“And what do you do for a living?” Margot asked the man.
“I’m a professor of literature at the Sorbonne. I teach classics. My students are currently on holiday, allowing me to indulge in a few moments of solitude here, on Trocadero Square overlooking the Eiffel Tower,” replied Richard with a proud smile.
“I’m sure you’re quite attached to your students,” smiled Margot.
“Quite the opposite – they are the ones who tend to idolise me. Every year I see hundreds of students filing into the amphitheatre...I don’t even know their names, you know. Most of them are illiterate assess who know only the Latin of the mass...or worse, dog Latin! Mention the phrase ‘dactylic hexameter’ and you’ll see their eyes practically pop out of their heads.”
“Come again?”
“Dactylic hexameter – the meter in which the Iliad and the Odyssey are both composed. The most melodious and purest of rhythms!”
“So it’s a unit of measurement?” exclaimed Margot. “It can’t be that complicated...how does it work?”
“Au contraire, dear lady, it is quite complex,” said a puffed-up Richard. “As the name indicates, it is made up of six measures.”
“Ah yes...hexa as in...hexagon?”
“Quite. Allow me to continue. May I assume I need not explain what a spondee or a trochee is?”
“Of course,” blushed Margot, who by now was quite lost.
Richard took great pleasure in laying out his knowledge, mentioning many great books and quoting directly from them. Margot lit a cigarette, and replied to the professor with nods of the head and knowing smiles. He had the most beautiful brown eyes, and a professor of classics was a good job. She had always rather liked the idea of marrying an intellectual. Her friends would no doubt tell her that Richard was a boring, arrogant man, but Margot didn’t care. With time this type of defect could be smoothed out. The professor spoke passionately, and did not appear to be a nasty sort. Better a pretentious fop than a brute. It was true that he did not know when to stop talking, but the trick was to not actually listen to what he said, and to simply enjoy his melodious voice instead. Perhaps he was speaking in dactylic hexameter. Margot thought of Richard as having been plucked from another era entirely. She pictured him wrapped in an ancient Greek toga, reciting poems in a forum under the watchful eye of the Greek gods.
“Have you heard of Batrachomyomachia?” Richard went on.
“I haven’t had the pleasure, no.”
“The Batrachomyomachia means the battle of the rats and frogs. It’s a tale that parodies the Iliad.”
“You’re so cultured,” simpered Margot. “Do you fancy going up to the top of the tower? I’ve never been all the way up. Typical Parisian, the idea’s just never struck me until now!”
Alan Alfredo Geday