheld just outside and below my window… the one with the door… slightly ajar.

1891: “The Cottage on Top” as it was then called appeared to be a peaceful haven in the city but actually was haunted by the soul of a wronged lover who committed suicide 100 years earlier… His name was Signor Claronce Bemmaliono, and he was a clown of great repute in the Garibaldi & Fritzheimer Circus Of Astral Wonders & Earthly Delights that toured most of Europe in the 1880s. His professional stage name was Bomba-Lino, and children adored him in over 14 languages. It was said that he was better known to the populaces of some countries than their own prime ministers were… and it was true. People passing by him in cities and villages alike would recognize him, even without his clown make-up, and rush up to shake his hand or even hug him, showering him with chocolates, cheeses, loaves of fresh bread, flowers, and love… oh, so much love.

And yet here he was, on that December evening in 1891 in his own little maisonette that once held such joy for him, reading her note for the umpteenth time. He still didn’t know why she left. He had given her everything! EVERYTHING!... and that everything was not paltry. As a star of the touring circus, he made a considerable salary. Certainly much more than a shoemaker, a blacksmith, a tailor, or a tavern owner would be able to give her. Many people actually thought that silly, jolly, roly-poly Bomba-Lino might be making as much as a lawyer or even a doctor… and his wife’s jewelry and clothes certainly looked like it.

He crumpled her note and let it drop, and looked down at his hands, his open palms seeming to plead for understanding, for solace, and then he stared at the floor beyond them… his focus going far away... and deep inside at the same time. There was no solace. No one came to comfort him. There was no loving whisper from inside… or from above. Nothing. And so he made his plan. He wanted Melba to be publicly embarrassed by the terrible torment she inflicted on him. For years afterwards, the neighbors would point down to the very spot on the terrace from where they said he had jumped to his fate… well, "jumped" might not be quite the right word. Not with all the damage to everyone’s windows and masonry.

You see he had shot himself out of a cannon in his dining room. The only witness was a neighbor who happened to be looking down from the garret just above. He told the gendarmes who rushed to investigate immediately after that he heard a tremendous explosion and saw the roof of the maisonette burst open with a flash of flames and projectiles! Then the golden glow dimmed, morphed into a blood smokiness, and vanished in a final platinum flash… The deafening roar echoed once, twice, three times off the surrounding blocks and alleyways, then vanished as well in the distance. A moment of stunned silence, and then the barking, yelling, screaming of all of those below and beyond… who only moments before neither cared nor even knew of the anguish that one solitary soul had decided he needed to escape from. And leave it to Bomba-Lino to have made his exit like a showman! A comedic showman worthy of the great Vaudeville houses or the Moulin Rouge itself; with an implausible flourish of theatrical flash and absurdity. No one had realized that the huge crate the workers had lifted to the rooftop maisonette was not a new piano for Madame Melba… NO! It was Bomba-Lino’s own circus cannon, painted with bright decorations of garlanded Greek gods and goddesses, stars and planets, and a full smiling moon peeking through clouds… presumably to indicate where the occupant would soon be visiting. Yes, Bomba-Lino. The Great & Belovéd Bomba-Lino had shot himself out of his own circus cannon! And the landlord decided that was a perfect time to install the skylight.

(End of Part One. Stay tuned for Part Two of A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…")

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A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…” (Part Two)

1990: And that was how it all began in the early Spring.

By October, I considered myself a Parisian. Foolish, I know, but that was my youthful and naïve American exuberance. I had become oh-so aware of the eccentricities of my neighbors and their lives around me, or what I imagined their lives to be. My amiable chats-in-passing with local shopkeepers that I liked to think were so very “très intime” were really just them being terribly patient with “le petit chou américain”; the little American cabbage. That’s how they referred to me… all of them. Even the elderly street sweeper, a cab driver, the florists, bakers, everyone. “Oh, he’s the one staying in that attic that overlooks la petite maisonette de jardin dans les étoiles” which my squishy landlady translated as “the little garden house… in the stars”.

