Primogeniture (The Firstborn)

12: Felix in Paris

“Dr Englehart, if you would please step this way.”

Felix followed the airport official through various lobbies and was ushered through into a security check and then into a small but luxurious lounge.

“If you could just wait here, drinks and snacks are complimentary. We should be able to get you on board very shortly.”

Ten minutes later and he was settling down into the luxurious padded leather seat of a small private business jet. He was the only passenger.

On landing, he was led to a waiting car, driven to the Hotel Du Louvre, and shown to a suite of rooms with four enormous windows looking out over the Musee and Gallerie. Moments later a knock on the door and a small paper package was delivered by the hotel bellboy. Inside, several hundred in Euros and a note scribbled in a hurried spidery handwriting.

‘Felix, terribly sorry, supposed to meet you at the airport, bit delayed, spot of bother with her indoors – The third Mrs Watts that is – I’m sure you understand. Anyway, here’s a little spending money. The worlds your oyster, so get out there and have some fun. Call for you tomorrow morning, around 11.00. Not too early for you I hope. All the best, Phil.’

Felix glanced at his watch. Still plenty of time for a shower and freshen up before site seeing and a spot of lunch. Felix walked across the deep pile of the blood red carpet, noticing the matching window drapes with vast swathes of material being held in check by matching red tie ropes securely fastened to the wall with ornate brass filigree patterned orchids.

Then on into the bathroom suite containing a wet room with a freestanding circular bath large enough to fit three or four people at least, with a dressing area larger than some peoples entire living rooms.

Felix wondered what all this must be costing but was happy at the thought that for once in his life it was not his responsibility. Oddly enough, many of the furnishings were of that classic style not dissimilar to his University rooms, but with a more typically Parisian flavour and without the inherent wear and tear and tattiness of his own rooms. A little too much red as well, Felix thought, and the orange wallpaper was overcooking, by a good few degrees, the mock French aristocratic theme.

Felix stood at the top of the hill, behind him the Sacré Cœur; in front the sunlight dappled vastness of the Paris skyline, spreading out its sublime patchwork of light and shade to the distant horizon. People living, working, dying, fornicating, fighting, making money, losing money, the young the old, loving, hating – in their thousands – in this miniature tableau of life. Detached and incarcerated within this scene for artists to paint and put on postcards – the reduction of the individual into the general mass of humanity – the social order versus the organic biological blood pumping cell dividing living burning flesh and soul of the individual.

Felix gazed out over this seething metropolis of activity – this vast enterprise of human endeavour and contemplated the supreme act of devotion he had just witnessed in the white Christmas cake basilica behind him. The outstretched arms of Christ white robbed, immersed in blue and gold – gazing down on those who enter and dare to approach the most sacred of all – the perpetual adoration of ‘The Blessed Sacrament.’ Humanity stripped bare in this act of devotion to the eternal spirit, the life giving eternal promise – the gift of life beyond death.

“Wow, awesome! Really makes you think doesn’t it,” the slightly accented softly spoken female voice filtered through into Felix’s consciousness nudging him into awareness that he was not alone.

Felix turned to look at its owner. South American he thought. Perhaps Brazilian – not young but not old either – dressed in designer jeans and a black leather fur trimmed jacket and surveying the vast cityscape stretching out before them. She turned her head and smiled a smile that seemed to exude openness friendliness and trust.