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Overview
“His stories and novels are part of the American language.” — Washington Post
Fahrenheit 451. The Martian Chronicles. The Illustrated Man. Dandelion Wine. Something Wicked This Way Comes… these are just a few of the vast collection of master works by Ray Bradbury, one of the best-known and most beloved of American writers. We’ll Always Have Paris, his new collection of stories gathered together for the first time, is a treasure trove of Bradbury gems—eerie and strange, nostalgic and bittersweet, searching and speculative… and a joyous celebration of the lifelong work of a literary legend.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780061670145 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 01/26/2010 |
| Pages: | 210 |
| Sales rank: | 730,283 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.20(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.70(d) |
| Age Range: | 14 - 18 Years |
About the Author
Hometown:
Los Angeles, CaliforniaDate of Birth:
August 22, 1920Place of Birth:
Waukegan, IllinoisEducation:
Attended schools in Waukegan, Illinois, and Los Angeles, CaliforniaWebsite:
http://www.raybradbury.comRead an Excerpt
We'll Always Have Paris LP
Stories
Chapter One
Massinello Pietro
He fed the canaries and the geese and the dogs and the cats. Then he cranked up the rusty phonograph and sang to the hissing "Tales from the Vienna Woods":
Life goes up, life goes down,
But please smile, do not sigh, do not frown!
Dancing, he heard the car stop before his little shop. He saw the man in the gray hat glance up and down the storefront and knew the man was reading the sign which in large, uneven blue letters declared the manager. Everything free! Love and charity for all!
The man stepped halfway through the open door and stopped. "Mr. Massinello Pietro?"
Pietro nodded vigorously, smiling. "Come in. Do you want to arrest me? Do you want to throw me in jail?"
The man read from his notes. "Better known as Alfred Flonn?" He eyed the silver bells on Pietro's shirtsleeves.
"That's me!" Pietro's eye flashed.
The man was uncomfortable. He looked around a room crammed full of rustling birdcages and packing crates. Geese rushed in through the back door, stared at him angrily, and rushed back out. Four parrots blinked lazily on their high perches. Two Indian lovebirds cooed softly. Three dachshunds capered around Pietro's feet, waiting for him to put down just one hand to pet them. On one shoulder he carried a banana-beaked mynah bird, on the other a zebra finch.
"Sit down!" sang Pietro. "I was just having a little music; that's the way to start the day!" He cranked the portable phonograph swiftly and reset the needle.
"I know, I know." The man laughed, trying to be tolerant. "My name's Tiffany,from the D.A.'s office. We got a lot of complaints." He waved around the cluttered shop. "Public health. All these ducks, raccoons, white mice. Wrong zone, wrong neighborhood. You'll have to clean it up."
"Six people have told me that." Pietro counted them proudly on his fingers. "Two judges, three policemen, and the district attorney himself!"
"You were warned a month ago you had thirty days to stop this nuisance or go to jail," said Tiffany, over the music. "We've been patient."
"I," said Pietro, "have been the patient one. I have waited for the world to stop being silly. I have waited for it to stop wars. I have waited for politicians to be honest. I have waited—la la la—for real estate men to be good citizens. But while I wait, I dance!" He demonstrated.
"But look at this place!" protested Tiffany.
"Isn't it wonderful? Do you see my shrine for the Virgin Mary?" Pietro pointed. "And here, on the wall, a framed letter from the archbishop's secretary himself, saying what good I've done for the poor! Once, I was rich, I had property, a hotel. A man took it all away, my wife with it, oh, twenty years ago. Do you know what I did? I invested what little I had left in dogs, geese, mice, parrots, who do not change their minds, who are always friends forever and forever. I bought my phonograph, which never is sad, which never stops singing!"
"That's another thing," said Tiffany, wincing. "The neighborhood says at four in the morning, um, you and the phonograph . . ."
"Music is better than soap and water!"
Tiffany shut his eyes and recited the speech he knew so well. "If you don't have these rabbits, the monkey, the parakeets, everything, out by sundown, it's the Black Maria for you."
Mr. Pietro nodded with each word, smiling, alert. "What have I done? Have I murdered a man? Have I kicked a child? Have I stolen a watch? Have I foreclosed a mortgage? Have I bombed a city? Have I fired a gun? Have I told a lie? Have I cheated a customer? Have I turned from the Good Lord? Have I taken a bribe? Have I peddled dope? Do I sell innocent women?"
"No, of course not."
"Tell me, then, what have I done? Point to it, lay a hand on it. My dogs, these are evil, eh? These birds, their song is dreadful, eh? My phonograph—I suppose that's bad, too, eh? All right, put me in jail, throw away the key. You will not separate us."
The music rose to a great crescendo. He sang along with it:
Tiffa-nee! Hear my plea!
Can't you smile; sit awhile, be my friend?
The dogs leaped about, barking.
Mr. Tiffany drove away in his car.
Pietro felt a pain in his chest. Still grinning, he stopped dancing. The geese rushed in and pecked gently at his shoes as he stood, bent down, holding his chest.
At lunchtime, Pietro opened a quart of homemade Hungarian goulash and refreshed himself. He paused and touched his chest, but the familiar pain had vanished. Finishing his meal, he went to gaze over the high wooden fence in the backyard.
There she was! There was Mrs. Gutierrez, very fat, and as loud as a jukebox, talking to her neighbors on the other side of the lot.
"Lovely lady!" called Mr. Massinello Pietro. "Tonight I go to jail! Your war is fought and won. I give you my saber, my heart, my soul!"
Mrs. Gutierrez came ponderously across the dirt yard. "What?" she said, as if she couldn't see or hear him.
"You told the police, the police told me, and I laughed!" His hand flirted on the air, two fingers wiggling. "I hope you will be happy!"
"I didn't call no police!" she said indignantly.
"Ah, Mrs. Gutierrez, I will write a song for you!"
"All of them other people must've called in," she insisted.
"And when I leave today for jail, I'll have a present for you." He bowed.
"I tell you it wasn't me!" she cried. "You and your mealy mouth!"
"I compliment you," he said sincerely. "You are a civic-minded citizen. All filth, all noise, all odd things must go."
"You, you!" she shouted. "Oh, you!" She had no more words.
"I dance for you!" he sang, and waltzed into the house.
We'll Always Have Paris LPStories. Copyright (c) by Ray Bradbury . Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.