And so, I fell into a routine, not boring certainly, but regular, of being that little art student, the cabbage, in Mme. Painne-d'épice’s attic; amusing, slightly silly, and indulged, when they had the time, by the locals. I picked out my baguettes, the charming but affordable burgundies or bordeauxs, some cheeses recommended oh-so highly by Monsieur Pneuàplat, the small bunches of fragrant purple gillies, and day-after-day trudged up the leaning flights of creaking stairs to my home… truly my home.

It was a blue 'blu' night in Monmartre… And at dusk, as the apartment lights started shining, the city magic would begin... I searched relentlessly for my binoculars, but they were not where I had left them from the night before… during my nightly “visits” into other people’s lives. My cleaning lady, Zavøn, must have “put them away” again! She didn’t approve at all of my “spee-ing on zee nice nahbors” as she put it half seriously, half teasingly. Truth be told, she was often just as curious as I, and I had caught her one afternoon when I came home earlier than expected, gazing hungrily through them at the windows and skylight of the “maisonette de jardin dans les étoiles” on the next building. Startled, she whirled around in a mixture of embarrassment and pique… and was that a little fear too? But she covered it with a charming laugh at her own expense which I couldn’t resist, and I mock-wrestled with her and the binoculars, scolding her and thrilling to the camaraderie we shared as naughty “spee-ers”.

I looked under the sofa, behind the linen chest, and finally found my binoculars in the old, squeaking icebox that Zavøn had defrosted earlier in the week. I dried them off and scanned the usual windows, soaring here and there for updates on their little dramas. Tonight, I marveled that a story glowed behind each window. A story for each and every person in each and every window, and I wondered if there was enough time to read them all as I flew by.

There was Jacques, the do-it-yourselfer, a fairly adept carpenter, and nudist. No matter how many windows Jacques added to his roof top abode, it being Paris, his nude antics went unnoticed… or perhaps only uncomplained about, even when he accidentally-on-purpose strolled around fully aroused, carrying a croissant and coffee first thing in the morning. Tonight, however, he was fully dressed, well-dressed, and seemed to be yelling into the phone which he dragged as far as the wall cord would allow him as he waved his free arm about and strode from one end of the room to the other, and finally out of sight, perhaps to the kitchen… I could still his voice though, very faint though unintelligible through the open window carried as it was on the still Fall air. My French wasn’t nearly as perfect as it should have been considering the private lessons I splurged on, but I did understand a little… something about “They may know about it”… and “You have no solutions ever!”… and “That’s why we’re here!”, that last part screamed in fury. I wondered if any other neighbors were hearing snatches of his rage, but no one was standing at their windows looking down or over, so it seemed I was alone as an audience member to this little urban melodrama…

I flew into the air and must have shouted or even given a small scream when a heavy hand grabbed my shoulder! I whirled about and would have dropped my binoculars if the thick leather strap hadn’t been around my neck. There she was, grinning broadly and smelling strongly of blue cheese and baloney, “Madame P.” as I now called my landlady. “What are you doing, you naughty boy? Air you speeing on dee nahbors? Zavøn haz told me abut yure mis-cheefs, and I hahv caught her myself doing zee same!”. I must have blushed, not only at being caught at “my mis-cheefs” but also at screaming like a three year old girl when she startled me. Whatever I was doing, Mme. P could barely contain her hearty laughter, bubbling and climbing, receding and then starting anew. But how could I resent her? Her heart was always open and basically very kind… and generous! She held up, almost as a peace offering, a bottle of Veuve Clicqout rosé and two surprisingly fine crystal flutes… monogrammed with ornate flourishes and a central “B”, so elaborately embellished as to be almost illegible. “Forr mon petit chou chou!... air you ready forr anozer story? Seens you look so close over dare? Air you?”. And as she poured, she gestured down to the glowing little garden house… in the stars.

