Date: 1633 AD
The clouds, packed with icy rain, pile up on the horizon. The timid sun of March, reflected in the pools of water, changes mud into gold.
His hands deep in his pocket, Sarasin glides through the Parisian crowd, confuse and turbulent, flowing towards him in a mass of fuzzy pointillist dots.
He shivers with cold.
His feet get numb in his shoes full of holes.
He is hungry.
He is lonely.
Nobody is waiting for him.
The Paris of our first encounter palpitates in a silvery fog. Muffled passers-bye keep their warmth to themselves.
I wish I could spare Jean-François this gloom.
Paris gives us a shady smile. Paris, the carnivorous city, bares her rotten, tartar-stricken teeth. Keeping in step with my poet, I tremble for both of us.