Short Story Paris Part 3 of 4

 

Madam de Rohan lived as one would expect. Large. In addition to the wonderful art, there were museum pieces of dark, heavy furniture, bright carpets from across the other half of the world, several chandeliers of crystal and gold, bravely holding steady from tall ceiling. Palace of Versailles was probably missing some wallpaper.

 

A hand maiden in a lovely light-yellow dress, with a delightful yellow belt around her size zero waist, walked in the room with a smile and the mandatory bonjour, before she ushered us in a smaller sitting room.  “Madame will be with you shortly. May I get you a refreshment as you wait?”  All in perfect English.  Bernice smiled and said no to the refreshments.  She nodded and quickly disappeared. I’d have felt better if she’d winked. So cute she made the beautiful antique furniture ashamed. 

 

Madame walked in on cue, with a bright smile, a baby blue dress, and enough jewelry to embarrass royalty. Of course I stood up, but held back from dropping to my knees and bowing my head, also skipped kissing her what must have been an eight carrot ring. Beatrice also stood and snapped open a smile.

 

Before sitting down, Madam de Rohan motioned to Beatrice and said something in French. Beatrice did a little bow of her head and let the hand maiden guide her to the elevator.

 

Madam sat on the plush white sofa and patted the spot next to her. I sat before I could sing Old Man River.  Maybe she was older than I am, but nowhere close to 92 or 96 or whatever. I am in my fifties and she was close to sixty at most.  Words sprang out of my astonished mouth before I could calm myself.

“You…..I mean Madam de Rohan….”

 

“You expected something different…and please call me Helen.”

 

I was stunned, like an open-mouthed oaf.

 

“My guess is that Beatrice told you of my tante….my aunt. She is quite old. She struggles these days and sometimes asks for things that are not very delicate”

 

“I….I was told she wanted….!” And let the rest go.

 

Helen laughed! “A ninety-five year old woman?”

 

“I didn’t mean to be ….”

 

“Of course not,” she said. “I on the other hand would love some company of any sort.” Her smile was close to a laugh. Something in the way she smiled brought a luxurious beauty to her face. 

 

She spoke a delightful King’s English and went on to explain her mother was French and her father was from London. Both had passed away, which was why she lived with her tante.

 

The maiden brought sparkling wine, which kept the conversation moving at a gentle pace.

 

“And so, you are a writer and long for the Paris that no longer remains.”

 

“Well, yes. The 1920s.” How much more of me did Beatrice spill?

 

Helen, still chatting, led me back into the main room, letting her arms sweep slowly, pointing out details of paintings and furniture, name by name. 

 

My mind was left cluttered and swollen. My god what beauty! What a collection! And to top it off, many of the impressionists had visited this very spot, as well as Picasso and Dadi and Miro.  

 

“Not that I’m old enough to be alive to meet all of them, but I did chat with Picasso and Dadi.”

 

Hard to keep my attention as I let my eyes wander.

 

“What if I told you, I would like to take you out for dinner, not only delicacies that will tempt your palate, but with a step back into the Paris you want to enjoy? Not terrifically elegant, but the deep asides of the real Paris.”

 

She politely excused herself to change her clothes and came back wearing very stylish attire, but not with the elegancy she’d wore earlier. Light brown dress, matching high heels, a dark brown, thin leather jacket. Gold on her wrists, and around her neck, but not nearly the King’s ransom as before. Gone was the glitter of diamonds. I guessed it was her version of dressing-down.

 

Next to her, anyone would look shabby. Of course I was not. My brown slacks, white shirt, dark brown sportscoat and un-scuffed brown loafers did the job. I’m willing to bet she matched us on purpose. What a stylish couple! I rather liked that.

 

“We’ll take a taxi instead of bothering my aunts chófer.” 

 

Well dang, I was ready to sit in the back seat of the Bentley, roll down the window and wave to the peasants.

 

La Belle de Niece filled the bill for me. Maybe it wasn’t a restaurant of elegant for Paris, but it sure as hell wasn’t MacDonalds, or Wild Willie’s Pizza.

 

The waiter was dressed in a black suit, white shirt with a white bowtie, was about Helen’s age, or at least that’s what I guessed, and he sure made a girl feel special.  He blushed to a quick bow, and ushered us to a lovely red leather, rounded booth in a back corner, with spotless white linen table cloth and napkins.  The silverware and water glasses sparkled.