(End of Part Two. Stay tuned for Part Three of A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…”)

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A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…” (Part Three)

1990: Mme. P and I clinked our glasses, and sipped the icy champagne… well, I sipped. She swigged half the flute and quickly topped hers off again, and laughed heartily. “You drink zee champahnia liken Americain! You moost grahb zee joy ov zee champahnia! Note teep toe op to eet like an old ladeee!”.  She clinked my glass again, almost too hard, and saluted me, expecting me to do the same… and I did. But I glanced at the rim as I raised it to make sure I wouldn’t be swallowing a chip of the delicate crystal. I wouldn’t, thank God.

She finished her glass, refilled again, and filled mine till it just began to overflow and then murmured close to my ear in another cloud of baloney and blue cheese, “Eez eet time for anozer story ov de maisonette? You know my price…”, and now a lusty chuckle from deep inside that ample bosom. I blushed and looked at my shoes, but laughed along with her at my expense. My sad command of French amused everyone up and down the block, and had made me a bit of a celebrity, especially when I made errors of vocabulary, grammar, and pronunciation, which ended in suggestive or outright pornographic faux pas. Gales of laughter till tears ran down reddening cheeks; that was my experience at least every other week, but I wanted everyone to be delighted especially when I was picking out the best baguette, the freshest filet, the brightest Bordeaux. And so, I smiled into her leek-green eyes and struggled, “la mayzonay day jar-dinn don lay-twalls”. I tried my sweetest grin on her, and she melted. “Verry goot! You air eemprooving all zee time! Zee lassons air goot! Ahnd now, dee store ahnd dee champania!... ahnd mebee latair som Chanterelles et Escargots en Croute a l’Alsace. Tu es d'accord?”… and I did. She settled in on the seen-better-days chintz sofa with the wonky back leg, she stared straight ahead, and slowly started. I looked down at the amber glow of the windows and their reflection on the misted pavement…

1978:  It was a cool, almost frosty night as the sun set on another winter day in Paris. The door to her maisonette was slightly ajar, and golden light poured out like warm caramel onto the drizzle-dampened chill of the concrete deck. Shivering in her retreat on the very top floor of her house in the Rue Chelque Chose, Veronique waited for her lover, her intended. In the 1920s, it had been a gardener's greenhouse on the roof. In the 1930's, after the crash, her parents closed the rest of the house and moved into it, lovingly naming it la Petite Maisonette de Jardin dans les Étoiles. That was her mother’s sense of humor… and her father’s ebullience. No amount of heartbreak or loss ever sank their quiet joy, or their deep love.… for each other and for her, their only child, born late in their lives. Though small, it was the most charming home for blocks, and for her, as well as the potted plants before her, it was a magical place in which to grow and thrive. How unfair that she didn’t ever experience that same joy as she reached adulthood, especially after her wonderful parents passed away within just a few months of each other. Now, she stood, pierced through with aching cold and humiliation, waiting for Stephan to come home. Stephan, with his stale jokes and corny and constant puns... and his repeated mocking of anything French. She shuddered as the image of him in a stained T-shirt filled her mind… swigging his beer, belching. He’d pretend he was a struggling author and suddenly spout in an exaggerated Maurice Chevalier accent, “Eet was one of doze nights een Paree that Le Stéphan loved where everyzing was painted ‘le bleu’ as ‘le light’ glowed from ‘les windows’, and he laid on the ‘la chaise’ eating Lay's Potahto Cheeps from ‘le bag’ while Sondheim’s ‘A Leetle Night Music’ wahfted through ‘la nuit’.”

Alas! Their passion had cooled into nothing more than congealed gravy on a greasy plate... She chuckled darkly in her fury at the comical/horrible images that swirled in her imagination. Even angry, she still weighed everything through the eyes of a comedienne. A comedienne whose performances had gotten edgier month by month until her audience’s laughter was overshadowed by their discomfort.

