Louis valued the dry autumn leaves. The dirty coat, the stained blanket, and the old newspapers kept the heat, but the bed of leaves was the best. It wasn’t so cold anyway for the middle of October.
Smoking a cigarette butt from his stash, Louis wondered whether the mildness had something to do with global warming. He had read an article about it in Le Monde, which he greatly preferred to Le Figaro. The center for the homeless, where Louis had hung out yesterday, had a library, but he couldn’t take the newspapers out and stuff them under his well-worn but still-cashmere sweater.
The day promised to be equally warm, but in his thirty years on the streets, Louis had learned the importance of being prepared for any weather. The time was a little after nine. Louis had spent the night in the nook on Port du Louvre, opposite the imposing walls of the museum.
Yawning, he admired the ornate balcony of Charles IX and the gilded sign, “Musée du Louvre. Galeries des Antiques.” The museum opened at nine, but Louis had no intention of going to the courtyard with the famous glass pyramid, which, in his opinion, didn’t enhance Paris at all. The tourists didn’t like the homeless, and there was no money to be made there.
Instead, Louis wanted to cross the Pont des Arts and check on his mate on the Left Bank, who owed him some cash. His day was as full as the diary of some CEO.
“Get free coffee at the homeless center,” he muttered, drinking the last dregs from his thermos. “Have lunch, take a shower, check the benches for a hat and a book to read…”
In the affluent streets, people didn’t even bother to throw unwanted things into the special bins. Already on his second butt, Louis observed the white van that appeared under the museum balcony. The furniture lift extended its articulated tentacle, and some guys in orange vests climbed up to the big window.
Louis smoked, listening to the shrill sound of the disc cutter. Diving in, the men reappeared after a couple of minutes, dragging behind them a big khaki bag.
Louis remembered it was not the first time this had happened. One of his mates had actually slipped into the museum on a free-entry day and stolen a couple of ancient coins.
“Just lying in the display case for all to take,” Louis mumbled.
The van took off, and he blinked. One of the thieves threw something out of the bag. The morning sun sparkled on the gold and diamonds of an intricate crown which, rolling across the paving stones, stopped at Louis’s feet, clad in worn sport shoes.
He decided to look for some new footwear as well. Placing the crown on his graying head, Louis returned to his bed of leaves to wait for the police, whose siren was already echoing all over the Seine.
The End
Bio:
Nelly Shulman’s prose was published in numerous literary magazines and anthologies and she has authored three collections of short stories. She is a member of The Society of Authors (UK).