 

“You’ve obviously been here.”

 

“Yes. My husband and I came here a few times. At other times, he took others here.”

 

A gentleman doesn’t ask awkward questions, but I had one on my mind.

 

“Sorry to ask, but I wonder how all of this happened.”

 

She was about to answer, but gave it up and took a sip of the extraordinary white wine. I should have looked at the label, but the waiter had wrapped it in a white napkin, poured, and, plopped it in an icy silver wine bucket.

 

She smiled, obliterating my selfish question. “You’d like to know about my husband.”

 

Well, ok, if you insist, but my eyes met hers and said nothing.

 

“He was a tall, maybe taller than you.  A man of power. What he wanted, he got. But, his heart gave out over ten years ago.  And yes, he got a lot of things I knew nothing about, mostly in business, but other things.”

 

“Did you love him?”

 

“Did I love him? Hummmmm, yes of course, in a way. He was good to me.”

 

“Am I digging too deep?”

 

“This is Paris. He had lovers. I had lovers. Being a man, you want to know if I still have lovers.”

 

I sighed. Not deep. But it was more than time to move on. “I want to know more about you.”

 

“I love art. I spend time here and Niece, London, and Rome.”

 

“And what are your pleasures?”

 

“Probably just like yours. Art. writing. Travel. I could say lovers, but for me that has been to come and go. These years I’ve become very particular.”

 

“Beatrice? Also has lovers?

 

“None that I know of.  And perhaps I misspoke. My lover days are a nearly a decade ago.”

 

She took another sip. “Do I surprise you?”

 

“So, why am I here, talking to you? I really don’t understand.”

 

“I am restless. I do my best to help my tante. I have friends. Cocktail parties, Art parties.”

 

I started to broach the subject in a different direction, but she stepped over me.

 

“I want a friend. A male friend.”

 

“Does Beatrice supply male friends?”

 

“If it weren’t such a good question I’d slap your face!” She laughed. “She introduces interesting men at parties.  Beatrice knows a lot of people. But other than a group at cafes, no one has turned up.”

 

“And for some very odd reason, you find me interesting?

 

“Yes. You are real, not phony. You don’t want much and you know a lot without being stupid about it.”

 

“No idea what the hell that means.”

 

“Mostly old friends, or my late husband’s friend, taking me out to luxurious dinners, to impress. Mostly with other couples. Some pleasant, others thrilled with themselves. And some handsome, but like Louis XV China cups, with chips and cracks.”

 

The meal and conversation entranced me.

 

The taxi ride back to her home was silent, but holding hands.  

 

“May I walk you to the door?”

 

“May I ask you to up for a drink?”

 

I declined.  

 

She asked, “Shall I see you again?”

 

“At your pleasure.”

 

“You are such a gentleman. Especially for …..” She stopped.

 

“An American?”

 

“I was going to say for being so kind.”

 

She kissed me gently on the lips as the doorman held the door.

 

I was quickly in the cab, and looked back as it pulled away. I saw her wave.

 

                          END OF PART 3 TO BE CONTINUED

Short Story Paris Part 2 of 4

 

The café was the same, but I arrived later in the day. Thankfully no rain. Surprising for this time of year. Same barkeep that brought a glass of my usual red wine, while I pulled my computer out of my old, scared, brown briefcase. He walked away to leave me in peace. 

 

Edging just past noon. No Stanley. A sigh of relief. Morning is his coffee spot.

 

I’d finished going through the three pages from yesterday.

 

Time to let my mind wander. That’s what wine is for. 

 

Piddling thoughts. What would my life be like if I reconstructed it, tossed out my todays for new tomorrows?

 

No, can’t be done.  But the more I thought, the more reconstruction charmed me.  I’m a writer. But, I could stop writing, or at least stop writing trash.

 

Another thought swirled. My wife, Molly, had led me into the world of the ordinary.  Maybe she just followed me into it.  Perhaps, new wife, knew life. But, wives are wives for the most part, built to be ordinary in my experience, and soon the sex would become a good reason to play dominos instead of raising the dead.

 

Perhaps an affair? Stanley’s wife? Beautiful. Arrogant. Unapproachable? Probable. To think of her in bed with Stan brought on nausea.

