Hi, Everyone – Something a little different today.
“Okay,” you say, “So, why do we have a picture of a statue of some old guy sitting in a chair? The truth is I took the photo when on a very nerdy mission. Here’s the story:
As I have mentioned in earlier messages, when I was twenty-seven I quit my job, cashed in all my chips and kicked around Europe by myself for six months. It was during this trip I got the job working on the barge that formed the basis of my last book, “To Live and Die in the Floating World.”
Here’s the nerdy part. When I was in Paris I wanted to see a famous statue of the philosopher, Voltaire.
(Some may ask, “Who the bleep is Voltaire?” If you’ve heard anyone say, “I disagree with what you say, but will defend to the death you’re right to say it,” or heard the idea that “It’s better to risk saving a guilty man than to condemn an innocent one,” you know Voltaire. But I digress.)
I learned that the Voltaire statue I wanted to see was located at the Comedie Francaise, a famous old theater in the middle of Paris. Thinking this would be easy, I went over and walked in.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t so easy. I thought the old theater would be a museum. But, no, it’s a working theater. And when I got there the only part open was the box office. Thick ropes cordoned off the rest of the theater.
If I’d had any sense I would have stopped right there. But I wanted to see Voltaire, dammit. So, thinking that not even the French would shoot me for wanting to see a statue, I jumped the rope scampered up a broad stairway and was soon at large in the darkened theater.
The problem? I had no idea where the statue was. I roamed around upstairs, opening doors. One led to the balcony seats, where the tech crew on stage could see me. I quickly retreated. Another door led to a fancy salon of some sort. No statue. I opened a couple of more doors – a closet and another salon. Nothing.
By now I’m thinking the box office staff had seen me and called the Vice Squad and I’d spend the next couple of years imprisoned in the Bastille or something. Worse, by now I figured someone had led me on a jive trip, and there was no statue of Voltaire, or anyone, else in the building.
Only one door remained. Nervous, I opened it and, in front of me, found a couple of well-dressed guys talking. They stopped and looked at me, even more surprised to see me than I was to see them. But, to the side of the room, I saw that I’d been told right. There was the statue.
After an awkward silence, one of the men asked, politely, what I thought I was doing there. I nodded toward the statue and told him, “I’ve come to meet Monsieur Voltaire.”
He thought about this a moment and asked, “And your name?”
“Monsieur Holgate.”
“Ah,” the man said and turned toward the statue, “Monsieur Voltaire, meet Monsieur Holgate. Monsieur Holgate, meet Monsieur Voltaire.”
I nodded politely to the statue and asked the man, “Do you think he would mind if I took his picture?”
The man leaned toward the statue and cocked his head as if listening to him. He turned back to me. “He says go ahead.”
So, I took the photo. And now I share it with you.