One peaceful Sunday morning there appeared two women and an accordion. 'How 'bout a song?' The stocky one, Madame Lulu, was not unlike '30s crooner Berthe Sylva. She had a serviceable voice. The other one, the accordionist, was a pretty little lady indeed. She delivered her song-always the same slow lament, Tu ne peux pas t'figurer comme je t'aime (you can't imagine how much I love you)-with complete detachment, with a little contempt even. Her magnetism worked so well we followed the pair around Paris for days on end, from Les Halles to the Chalon quarter via Canal Saint-Martin and La Villette. I never undestood why they continued to gather pennies in a world where change no longer makes your pockets bulge.
From rue Mouffetard to rue de Flandre, from the wholesale butchers at La Villette to the lads on rue de Lyon, with zigzags along canal Saint-Martin via the cheap eateries on rue Tiquetonne, I couldn't say how many days the aimless stroll lasted, nor in how many bistros we drank.
Me and my buddy Giraud both fell under the accordion's spell. That really can happen sometimes. How else can you explain the patience of all those customers, for people normally hate to have their picture taken when they're eating (unlike drinkers, who pose willingly, often with a touch of bravado). It was the melody that supplied the anesthesia that made the photographer bearable.
Both musicians had their own style. Madame Lulu was robust, belting out her stuff in the purest street tradition. With the accordionist, the tone was different. Standing before folks molded by hard labour, who held their fingers clenched even when at rest, she luxuriated in a sense of idleness. Her cat-like nonchalance carried the slightest hint of cruelty. Back in the Middle Ages, the spell that woman cast would have sparked a bonfire. 