 

I thumbed through one of the French novels I’d purchased, pretending I knew every word, doing my best, and knowing less with each turn of the page. I think it was the French Prime Minister Georges Clemenceau who said English is badly pronounced French.

 

Or, to turn around what ole Cleme’s say, French is close to English.  Clem, I disagree. French is closer to a snarling wolf in a trap in the pouring rain. 

 

I had just pushed away the snarling wolf when a woman approached. I may not know French, but I know women can sense angst like an ant to sugar. 

 

Maybe I squirmed and pushed fingertips through my hair that sent the message. Either way, I grabbed my book again and read on in deadly silence.

 

“Monsieur?” Beautiful, long auburn hair, green eyes, a smile that turned rain into sunshine. If only. She didn’t fit my yeaning. Nothing special.

 

Not a bad body, wearing the normal French woman’s attire. White blouse, but this one was nearly see-through, showing a hint of a bra under it. Blue skirt, tight around the bottom. High black heels and colorful scarf. The heavy makeup and gaudy red lipstick trashed it. I guessed she wanted me to buy her a drink, then follow her back to somewhere congenial. 

 

“Merci, but I’m expecting someone.”

 

“I speak En-gleensh. I can see you have sooom troubles.” She leaned closer. Oh what big sooms you have Goldilocks. I almost spilled my wine.

 

I gave her a smile, and shook my head, the signal to part company in any language.

 

Back to dropping the book and going on the trail to writing. I like to write under a moody, dark gray sky. Not sure why. Bright days are for laughter, drinking forcefully and feeling like suggesting a new friend to help me with the last of the champagne, and on the horizontal would be nice.

 

The first blank page began with, “Jack first saw Margaret in blah blah blah….”, to hell with that. Maybe, “He saw her at a small…” I took a sip of wine.

 

“Bonjour! Are you always here?” said another soft feminine voice behind me.

 

I’d barely turned. Beatrice kissed me on both cheeks. 

 

I’m too damn American to kiss back. I just smiled, touched my glass of wine and offered an apology for drinking at noon.

 

She gave a soft smile. “Never too early or too late with wine, mon ami. Some friends use it to brush their teeth.” Yes, I wanted to meet some of those friends of the feminine variety. 

 

“I already checked. Stanley isn’t here.” I stood up.

 

“Quel dommage.”  

 

Yes, it is a pity, but why is she here? I kept standing and pulled out a chair.  She sat. Seldom has she spoken a word to me. My haunting question fluttered in the wind.

 

The waiter brought another glass and a full bottle of wine. “C’est l’ami de mon ami”. A friend of a friend. I nodded, as in the Parisian way, looking as if not caring.   

 

“I wish to speak to you,” she said.

 

I smiled, and waited for whatever was coming.

 

“Stanley and I….well….there of our marriage.” It came out sounding more like a mirage. 

 

That pretty well covers all marriages. 

 

“Do you want to know?”

 

“Do you want to tell me?” Conversational ping pong.

 

I took a sip.

 

“Well, we are not married…..” followed by a smile and pause.

 

I waited.

 

“Well, we are, but we’re not…. sais pas.”

 

That made two of us who didn’t know.  I stayed silent to let her mind her own business.

 

“He wanted to stay in le France.”

 

I shrugged. “A marriage of convenience.” Which turned out to be very close in French, but with a dog tailed accent.

 

I wanted to ask for more secrets, but refrained. Knowing others’ details usually led to more than less. 

 

“You don’t want talking about that with me, n’est pas?” She said, and took a dainty sip of wine.  “But maybe a favor?”

 

“Depends. What kind?”

 

“Not for me.”

 

“Your husband?”

 

“Une de mes amis”

 

“Man? Woman? Lawyer who needs his throat slit?”

 

“A woman.”

 

“Anyone I know? Hopefully not one married to an angry husband who’s a crack shot!”

 

“Her husband is deadly.”

 

“Damn I hope the hell not!”

 

“Oh…..non….my English…” She rolled her eyes. “I mean he is not living.”

 

“Dead you mean.”

 

She nodded. “Yes. She told me.” A shrug of her shoulders. 

 

“How long ago?” I get particular about doing favors for women, especially those I don’t know, and who’s husband is only maybe dead and thinks pulling a gun and giving it a try is reasonable.

 

“She is quite old.”

 

“Let’s not beat around the old lady’s bush.”