Where was he? Perhaps painting the town red, with that Ondine. You know... Her. Poor Veronique had only one solution. Become a Sapphist! A... Lesbian! She laughed out loud! Enough of those HORRIFIC Male Creatures with those dangly things! Cut it off! Her sparkling, green eyes alighted on her father’s garden shears; the ones that still razored the sturdiest rose branches as if slicing through butter. …But no… He’ll be home any minute with his idiot chatter, his puns, and someone else’s perfume sticking to his sweaty shirt.  Patience. Wait. Watch for the figure to move against the soft glow of light. Reach out with your arms! Your arms that once held him with so much passion. So much love… and then… she heard the front door creak open inside and then close. She stepped back into the shadows. The little lock turned. The mail was dropped on the table. A chair was dragged so he could put his jacket over the back. His shadow crossed the billowing curtains and then out through the opened door. He wondered why had she left it ajar on a February night? He stepped out onto the pavement… and then over to the railing… to look for her below in the street? Could he really be that stupid? Could she be that lucky? Relax, breathe out, take aim... She moved like a deadly machine; swiftly, silently. Directly at him, arms outstretched. A vehicle of revenge. And like some pathetic, clumsy pedestrian stumbling into the path of rushing steel and death, he turned at the last moment to see the horrible blank stare. The arms, like battering rams. The hands open-palmed and resolved. Those blank, cold, eyes. No. Oh God. No.

As she turned to leave the balcony, she stopped to listen in the still night air. How long would it take before her fiancé’s body hit the pavement below?---there!… a distant mash, a bit sharper than she had expected. And then the deafening silence before the first horrified scream… of many!... far away. ln her heart, she knew she was free now and had taken the right decision. The night mist was just settling in when she closed the door behind her. She was about to light a fire when there was a firm knock on the front door. The arresting officers hustled her out so fast she never had time to turn out the lights. As she trudged down the leaning flights of creaking stairs, she began to hum Edith Piaf’s “No Regrets”, lighting on a few words here and there, in English, then French, then back again. She chuckled at the irony and at her own folly. The two gendarmes gasped, stopped and looked into her smiling face. That wry and so-wise smile of someone young but who has lived a hundred lifetimes. They could not resist. Their hands softened on her arms, more supporting her now than escorting her down the steps, and as she went, she whispered “Goodbye my little home. Good bye.”

(End of Part Three. Stay tuned for Part Four of A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…”)

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A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…” (Part Four)

1990: …. How could I ever really be cross with my landlady, no matter how often she barged through my life? Her bonhomie, generous spirit, and basically goodhearted though mischievous sense of humor won me over every time, and what about her bringing me the most heartbreakingly delicious samples of her baking and cooking? I didn’t go a single day without a basket filled with too many croissants for breakfast, the crock full of bubbling Boeuf Bourguignon a la Bretagne for lunch, or the Charlotte Russe Flambée, the Mousse Madeleine aux Macarons à la Noix de Coco, or the Crème brûlée à la Goyave for desserts or for late night snacks. I had put on at least twelve pounds in the last few months, and I managed to cover it with my painter’s smock, although she took great delight in pinching my midsection and pointing it out to neighbors laughing when I would pass her on the front stoop.

About a week after she told me the story of Veronique, Mme. P invited herself up to my garret for dinner… and what a dinner she brought! I had no idea we were spending a charming soirée together until I got home from painting all day on the Place du Tertre. I was slightly surprised not to see her doing her usual chores at that hour; sweeping the front stoop, watering the pots of crimson geraniums, the icy white “million bells”, and the dwarf morning glories in twilight blue on the window sills and hanging on the walls around the old paneled front door, or gossiping with her comrades… often about stoop-sweeping or flower pots… or the ultimate; food. As I said, there was no sign of Mme. P, and I began to trudge up the stairs lugging my French artist case with the little collapsible easel attached that old Monsieur Lapingris had gifted me (it had been his grandfather’s). I adored that case, covered with dents and dings, and a hundred loving drips and splashes of paint that lived on the cityscapes that Lapingris’ grandfather had done back in the 1890s. That case had character and, I hoped, good luck and inspiration in its bones for me and my career. As I neared the top floor, I was greeted warmly by Mme. P’s lusty alto humming, quite lovely actually, like a bassoon, coming from my front door which stood slightly open… and the smell of what turned out to be Pâté de Canard en Croûte. She had set the little chestnut country table off the kitchenette with a blue and white checked tablecloth, cotton napkins folded like bird-of-paradise blooms, and a mismatched assortment of old but beautiful silver, some of which might actually have been somewhat valuable. She was typically French in that regard… living comfortably and unselfconsciously with mixes of antiques hundreds of years old and junk and flea market finds bought for a few francs.

