The Man From Paris

Philippe Rosay was a man from Paris. He was the perfect example of exactly what you'd expect of a Parisian Man. He dressed with class, boasting an extravagant air, and above all he spoke with the signature nonchalance of a Frenchmen. He handled everything with an uncomprihenceable passion which made him a well studied man in various topics, many of promiscuous nature. His city was alive around them: waiters performing their job as if it were an art, tourists absorbing the unique atmosphere and Parisians radiating their passionate perspective on life. Infront of him stood a small espresso accompanied by a glass of sparkling water. He lifted the espresso off of its plate, treating it like a delicacy as the French could enjoy quality. Montmartre was his favorite place in paris, the endless amounts of cafes with their amazing cofees. The agitating ringtone of the digital toy that consumed modern socity's lives broke his friutful ponderings. A quick glance at the display confirmed his suspicions. “Not now.” he let out the words in a sigh and dropped his phone on the table again,

...

He left the money on the table, directed a quick glance at the waiter and joined the crowd. His step was alert,but his air ambient. He looked up at the clear blue sky, slid on his vintage Ray-Ban shades and enjoyed the stroll.
...
Gerard was pissed. He was tiered of getting played with. “Putain!” he uttered the word softly under his breath as he kicked the tyre of the car grunting as his boot hit the wheel’s rim. Some people looked at him as they walked by confused by his rage. Montmartre was littered with his agents. Now he would have to call the all back, Because a little funny frensh man behind a desk decided, out oof the blue that "his man" was no longer dangerous. Defeated he let groaned letting out a long breath and picked up his handheld radio that allowed him to communicate to the team that was in position to jump on their man if the saw him. 15 years he thought. Putain. “This is west calling all eyes, close. Repeat close eyes. Headquarters has blinded the operation.”He said the words in complete monotone in an almost robotic nature. He slumped against the car. Stuck his hand through the window and reached for his sunglasses. He wiped the smudges of the pair of aviator's glasses and slid them in front of his eyes, looked up amongst the afternoon crowd in the little picturesque streets of Montmartre and there he was.
...
The weather seemed to have attracted double the usual amount of people too this part of paris. He enjoyed being surrounded by so many people it added to the ambient atmosphere.
...
He threw himself into the crowd, and tried to tail his man. It was difficult with so many people around. He swore under his breath and forced himself to think as he squeezed into every gap, and seized every opportunity to advance between the mass of people. They were approaching Le Place du Tetre. fear consumed his body at this realization. The Place du Tertre would be packed. It was a weekend and the weather hadn’t been this good since anyone could remember. Adrenaline took over. Focus. he forced himself to keep his head up and re-set himself. The man was still visible but further now. Montmartre was litterd with tin allyways and shops in which one could hide, this also made it an impossible labyrinth so running was no option. His thoughts were racing through his head trying to generate some kind of plan. Music interrupted his focus. His man was still there approximately a hundred meters from the Place du Tetre. He searched for the origin of the music. This could not be happening. At the periphery of his vision he spotted the marching band. A crowd had gathered round them and it was heading straight for the courtyard. He darted forward looking helplessly for the tall figure. Music now filled the air. A woman was shouting for people to join in. It was chaos. He found himself standing right at the edge of the courtyard his man nowhere to be seen. Chaos was all he saw. Not giving up he ran into the centre of the square and scanning it for a sign of his man. A sound caught his attention. He jolted around and frantically searched for the source. There. He just caught a door closing and a tall silhouette disappearing behind it. He charged for the door.
...
Philippe chose to enjoy the last of the day’s sun on his balcony. It hosted a unique view of the Sacre Coeur and at this time of year the sun would settle behind the monumental building creating a magical effect. It was why he lived here. The location offered him his true inspiration. Some man into the darted middle of the Place du Tetre as he opened his door, strange.
...
Gerard crashed into an artists stall as he ran for the door throwing the man's artworks in mid air. The artist shot up cursing him as he thew himself in the direction of the door. He threw it open almost ripping it of its hinges and bolted straight for the staircase tilting his head up frantically searching. Taking three steps at a time he leaped up the flights of wooden stairs which, contained he'd noticed, very decorative baroque carvings.. The tall silhouette appeared in sight. He was standing in front of a door at the top floor. “Freeze!” He shouted the words with so much pleasure. finally He thought. “Put your hands up in the air and turn around. Now!” The man faced him. “Who, in gods name are you?” The man who was clearly as confused as him only said one thing with a strange lucidity and a tone of calm so out of place, yet obvious. With a quizzical expression amd a slight hesitation he simply said,."I am a man from Paris.”