 

“She is 92. Maybe 96.”

 

“How long before she’s dead?”

 

Beatrice paused, but kept her narrowing eyes on me. “She is not close.” Anything close to a smile had vanished.

 

These ‘close’ and ‘maybes’ ruffle my feathers and maybe many other’s people’s feathers. Maybe a cast of feather beaters.  “How close?”

 

“She has not to have some sex and wants to have more of it before she in too old.”

 

My god, how long does she figure she can hang on? “Sounds like she needs to take her wheelchair into the confessional for the last rights. Maybe just a handshake would do the trick on the way to the cemetery.”

 

“She wants more.”

 

Don’t we all. “Butter her toast? Spill tea on her delicate places and call it a night?”

 

“She wants….well you know.”

 

“Wants to suck on the lollypop?”

 

‘’I don’t know what that is. She wants real…well you know things.”

 

Sex in the graveyard is a great way of saying goodbye, and zipping up one’s pants.

 

How much am I supposed to know? I followed her intent, with yet another sip of wine. Larger sip. Closer to a gulp. Then I gave myself a top-off. 

 

“She pays well.”

 

“Why not get a pimp to settle the bargain?”

 

“She’s afraid of diseases.”

 

“Me, too!”

 

And I’m afraid of things I’m afraid to think about. My wonder stick is even more afraid. I’m already praying to Jesus for redemption.  

 

But sure, I think. No, I don’t think, but what the hell? Her morgue or mine? I didn’t really think anything was going to happen. Make that hoping.  Maybe she just wanted company or maybe I could read her a naughty version of Goldilocks where she grows to love the wolf who has more than big eyes. 

 

Yes. Guessing turned into going.

 

Madam de Rohan lived as you would expect, in a lovely part of Paris. Beatrice and I took a taxi to a huge apartment building, just a little shorter than the Eifel Tower and probably older. A heavily built doorman in blue livery opened the taxi door and then the heavy brass door with thick glass. It swung open easily, only if you were the size of angry ape. 

 

The ape ushered us to the elevator. The elevator boy, who looked about sixty-five, with arthritic knees and a wrinkled face, was in the same uniform. 

 

On the way up, yes, the thought grabbed me. What would it be worth to have me push the old lady’s buttons?

 

Eighth floor was sure to be elegant, with an elegant sight of the city.

 

Before we could say shiver my timbers we were in. Thick carpet. Walls hung with what I guess were original pieces from the late 1800s. Toulouse-Lautrec. Monet and other wonders I didn’t recognize and could never afford unless I got to know the old lady very, very well.

 

                                     End of Part 2 TO CONTINUE

 

 

 

 

 

A Short Story Paris Part 1 of 4

 

It’s not that I don’t like Paris. I do.  But not so much the new Paris. I’m afraid the old streets and buildings creaking with age are harder to find.  Some backwaters of the city still look like the 1920s, but still I lust for what is gone forever.  

 

The café I inhabit in most mornings is what you might call old and rugged. Peeling paint on large, brown rustic doors, that open wide. You can see the zinc bar and the bar keeper, a partially bald man of fifty or so, in a white apron, busy polishing the countertop with a white rag.  I don’t usually go in, but take one of my usual seats at one of the cafe tables out front, but not too close to the street, which thankfully is a quiet street with little traffic. 

 

Tall, scuffed beige apartments with dusty windows are on either side of the street.  Clothes flutter softly on close-lines several stories up. 

 

I ordered a cafe au lait and croissant, and as always, I sat alone, at least for a short while.   

 

“Monsieur.” The waiter, dressed as usual in brown trousers, white shirt, and spotless apron tied at the waist, showed me his back even before he heard my merci. Been here many times. He knows my desires.

 

Hemingway used to sit and write at this cafe, or so I was told, but who really knows about ole Hem. It’s all a guess if you ask me. In the end, what does it matter? And the places the man himself mentioned in “A Moveable Feast” are no longer nickel and dime spots for the poor and disenchanted.  Les Deux Magots, La Closerie des Lilas, and so many others are expensive havens for tourists to push out enough to be able to say, Yes, I was there. 

Beter bring your credit card to sip where Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Picasso and dozens of others hung out in the 1920s, most of whom at the time were hungry and nervous about their next meal and anxious to be invited to the next party.

