PARIS IS BURNING

First smoke and then fire bloomed in the middle of Paris.  It was a terrifying, fast-moving spectacle with the mystic overtones of a Turner painting as the whole top of the Cathedral filled the sky with brightness, engulfing the spire.

The three young men -- little more than boys -- stood together apart from the rest of the crowd gaping and exclaiming at the burning Cathedral of Notre Dame.  Most people were watching through the peepholes of their phone cameras, but the boys were confronting the flames without devices.  Normally photographers, they wanted this to be raw, direct.  The blonde one had hair to his waist, the red-headed Irishman had a braid down his back, and the American Indian had a -- well -- a Mohawk.  All three were jingling and creaking in full leathers, as iconic and universal as jeans.  The ruddy light reflected in the metal details of their jackets.

People carefully moved a little distance from the three, except one small boy who stood his ground, wide-eyed, as much entranced by the striking men as he was by the burning cathedral -- though to be fair, he was too short to really see the fire past the other buildings and the people and no one thought to hold him up.

All three boys were remembering a dawn mass they had attended some time ago.  They were not religious, except for the Irishman, and maybe he didn't really count because his devotion was really for the building, a stone mass so impressive that itself was worth near-worship.  It was almost too much mass to be called architecture, almost geology. The two friends -- but not compatriots -- came along out of support for their traditionally faithful friend, whom they subjected to a lot of teasing about his attachment and investment in a Catholic monumentality housing relics.  (Crown of thorns!  Imagine that!)

Normally they appreciated the cavern of the cathedral interior.  They made no trouble.  A pair of workmen were up ladders to one side but they didn't stop work when the Mass began, because in the manner of cathedrals the space was so big that no one interfered with anyone else.  But for the men this had been an insulting visit.  They had heaved open the great doors as usual, their boots struck stone as they walked to a back pew in the dim light, and then the little gaggle of old ladies in black up in the front painfully revolved their necks to scowl at them.  They muttered among themselves.  The priest who had been monitoring, a young man, went to see what it was about.  Then he came to the trio.

"Of course, everyone is welcome here," he said in a conciliatory voice.  "But I must ask you to leave and come back to a later mass.  The grandmothers are afraid of you and think you disturb the atmosphere.  They cannot properly worship with you here."  They hadn't argued, but it only added to their contempt for religion, propriety, and the stubborn privileging of the old.  The incident had destroyed one of their few places of safety.  Didn't they call it sanctuary?

Standing where they could see, they watched the fire consuming the cathedral with mixed feelings.  The redhead's large Celtic cross earring slid across his shoulder as he said to the others, "The fall of the spire -- think it was a phallic symbol?"

The blonde lifted his fall of hair away from his neck, revealing an ear cuff and a necklace.  "Not. Buildings are female."

"Be serious," admonished the native American.  "This is a holocaust, a terrible conflagration."  He paused for a moment.  "On the other hand, the Catholic missionaries and the French armies destroyed the indigenous culture's world just as cruelly.  People as well."

"This is not the first time this Cathedral has been attacked.  It has burned before.  It will rebuild." The Irishman looked around at the crowd.  "They'll all donate."

"STOP!   STOP WRITING THIS!"

Writer: Wha . . .!   Who's talking?'

Trio:  We are!  You're just using us.  You made us up so you can say what YOU think without admitting that it's you.  You weren't there.  You aren't us. We are NOT chess pieces to be pushed around.

Writer:  Sorry.  But you're fiction.  

Trio:  Just make sure your readers know that.  You're a hoax, a fraud, a person who just makes things up!  A fabulist.

Writer:  I know.  I admit it.  What's wrong with it?  It's what writers do! Even as I write, the Cathedral of Notre Dame is being consumed by fire, probably an accident.  Is there anything more preposterous, more extreme, more lamentable than that?  How can I convey it without exaggeration, a little narrative. 

"MAYBE.  WE'RE READING. BE CAREFUL."

There was a tug on the hand of one of the young men.  "Mister?"

"Shouldn't you be speaking French?" the handsome young man asked the boy.

"Oui.  Monsieur, voulez-vous me lever? Je ne peux pas voir. Je veux voir le feu."

"Do it.  He will tell his grandchildren."

"Oui."  He lifted the boy to his shoulder.

"C'est magnifique!"  He made his hands into binoculars.

The boys began to laugh.  It was better than crying.