She heard me creak the floor at my entryway, and beckoned me in with a hearty flourish as if it was her home and those were her candles that she was lighting in the sconces and candelabra. I must admit I would have been delighted for her company, even if there hadn’t been a delicious dinner included. Mme. P definitely did bring a joie de vivre into my rather grey life. No matter how much I tried to be grateful for my sabbatical in the most beautiful city in the world, it was truly Mme. P who made it almost something out of a movie! Week after week, day after day… and sometimes hour to hour. And those hours stretched into lifetimes… no! Not stretched! That sounds as if they were tedious… No, they FILLED into lifetimes. Each of her stories, told over candlelight and a sumptuous meal of tastes that I had never before imagined became a new alternate lifetime for me. Another lifetime filled with its own sights, sounds, smells; its own characters with their hopes, dreams, fears, and sometimes, secrets… their secrets alone swamped and blotted out the bland reality of my small life. I guess my eyes revealed all this, because she stopped her merry humming and came very close to my face, her deep blue eyes turning lavender in the candle glow… and she smiled… so gently. “Does someone want a story?”… and I said, “yes.”…

1950: Phillipe Mansard stood at the edge of the terrace filled with all the love a man’s heart could hold for the lovely wife humming at the stove inside. The heavy rich smell of étouffée wafted out of the door that sat ajar, and he looked first at the glow from the living room and then back again over the street. She came out behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and it seemed the whole world was theirs as they looked down from their perfect perch above the fray of the city, out of the way and seemingly forgotten. Forgotten now, but only a few years earlier, with Paris overrun with the German army and at the complete mercy of its Gestapo and God knows how many collaborators, Phillipe and Celeste Mansard played their part in a shocking turn of events that changed history. And it had been her idea. Behind those flashing green eyes, it had been her idea.

For it was during the occupation that they joined the French Resistance, not as saboteurs or spies exactly… but as cooks. With a reputation so exclusive that only the highest officers and officials were able to partake of their gourmet fare. They had already attended the finest schools, apprenticed in and then owned the best restaurants, and built a network of fellow chefs across the country. And cleverly, they decided at the first signs of France falling to the German onslaught, to appear to capitulate, to actually embrace their invaders as favored customers. So clever were they that their Nazi patrons were never suspicious of their true motives, nor were their French suppliers and neighbors ever in doubt about their true and secret loyalty.

And so, on the stormy evening of June 5th, 1944, the Mansards and their cadre of fellow chefs across the French countryside invited their various “special” German diners to partake of a “Fête à l'été”, A Feast for the Coming of Summer. Chefs in over a dozen towns and villages had been planning, shopping, and preparing for weeks; coordinating their orders and strategies in seemingly innocent but coded grocery lists and shared recipes, all by telegram, and right under the noses of their tragically gullible enemies. The Nazi high command was so flattered to be fawned over so lavishly, they never suspected. And so, on that dreadful evening, with wind howling and rain pummeling the city in sheets, the Mansards welcomed their soaked but grateful guests into their rooftop maisonette for a dinner never to be forgotten. They had asked several of their suppliers to come help serve the many courses. Two wine merchants were the sommeliers, the fishmonger, two bakers, and the cheese merchant served as waiters… and four of Phillipe’s butchers were to help Celeste in the kitchen. Phillipe would act as host and raconteur, and oh, how charming he could be with friend and foe alike. He had been a brilliant student as a young boy; the pride of his parents. And his talent in history was especially noted. Imagine his teachers’ and parents’ shock when he quoted Machiavelli… in Renaissance Italian; “La vendetta è un piatto che va servito freddo.” Revenge is a dish best served cold.

