1. TUNNEL ENTRANCE Montpellier, Apr. 1, 2010
My smoking balcony looks over the tunnel entrance, allowing cars to avoid the maelstrom of the Place De Comedie. In the corners of the giant square the militant homeless ignore the expensive cafes. Real gypsy arms saw real gypsy violins; they accompany canned ambience from toy amps they’ve bungeed to luggage carts. There’s even a hideously placed carousel that’s in every one’s way, jangling an incessant tune, never carrying a rider.
From my perch I can just see the edge of the opera, a huge stone edifice where the zonked out part of the population congregates on the front and back steps with their tall cans of beer, their heads bobbing, sedate attack breeds tied to their waists with rope. I suppose it is simply that the public toilets are in the caverns below, but it’s appropriate that this selection of misfits lingers like stage extras here, at the foot of this reservoir of ancient drama, within shouting distance of the impossible highs, and desperate lows of lyric art.
Near dusk I watch an unlikely pair take their positions behind the camouflage of the high tunnel sign which gives white lit directions to other places - Nimes, Ales, Place de Corum. It seems impossible they cant feel me as I watch, that they still feel concealed enough to deftly perform their ritual on top of the interstitial roar of tunnel traffic. Her stripe of purple hair, her military style, his heavy shuffle - her arm finds his proffered neck and inserts the syringe. They freeze in the stillness of that long gesture. But it has to be done again, and he strips his black sweatshirt over his head in one move, and his black undershirt. She must be able to find a better vein this way, naked from the waist cold in the Montpellier wind. It ‘s over quickly.
Their dog waits, tied at a distance, understanding everything - his beautiful black and white head, upright like a sphinx between his paws - understanding nothing.
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