Boys and girls, this is the real, real and only truthful story about that beautiful man.

His name was, what else…Jean Paul.

He was left one cold evening at the footsteps in front of the big church.

Arriving to work; that was the first thing the sacristan noticed. He took him inside.

Right into the the kitchen, were the hearth was going on and breakfast for the priest was being prepared…

the four women in the kitchen could not believe it…a baby crying from hunger and a despicable cold weather…

But…he had a “good weight” and that ” something ” some individuals are born with…charm…and presence…

The priest saw him and decided to adopt him. He would be that child of his he never had.

Time went by in which he learned to read and write in French, Spanish, Greek and Latin…the priest educated him personally…

Jean Paul took advantage of the large and extensive library…there were also long, tall tables on which Jean Paul would draw and draw

after church services….he was left handed…like Leonardo. But better.

He helped on each and every religious service. He took long stares at people…became a great observer…

assisted on all type of events…marriages…mass…birthdays…baptisms…First Communion…exorcisms…

he was 1.65 meters…weighed 75 Kilograms…had a wide chest as a lion’s…wide back and long powerful arms that pulled the clappers of

the baritone and tenor bells like feathers…

Made them ring accordingly to the occasion…sad…happy…mournful…you might think of listening to Bach or Beethoven…in a blue mood…

in the evenings, he would drink the priest’s wine, while looking at the stars…and imagine…imagine…and drink them….

 

 

 

He changed his daily, yearly routine when he was struck by the thunderbolt of love…at the sight of that beautiful young widow…

the yearning…longing for that beautiful face took possession of his senses…and he was not his own self anymore..looking at her hands…

long fingers…indicated to him that she played the piano…probably Mozart…

Those long legs…longer than desire…those delicate ankles…he could kiss and caress forever…he could only imagine her feet..

his imagination, it was all he had…

Sweet Jesus….! he imagined the rest…he went mad with that perilous cocktail of love, lust and sensual desire…his heart

would race dangerously…his breathing would become insufficiently short….would sweat as if in a Turkish bath…

get drunk and send the stars his thinking…his drawings were all about her…showing intense deep eyes…hers…

Oh, Nicole…! sweet Nicole…my dream, my love, my sky, my flat back, my parents…adore you and you know nothing about me

this is madness…your hair…the smell of your cologne when when I pass the leather basket money…

he wondered how it would feel to kiss that beautiful neck, ears…smell that skin and burn it with the furnace of his nostrils…

All Paris noticed something was amiss…the bell mournful notes started lasting longer…the tenor and soprano clappers…seemed

to have gone mute..

everybody took a long look at Jean Paul on that Sunday…he smiled guardedly…his sighing filled the entire church…the brightness

of his eyes seemed cloudy…opaque…

everybody noticed he was in pain…deep pain…love can heal…can hurt…can lift…can take you into a deep endless hole called Depression…

he went around his Sunday church chores and then went to the roof where his room was…started drinking…and drinking…and wrote a poem

 

 

To Nicole…

Nicole

My eyes were born the day I saw you

my limbs too.

I did not know a heart was in me

until I saw you.

The drawing of you burns the paper…before the ink touches it…

my mind is in havoc.  Love struck me. You.

Your voice follows me as if I were an schizophrenic.

I tell your name to the winds and they take it to the stars.

These huge bells before me are my voice

trying to reach your ears and heart.

I know full well our love could never be.

That is why am not reaching to you physically.

You are so beautiful. I do not have the words to describe you.

I have read hundreds of books and none have the words: I love you.

I love you Nicole. I love you. I love you.

Oh, Northern Star…take to my love the warmth of my arms and kisses.

Oh, Sweet Jesus…! did you feel at the time of your  Crucifixion what I feel now…?

and I am not dying for anybody’s salvation…am so minuscule…and yet…I feel a pain as big as the universe.

So Nicole, I am drinking the stars tonight….and the moon too…

I do not know if I will play the bells tomorrow…I hope I do.

Nicole, oh! what a sweet name…Nicole…

Nicole, good night to you.

Play a nice song for me.

Jean Paul

 

 

Monday morning, Jean Paul’s cold body was found outside his room.

He had died from alcohol congestion and exposure.

The priest mourned him as if he had been his son. Was sad for months and  months.

A mass he gave for him. All Paris came. He was taken to the cemetery in a pine casket on a hearse pulled by six mules.

It was a rainy morning. The whole sky was grey and gloomy. Total silence was observed during  the one hour long journey

to his grave.

Except by the bells…they were played the most mournful way since the Expulsion of Adam and Eve…

when the moment to bury him came…the clouds opened wide…a bright sunshine beam brought light to his burial mound..

and until today…some swear the sweet laughter of a child was heard at that precise instant…from the sky.

 

 

And that is the real story of Jean Paul. The Hunchback of Notre dame.

 

 

Ernesto Onofre