As the lights were dimmed, and the candles on the table and in the wall sconces were lit, the champagne was poured for the eight Nazi officers, now in their T-shirts as their uniform tunics with their bright ribbons and twinkling medals hung up to dry in the toasty pantry. How grateful they were for the informal hospitality and friendship that the Mansards had always shown them. Phillipe clinked his glass with a sterling fork to propose a toast and a salute to his “guests”. First he smiled that unforgivably handsome smile that had broken the hearts of dozens of young girls in his youth, but had won him the heart of the luminous Celeste in his manhood. He flattered his guests and thanked them for coming out on such an awful night, and then brought everyone to gales of laughter when he noted the irony of the tempest outside and the banquet being a celebration of the coming Summer, remarking especially on the word “Fête”… feast.

The candle flames flickered merrily as if they too were in on the joke, and then with a flourish, he concluded with “La vendetta è un piatto che va servito freddo.”… His guests raised their glasses and drank deeply, not quite understanding the Italian, or was it Greek?… or noticing that their host’s staff had come out from the pantry and kitchen, and from the terrace outside… carrying knives, a mallet, two hatchets, and the heavy coal shovel. By flickering candlelight and with the rain pouring in sheets down the windows and skylights, no neighbor would ever have been able to see what unfolded… even if anyone had bothered to look. And the roar of the wind, the pounding of the rain, and the rolling thunder muffled the brief cries of agony and terror that could never penetrate the tightly closed windows of the surrounding homes. Ah well… It was over soon enough… at 8:15 or so… and in every one of the other shuttered cafés, private dining salons, and cozy maisonettes that had hosted their own Fêtes à l'été in other parts of the countryside… with the same unforgiving and implacable conclusions. While Frenchmen and women and their children sheltered on that stormy night, huddling around cozy fires and delicious dinners, and then off to bed, never suspecting how the world would change over the next few hours… in certain kitchens, basements, butcher shops, and then finally on the beaches of Normandy.

You see, in the appalling and astounding turmoil of D-Day, no one had time to notice or figure out what had happened to over 100 important Nazi officers and Gestapo officials. It was assumed that they had been swallowed into the maelstrom of the greatest invasion that the world had ever seen. They were either among the dead or the deserters… whatever. But oh, the rippling consequences of those vanished 100… confusion, miscommunications, orders not followed or even given. The crumbling chain of command, the avalanche of missing reports and missed opportunities, panic-driven gossip, rumors… oh, the consequences as the outside world threw all its resources and a generation of young men onto the shores of Normandy.

Meanwhile, each household of conspirators “processed” their guests into a luxurious array of delicacies; either as entrées and appetizers in their restaurants, or as fine sausages, pâtes, and meats for baguette lunches. Any and every part was used, just as slaughtered livestock would be. “Sweetbreads” to soup bones… all of it. ALL of it… And all of it given exclusively and generously to German soldiers and officers over the coming weeks as their fortunes faded and began to reverse. What a lovely gift from their French sympathizers. How comforting. Something to write home about to their grateful mothers in the Fatherland. 

Now, only a few short years later, Phillipe would often drift in reverie doing his gardening. How could five years feel like five lifetimes? Was it that even in simplicity, his life was so rich, so full with his beautiful and brave Celeste? Dicing the shallots, making the bed, laying the tablecloth, or playing cards with friends, he often wondered… “If only the world knew that its very existence was due to the woman sitting here playing bridge.”

As he finished weeding the little planters of their dead twigs and crumbling leaves, Monsieur Mansard looked over his work with a sigh of melancholy as a small tear of nostalgia trickled down his stubbled cheek… His lovely wife, returning again from the kitchen, saw his sweet tired face and whispered, "Dormer vous?". He smiled at her funny little pun… the kind that she would try on him in their special language that old married people share after so many years of worries, joys, triumph and loss… “Monsieur Mansard, dormer vous?” she repeated. And he nodded, rising slowly, putting his arm around her, and padding off to their bedroom with its little crackling fire. Celeste suddenly caught herself, slipped out of his strong arm, and went back to the door to the terrace. She closed and latched it against the chilly air, and looked up. If only the fog and mist would clear so that perhaps she could see through the skylight to the stars above, but all she could do was watch the neighbors' cat walk across it and disappear into the darkness of the night. And then, as the first snowflakes beginning to collect on the skylight. “Yes”, she thought as she pressed her hand to her tummy. “Tonight is a lovely night to tell him about the baby.”…

(End of Part Four. Stay tuned for Part Five of A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…")

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Sybil Bruncheon's TALES & TAILS:... up on the roof...

