When I was twenty I met Pierre Camille Joseph Foucher, an artist from Montpellier who lived with several men and women in a large house. They were all from France and working as cab drivers, waiters, waitresses and dish washers around town. He took photos and turned them into tee shirts and postcards. He sold his work at an open air market across from the university. I met him when I passed his booth on my way home from class.

I had been reading Nin, Rimbaud, Sarte and listening to Piaf and searching for Leo Marjane, those weeks before spring. Pierre showed me the vintage Canon he used to take photos of popular signs and images around town. He happened upon the mint condition camera at a pawn store, he had that sort of luck. We spoke of writers and poets and about his favorite film, The 400 Blows I told him I was interested in linguistics and taking a course called Gypsy Language and Culture. Pierre then took out some photos and letters from his bag and told me that his best friend Alex is Roma. I spent a few hours listening to him tell me of Alex's adventures and looking at photos of him with his wife at beautiful beaches and in front of ancient buildings. Pierre said he wanted to join him when he was done discovering America.

Soon, Pierre and I were making dates to meet at the cafe Les Amis down the way. We'd eat a quick, simple meal and then visit the record store next door and I'd answer questions he had about American bands and musicians. One day he surprised me with a tiny box filled with freshly mowed grass. He told me to smell spring and then dig into the grass. Nestled in it was a tiny magic wand that he had made from wire and beads. He said it was to make my dreams come true because I had my whole life ahead of me. I was deeply touched. After that, everytime I'd see him on my way to school, he'd  surprised me with poems he had written. After several weeks of  poems and conversations about Cocteau, baccarat and Leo Marjane, he asked me if I'd be his girl. I said yes and that evening we walked arm and arm through the neighborhood by the university.

We found ourselves at the old movie theatre on campus where they were showing Orpheus, one of my favorite films. Watching the film he held my hand and I put my head on his shoulder and then we noticed tiny bats were flying up high above us. When the film was over, the lights came on and I noticed he was crying. I asked him why and he only said to remember the color green because it was the color of hope and his eyes. I thought to myself that the day had been everything I ever wanted when my best friend and I would sit in her roof on summer evenings and share ideal scenarios with each other. The sort of thing teen girls do. Pierre himself was right out of one of those conversations. His name was Pierre, he was a French, bohemian artist who wore cowboy boots and cowichans even when it was a bit too warm. He was sensitive, sweet and thoughtful. I was twenty and really knew that dreamy romances didn't last. Not with expired visas, escalating rent and college involved.

A few weeks later, the landlord evicted Pierre and his friends. There were motorcycles and furniture a small printing press and a huge, complicated screen print machine for sale on the front lawn of the big house on Red River. He said it was only a matter of hours before they'd all get deported. He asked if he could stay with me a few days and I said of course. He said he'd come over later that evening and have me some jewelry he had made. That was the last I ever saw of Pierre.

I moved out of my apartment and into another in the same neighborhood, registered for summer classes, changed my major. The house Pierre and his friends occupied remained a rental for a decade before it was torn down. It's now been an empty lot for ten years. Now and then I wonder what happened to Pierre after that day. Some artist at the market say he was deported, a friend told me she spotted someone looking very much like him at the park with a bag over his shoulder. I hope he has spent the last twenty four years happily, doing something creative not far from Alex.