cadeau_de_vous geschenke a sign stapled to a telefone pole. one of hundreds sunil had seen before, but this one was different. unique. definately an eye-catcher with its courier font and large bold face type. its renaissance drawings of what surely must be a queen in the midst of a celebration destined to be one of a lifetime. CADEAU DE VOUS french, sunil thought. he was coming out of three-penny-books, a quaint village shoppe in the cultural section of rizzenstadt where he held an apartment with his friend, marcy. he wanted to find something to read during the winter, scanning the tightly packed, ceiling lengthed wooden shelves for a real story. one he couldn't put down, even when the rare afternoon sunshine melted the snow and practically begged him to come out and play. just a minute, he would tell it. he took his time, like one who has the time to search for themselves, sliding his worn doc marten boots along the frayed persian rug, creaking the ancient wooden floors as he moved about the narrow aisles. light poured through small windows where spider plants crawled wildly, encouraging their babies to play in the dust that swirled around them. a few other customers milled about studiously and he made eye contact with them long enough, and nodded to reveal his genuine friendliness. the smell of old books was strong as blood and there was espresso in the air as well. he could still taste it on his lips. the buzz he felt propelled him to look closely and completely like a boy who has heard there's treasure for one willing to exhaust themselves. and when he finally found it, a collaborative tale called, "square the circle," about the intricate developments surrounding a handful of travelers going across the united states on a greyhound bus, he bought it, took the paper bag from the cashier, inadvertantly rang the sleigh bell on the entrance door as he pushed it open and stepped upon the brick sidewalk. there was the sign, silently shouting to be read. and so he read on. 041229 ... geschenke "etes-vous drole? pouvez-vous chanter? danserez-vous?" the letters were smaller and written in an italicized font, crisp and bold. sunil tightened his grip on the paperbag containing the book and pressed it against his black trousers. must be one hell of a party, he thought, scanning down the sign, noticing a date, an address and fone number. FEVRIER 01, 2005 48 RUE DE NOUS HABITONS 4123770734 he was suddenly curious. this was for him. he was certain. he removed a moleskin from his right back pocket and opened the small, dilapidated black leather book. on the left side there was a foto of marcy, her brown eyes catching the light of a nearby kitchen window, her brown hair streaked with auburn from hours she spent in the summer sun, a red scarf around her neck, the t-shirt she made herself with the picture of che guevera smoking a cigar and scrawled under it the words, "let the world change you and you can change the world." on the other side, underneath a big paperclip were anthony doerr quotes from 'the shell collector,' the latest book sunil had read, a shopping list he found in the parking lot of whole foods that said, along with tofu, curry, and iams treats; edible flowers, and in the ripped accordion pockets: bird feathers, film stubs, and all manner of paper mementos that held time and forced it to pause and be remembered for the particular experience carved into it. he looked up at the sky. clouds were tearing away from each other revealing chunks of blue. there was a definate chill. snow that had been shoveled from the sidewalk sat in slowly melting piles along the stone wall of the shoppe's outdoor patio. strangers passed by him on their way to engagements or shopping. a couple pushing a baby stroller stopped and inched their way into the bookshoppe. an older gentleman wearing a wool suit and heavy, black-rimmed glasses stopped beside him and read the same sign and then turned away. sunil caught a trace of woodsmoke and then pulled an extrafine, precise rolling ball pen from its place and with blue ink jotted down the address and fone number. must be looking for entertainers, sunil thought, capping the pen, sliding it into its sheath like a sword, closing the moleskin and slipping it back into his pants. i can sing or tell jokes, fuck, i can dance, he thought. he wanted to just snatch the flyer, that's how much he liked it, gotta have it, he mused. but it was a call for help. and he wanted to be a part of it where others like him would gather. so he left it hanging for the next person to see and remembering where he parked his mini-cooper, departed, excitement racing through his veins, his blood on fire. 041230 ... geschenke sunil had parallel parked his mini cooper along the street and when he found a piece of paper accusingly placed behind the driver's side wiper and flattened securely against the windshield his heart sank and the excitement he previously felt waned like a balloon losing air. must be a fucking parking ticket, he thought, grabbing it, thinking no one saw him, but a young lady in dolce and gabanna made eye contact with him and it wasn't because he was cute. she felt sorry for him as she started her fiat with a remote, giving him that "shit happens" kind of sheepish look. her car was in front of his. she puttered away, leaving him alone with the paper. and so he pushed the tiny orange button on his keypad and the doors chirped and the locks popped up. he sat down on the leather seat wondering how severe the financial damage would be. he sighed like a little boy in trouble. he didn't think he had been in the bookshoppe so