Myrtle Meowerson and Yaleen Yowlbeck often conferred with each other at the odd times when their human staff members were busy with their chores, duties, or whatever it was that those giant, clumsy walking-appliances do… preferably elsewhere! The girls heard a commotion coming from down the block on the Rue de La Chatte Derange and knew immediately it was a kerfuffle involving Yaleen's brother-in-law Ivan and some oafish dog he had cornered… or maybe a brat he'd roughed up in an alley for teasing and withholding an ice cream.

Of course, Thérèse, Yaleen's sister and Ivan's long-suffering but enabling wife pretended not to notice all the screeching and crashing, but then Myrtle always said that Thérèse was "as dumb as a spaniel... and nearly as drooly!"...

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Sybil Bruncheon’s Merry Memoirs: Paris....he who laughs....

Paris, November 5th, 1922..... I had rented the sweetest little flat on the Rue de Chou-fleur Puante, an infamous cul-de-sac, where, in 1871, a gang of 19th-century pickpocket/contortionist-mimes held most of the neighborhood in a reign of terror during the Communard. The gang members, mostly prepubescent boys with a predilection for wearing too much eye make-up, and dressing in their mothers' discarded foundation garments, mugged and robbed local merchants of odds and ends; day old croissants, manicure instruments, French postcards of farm animals and tattooed lady sailors smoking cigars, the usual stuff that kids like to trade and hide from Mother in their treasure-boxes under the bed! At the height of their mischief, they numbered perhaps 30 or so, but as the political fortunes of the 1871 Commune unraveled, angry parents raided their clubhouses and dragged them home for spankings and dinners of cold gruel, castor oil, and raisins found under the sofa…..

Well, decades and decades passed, and in 1922, about three weeks after I moved into my charming garret up in the dormered roof of our six-story townhouse, I became aware of a strange presence and a series of little occurrences, all innocent enough at the beginning... but as the days passed, the problem began to intensify. I thought I saw a face in the mirror one gray rainy morning, of an older woman with brown lipstick smeared way outside her lip line, and a unibrow that she kept raising and lowering at me... suddenly I realized it was me! I had been bingeing on expensive chocolates into the wee hours of the morning and there was a caterpillar crawling on my forehead! It wasn't the sight that startled me (well, not COMPLETELY!)... it was the soft chuckling that came from inside the walnut armoire in the corner, and continued even after I threw it open and tossed all my fine trousseau all over the floor. But no one was there, and the wall behind the armoire was an exterior one with the courtyard below. Even as I stood right there, the chuckling continued, hearty and actually quite charming, literally within inches of my face. I looked around convinced it had to be some acoustical trick of the architecture or the placement of the furniture or perhaps the building and the street, but no. It had to be something or some-ONE inside the room!

When I look back on it now, I marvel at the fact that I wasn't frightened exactly, only a little startled and more curious really... the sound was so pleasant, almost musical, and it rose and fell slightly as if the person was watching me in my confusion. It grew as I pulled open drawers, looked under the settee, pushed aside the heavily embroidered draperies, and almost roared when I screeched at the sight of a spider on the sash! Normally, I would have been furious at an actual person laughing at my fear of spiders, but the thought of a ghost laughing at me only made me chuckle myself, and I thought I could feel a warmth directed at my ability to laugh at my own foolishness, something I learned after years on stage in Vaudeville when my ukulele playing and novelty songs often got me paid only in thrown vegetables... (to be continued..)  

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