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“And there he was: the laziest student in the Conservatoire, meandering through the streets of Neuvième dressed in a rather ill-fitting velvet frock coat, long hair peeking from beneath his top hat. It appeared as though some days had passed since last he bathed.”
Here the interlocutor paused, shuddering ever so slightly as he recalled the state of Satie’s dark locks. Undeterred, he soon picked up the thread of his narrative again:
“The good man’s steps grew hurried as he passed the shuttered Le Chat Noir — for I believe he and the proprietor have yet to reconcile — before turning up the Rue des Martyrs. You know, I still haven’t the faintest idea why the two quarrelled in the first place!
“, even les grues of Montmartre would not dare stare openly; yet a ripple of side glances and craned necks followed Esotérik as he marched past Boucherie Billebault and the pharmacy at number four. But he caught the observers’ inquisitive eyes, for he always looked behind at where he had been, and never ahead to where he was going.
“But who can blame those passersby! For the man held in his hand a tremendous blue silk ribbon — nearly so long as the Rue des Martyrs itself — at the end of which skittered nothing other than a vibrant cerulean lobster! Un homard céruléen!”
“You don’t say,” remarked the interlocutor’s audience with a decided lack of enthusiasm. He was a singular gentleman of somewhat homely appearance — an impression only confirmed by his dated fashion; both jacket and trousers were entirely too tight, and even his hat appeared as though it could not be removed.
The interlocutor did not seem to heed whether his words garnered any response. He prattled on: “I spoke with Debussy out of concern, but claimed — in actuality — failing to spy Monsieur Gymnopédiste walking his pet lobster in was far more noteworthy, adding that the lobster’s name is Thibault. Can you believe such a thing?”
“Indeed, I cannot.”
“Is it not most absurd?!”
“Most absurd, for the owner of said lobster was not Satie, but myself — and nigh on fifty years ago, at that,” said the ghost of Gérard de Nerval.