long. however, the paper wasn't a parking ticket after all. even though it surely resembled one, could have fooled me, he thought, it turned out to be much more than he realized. actually he would think back on this moment and wish it would have been a parking ticket. when sunil read it the words became a mystery of phenomenal proportion. "what the fuck?" sunil said aloud. and so he read it again, this time slower and out loud thinking the reality of his annunciation would provide some assemblance of interpretation. "avez-vous fait l'appel telephonique?" did you make the fone call? he translated it to himself. what fone call? he thought immediately of marcy. was she playing a trick on him? but it couldn't be her. this was type written. besides she was working two hours away in pferhiirdt. he looked closely at the font. it looked strangely familiar. suddenly familiar. the telefone pole flyer...it was the same font. could this cryptic, bizarre message be referring to the cadeau de vous celebration? that integral feeling that the sign was for him became spooky all of a sudden. seems this message, this concern if i made the call, is definately for me, sunil thought. but how did someone know he was interested? was someone watching him? he got out of the car abruptly and skipped over to the brick sidewalk. the street was crowded. traffic raced past him oblivious. horns honked, brakes squealed. it was just after lunch and many people were milling about, ducking in and out of cafes and shoppes, browsing at window dislpays, immersed in conversations, waiting for busses with hands stuffed into coats, steam pouring out as breath. some walked dogs, others rode bikes. the homeless jingled the money in their pepsi cups pleading with bloodshot eyes for more. no one seemed suspicious. no one was watching him. and so he got back in his car and shut the door, slamming it with its european precision and craftiness. he sat the paper down on the passenger with a particular reverence usually reserved for the something the hand of god might have written or like it belonged to another world. he dug in the front pocket of his trousers for his cellfone and in the back pocket for the moleskin again. he found the number. it was definately out of state. he punched it in slowly. it even looked strange in his little lcd screen. he pressed the green fone symbol to send. he waited, he could feel his heart beating in his neck. it rang once. twice. after the third ring, it picked up. 050101 ... geschenke it was not a voice that sunil heard on the other line. it was music. de beriot's concerto no. 8 for violin op. 99 to be precise. and the sound was not the typical distant audio one is accustomed to in fone communications, instead, it was as if sunil was wearing bose quiet comfort headfones. "jesus christ!" sunil yelled. he was freaking and with one hurried movement from his ear to within inches of his face he inspected the fone. the screen was bright orange and flashing. he didn't even know his fone could do that. he noticed then that the music no longer came from the earpiece. it was filling up the inside of the car, as if the quadro surround sound system was being employed. later when he described it to others, sunil would say it seemed like it was being streamed from the air itself. to prove his supposition to himself and partly out of fear, he actually shut the fone off and threw it down on the passenger seat. it landed on top of the paper he had found on his windshield. but the music continued to play. enraptured, sunil listened to it. he trembled. he couldn't help it. he didn't know if he was dying or if this is what it meant to really live. but there was something about it that slowly comforted him like a drug no one could ever take. it took the anxiety away from him like a mother removing wet clothes from her child, one garment at a time until her own body warmth is what finally restores him to wholeness and well being. he felt, for lack of a better word, special. chosen? perhaps. singled out?uh huh. marked? sure. distinguished? yep. picked? definately. like when his fourth grade teacher back in heizenstite had told him to stay after class and when all of his classmates had filed out and some of them had given him that sidelong, surreptitious glare and a hip bump to his desk that could be seen as an accident but really wasn't, he stood up both worried and excited and approached her. and then, speaking with a voice he had never heard before, softer and more sincere, as if she was talking to her husband or a dear friend, she produced a storybook from her desk drawer he had painstakingly created about penguins for an assignment and completely gushed over it. it was just how her eyes burned into his and how white her teeth were when she smiled and how her eyebrows lifted and the alacrity in the movement of her hands as she turned the pages and pointed out things. the moment glowed with a surreal light that was not from this world. he was certain. and from that moment on he was changed. a door had opened and he stepped through it. no, he had leaped through it and landed sommersalting into a land of unspeakable potential. yeah, that's how he felt. his head pushed back against the seat, eyes closed, his hands on his lap, the music swelling, entering his bloodstream. a feverish ardor spread over him, hot fudge over ice cream. he did not know how long he sat there. and it wasn't like he cared about time. this was something happening to him and he gave in to it completely, head over heels, like when someone falls in love. 050102 ... PeeT . 120223 what's it to you? who go blather from