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Le Georges-Pompidou Hospital at 20, rue LeBlanc in the 15 Arrondissement from outward appearances could be almost mistaken for a luxury hotel which it most decidedly is not.

The French take great pride in the fact that their public health system works. The do spend a boatload of money on it. The Pompidou itself cost 300 million to build and costs another 200 million a year to operate. Where the UK spends five percent of their gross national product as nationalized health care, the French spend more than twice that.

The glittering glass structure that is the Pompidou is just down the Seine from the Eiffel Tower, one of the more affluent neighborhoods of Paris. Although the hospital is one of the most advanced in Europe, it is a PUBLIC hospital.

I do not like going there. It is still a hospital.

But I was being paid to do this and there are things I will do for the cash. It always comes as something of a surprise to me that my life is not cheap. It gobbles up money like a money monster.

This was a consultation.

There was a medical team at the Pompidou who along with one of the more affluent (that word again) families of Paris had approached me concerning the inclusion of a child, a member of this family, into my Art Group.

Art Group. For lack of a better name. I don't like putting names on it because terminology just boxes me in.

Life isn't fair. I knew well before this consult that I was going to say no. But I would get paid for the consult anyway. That is how it works.

I was of the firm opinion that the child in question was far too young.

His name is Ioan and he's from Romania. He was adopted by a French family when it was fashionable a few years ago to adopt Romanian babies with HIV.

I did not know him. All I knew about him was what had been sent to me on paper.

This was n-o-t going to work.

I don't know if the French invented the word "terror" but if they didn't, they should have. I can usually read between the lines when it comes to a walking, talking terror.

This one was very definitely a Terror.

Terminology: Behaviorally Challenged.

Red flags everywhere.

I blame La Smith. I really do. She started it:

"You run, run...run away It's your heart...that you betray Feeding on...your hungry eyes I bet you're not so civilized

Well, isn't love..primitive A wild gift...that you wanna give Break out of captivity And follow me, stereo jungle child Love is the kill.....your heart's still wild

Chorus: Shootin' at the walls of heartache, bang, bang, i am the warrior Well i am the warrior, and heart to heart you'll win..if you survive The warrior....the warrior

You talk, talk, you talk to me Your eyes touch me physically Stay with me, we'll take the night As passion takes another bite

Who's the hunter...who's the game? I feel the beat...call your name I hold you close...in victory I don't wanna tame your animal style.. You won't be caged...in the call of the wild....

Repeat chorus

Shootin' at the walls of heartache (shootin' at the walls of heartache) The warrior..... I am the warrior, and heart to heart you'll win Heart to heart you'll win...if you survive The warrior...the warrior

Shootin' at the walls of heartache, bang, bang, i am the warrior Yes i am the warrior and victory is mine The warrior...the warrior..."

Why this song kept banging (bang, bang is how she puts it) around in my head is anyone's guess.

In fact, my "Art Group" was looking forward that week to attending Patti's latest Paris concert at L'Olympia.

Smith, 58, had been presented with the insignia of Commander of the Order of the Arts and Letters by Culture Minister Renaud Donnedieu de Vabres.

The ministry, in a statement, noted Smith's appreciation for 19th century French poet Arthur Rimbaud, and praised her as "one of the most influential artists in women's rock 'n' roll."

Speaking to The Associated Press at an AIDS benefit concert in southwestern Paris, where she received the award, Smith said she accepted the award "from the most spiritual side of me."

"I have vowed to live up to this honor in my work and my conduct," she said. "I can't explain what I feel like. It has uplifted me, and I will work very hard to earn it."

How sublime. How polite.

This from something of a terror herself.

Well, isn't love..primitive A wild gift...that you wanna give Break out of captivity And follow me, stereo jungle child Love is the kill.....your heart's still wild...

I don't have the slightest idea as to why I kept associating images in my head of this kid with La Smith, but I did.

The meeting itself remains a blur. My eyes to le sky. I just don't belong in the same room with men in suits.

I did it for the money.

I TOLD them.

"The kids I deal with are extraordinarily sophisticated," I said.

Everyone nodding.

Right.

Like they know.

"He's going to see things he might not understand."

This did not seem to bother them.

I know these adults have Ioan's best interest at heart.

I do not know why I thought they were in some way washing their hands of him.

"This is not just an art class," I tried to explain. "It's about art in life and lives."

Fortunately, I don't live in America where they would hang me by my tits.

He does mix it up with older adolescents and there it is.

Ioan doesn't simply paint. He puts his hands in the paint and he messes everything up and he paints with his fingers.

"He's painting with his feet again."

Tattletales.

"So. Like. Do I look like the Art Police to you."

"He's making a mess and it's getting on my stuff."

"And this is my problem because..."

Let me rephrase this. He paints with his HANDS.

No. Let me rephrase that. He paints with his whole SELF.

"Do you wanna see the one I made with my tongue," he asked.

"No," I said.

He has exactly the pair of eyes I thought he would and he sees everything. I cannot protect him. I cannot put a blindfold on him.

Ioan is WAY more sophisticated than they are.

"Can I make another self-portrait today."

I shrug. He will anyway.

Sometimes we walk around Paris with my dog. Ioan knows everything about Paris. "40,000 people had their heads chopped off in 1793," he tells me. "Most of them right on this block. It was the terrors."

Plural.

"How do you know these things."

"I am le warrior."

"Oh, please, you've never seen a warrior in your Romanian life."

"I am one. I take a lot of pills."

He knew the way to L'Olympia in the cab. I do try to impress him with my authority but my attempts mainly fail.

He loves my dog. Don't we all. "Feeding on...your hungry eyes. I bet you're not so civilized..."

I have tried writing about this stuff before. This kind of work that isn't work. But le public (other writers mainly) just shit down my throat (I am not about to disclose everything because I don't fucking have to and I am not compelled to be polite and there are no awards to accept and if there were I have award enough). I don't know that you CAN tell this story outside the "safe" context of some kid's eyes. The work that isn't work and you show me SAFE so I can have a good laugh today, okay, because I need one.

I don't think this story can be told at all. What I bring you is tiny pieces and fragments and I try to make all of it as safe or even as anonymous as I can.

I know this: le spotlight sucks.

They treat him like their kid brother who is a holy terror because he is.

"Does he have to go, too."

"Yes."

I have learned to focus on the eyes. Like I said, they see everything. There is no hiding place. Not in Paris. Not anywhere. They're all warriors.

Eat me.

I'm watching and listening to La Smith croon her way through her jumping music. L'Olympia is packed. Blue dope thick in the air like fog. AIDS benefits are unique. The counter culture is alive and well and aging and lives at L'Olympia Music Hall. I turn to look at a Romanian midget mouthing every word. "Shootin' at the walls of heartache, bang, bang, i am the warrior..."

Shootin' at the walls of heartache bang bang...

I keep telling myself I did it for the cash.