Thinking of Cyril + a new poem

Just down the street from where I live, there is a hole in the ancient fortified walls that opens on to a tunnel, the Passage Oratoire. If you cross it, a wobbly cobble stone path leads you to the heart of Avignon, even to the Pope’s Palace, le Palais des Pâpes.

There must be hundreds of people who take that route most days, on their way to work or Les Halles or shopping. It is a locals thoroughfare. And yet, how few would acknowledge the seated thin man with legs tightly crossed, over one another, his head nearly always tucked deeply into a time-browned paperback. Perhaps this laissez-faire was due to the two massive Rottweiler mixes perched on each side of him, despite their rubber muzzles. His own personal gargoyles. A folded baseball cap turned on its belly was hap-hazardly left as far away from the dogs as possible, the less to intimidate and there was often a few shiny coins within it.

And yet this man, although often completely drawn into his thoughts (or perhaps because of it), had a regular relationship with quite a few of the passer-by. That was easy to see. Eventually, I too became one of his “regulars,” overcoming initial shyness to ask how he was doing, what his book was about. I would offer my hand for his dogs to sniff and soon they would see me coming before he did, their stubby tails thumping. More than once, I was left with deep scratches on my wrists from their jumping hello’s but that is ok. It was up to me to pay attention to their weighty affections, not them.

The man’s name is Cyril.

I understood and respected that he didn’t want to tell me too much of his story. That he was on the streets because his dogs were his life and they are not welcome in the shelters. Also that he was here, far removed from the many panhandlers on the main street of la Rue de la République because he didn’t want any trouble for the three of them. I never saw him in a state where he appeared drunk or high and he finally gave me the hint that what would be really helpful was food rather than money so that he didn’t have to go to the stores and risk leaving his dogs alone outside. He showed me frightening wounds from dog fights when things didn’t go well but would wave fingers in front of his face as if chasing a fly, “Oh, I will be fine, I have had worse,” followed by a toothy grin. Once opened up, he would show a confident, if chortled, laugh.

And then the COVID lockdowns started. At their most extreme, we were limited to a one-hour walk per day within a one-kilometre radius of our residence with signed “attestation de l’honneur” in pocket always. The Passage de l’Oratoire was empty.

However, at this point I had already started bringing him cans of ravioli or lentils and sausage, usually at around a cost of one euro each plus ten for the dogfood when he needed it (and he would say, “No, I am good,” when he did not). I wasn’t the only one. Someone else had given him a portable stove which he kept at his camp, just over the wall. I remember how proud he was the first time that he showed me his temporary home: “I have fresh city water that comes out of a tap from the parking garage and bushes for privacy. This is public land but the cops won’t bother me here.”

Cyril prepared me for how to visit. “Give me a shout, call my name before you come so I can hold back the dogs.” And I can tell you, the first time that he decided to let them run up to me freely without muzzles, I sucked in my breath and hoped for the best. He would come ambling down the incline towards me, barefoot and those few minutes of chat made me feel human, so much less alone. Our banter was simple but real. As it got colder, sometimes he would just stick a tousled head out from his tent and I would leave the sack for him to retrieve when he could. Always a thank you or at least a wave of appreciation was given.

The temperatures dropped as they always do right before Christmas. So I went to H&M and bought him the thickest fleece jacket that I could afford. Along with the usual offerings, I had put together tupperware boxes to share of what I had made for myself for that night, the 24th. I was so excited that I was practically bouncing as I made the walk to his camp.

Immediately, however, I knew that something was different, something was very wrong, so much so that the air crackled not with cold but as if it had been torn open. Cyril saw me staring, my bags at my sides and started to scream at me. “No, no, no. No more!” I couldn’t tell if he was pacing or stamping the ground but the dogs were growling at me from a distance and I started to be afraid. “But it is Christmas! I have…” I gestured…”I will just leave these…” but I could not finish my phrase. He was again, yelling in a high pitched voice, “NO! I don’t want ever again! Go!” The dogs were starting to make a slow slink towards me.”Gooooooooooooo!” He was howling, his face twisted. I realised that I was in danger and backed away.

I cried when I locked the door behind me at home. This was a mental breakdown that I had witnessed. I knew that I could not call for the paramedics because of his dogs or the risk that they would be taken away from him if he was hospitalised. I cried when I returned the jacket and the cashier asked no questions. I still have some of the cans in the back of my kitchen cupboard. The rest I have given away.

He was gone once the lockdowns were lifted, his camp cleared out several months later. I have only seen him once since then and again it was the dogs who recognised me first from quite a distance. I changed my path, respecting his wishes.

We can never know what others are going through or how they (or we) might behave given a change of circumstances. I am still so grateful for the exchanges that we had. Brief as they were, they were filled with resilience and light. Livelihood and shared concern.

For Cyril, I hope that he is well wherever he may be and that his dogs continue to give him much love and hope.
There is a part of me that feels certain that this is true.
Somehow.

It took me many months to tell this tale.

If you would like, you can hear me reading this post here:

A video that I posted on Instagram from that period:

*****

if a light
burns
i
will find it
stumbling
foot forward
nose to the
air
billowing
below
my blindfold.

my many
floundering. ways
but
ceaseless days
of
searching
have kept
my senses
sharp

a mother
yet not
with child
i lean
on
the connecting strings
another life of
listening
for
that giving
harp

****

If you would like to hear my reading of this poem, you may do so here:

I miss you all. I miss writing and sharing all that I love. Such an incredible community you are. These are strange times, still, for so many of us. All the more reason to be grateful for what is real.

With much Love,

Heather