 

I want to be a writer, hopefully a good, and rich one. But to start off in a grubby apartment in a rough part of Paris, poor and soaked in enough wine and whiskey to float the Titanic? No thanks! I want it all and I want it now.

 

How about living with a wife like Zelda Fitzgerald, ninety cents short of a dollar? Deep sigh. 

 

I took a sip of coffee and sifted through my careless mind. How much whiskey did Scott have to drink? Well, it killed him.  A bucket a day of whisky will do that.

 

I’m sitting quietly, sipping and letting the croissant sit on its small white plate. I like to sit, stare and listen to the sound of traffic a block away, and a city coming awake, while I pretend to be a starving writer. 

 

Without a nod, a former acquaintance plopped in a chair at my table. 

 

Stanley Thomson. Unshaven for a few days. Thin sandy hair brushed carelessly by a stubby finger or two. Wrinkled white shirt, matching the wrinkled khaki suit. Not at all Parisian. The pot belly didn’t help. Parisian gentlemen of any age are nicely thin, and always look as if their suits were made to measure. Stanley may have slept in his suit for a few days.

 

“S'il vous plaît.” He said in utterly atrocious French, as he waved a couple of fingers. The waiter took his own deep breath and nodded.  No smile, but what the hell, this is Paris.  

 

In no time, Stanley, who distained being called Stan, was already grabbing our conversation with both hands between sips and ramming home what was already left of his croissant.  “My agent tells me he can’t wait to get my latest.  You know the last “Philip Carl” really burned up the best seller list.”  

 

“How many does this make?”  Yes, I felt a twinge of shame or anger or something. I’d read not one page he’s written, or not one word for that matter. I don’t read rubbish. Maybe I’m being cruel.

 

Stanley waived fingers again and the waiter brought another croissant, which slowed the conversation. He had “Three,” but with the help of a mouthful of croissant it came out muffled, “Cwee”. 

 

I swallowed hard and changed the subject. “How are things with Beatrice’s novel?” 

 

“0h, the dogs. ……..”   He fluttered his fingers, so-so, and lifted his nearly empty coffee cup to his lips, his eyes wide as softballs.  He put the cup down, letting a few drops spill, and finished the rest of the sentence. “The damn dogs…..well the whole novel is a disgrace to canines.” 

 

“Tell me the title again?” 

 

“She should call it Woof-Woof, The Bitch is Dead.” 

 

I took my own sip, followed the few bits of traffic pass, with my eyes, and waited.  

 

Another croissant arrived and after tossing that one down, a cluster of scattered flakes spent a long time on his chest, followed by a gulp and belch. Stanley stood-up and tossed his white linen napkin on the table. “You don’t mind, do you? I gotta run.”  

 

Beatrice, his wife, is a beauty and the perfect example of women who are cheerleaders for marriage, no matter the score. Apparently, that included a man like Stanley, belly full of everything that fit in his mouth. 

 

She really was a writer, with several novels in French. She also knows people, including those of the artistic persuasion and the others who have the money to keep artists from going hungry.

 

Oddly enough, Stanly and his wife and I get along. What you’d call bar buddies. In France a bar offers everything from whiskey to coffee to this and that to eat. Beatrice doesn’t often show up.

 

I did envy him for latching on to Beatrice. Come live with me and be my love, and we shall all the pleasures prove, said a poet who never knew Molly, a girlfriend, now out of my life, who was not French. She was all I had wanted and needed but she found pleasures elsewhere, turning love to sour milk. Her new love raced away on a race track. Yep. I heard he dumped her on the last lap.

 

I’ve had trouble with women, so, I guess I shouldn’t be pushing what I thought about women and marriage. But, damn!   Beatrice is lovely in the French women’s charming ways.  They dress so well, and flatten their skirts as soon as they sit down, one hand smooth and slow in a don’t you want to take me home in the sort of way.  My answer is yes. On the other side, Stanley...but I won’t say it.  Yes, I will. She sleeps with him? I shudder. Why are women beyond my ken? 

 

And what if I managed to...perish the thought. Bedding her would be like jumping in the seat of a Ferrari filled with mud.  

 

Next day, same cafe, but I picked another table. Stan was there with a male companion. Slicked back, greasy black hair and a snarly faced like an angry, constipated bulldog. Stan didn’t look happy. A coffee in front of him, and crumbs from an only half eaten croissant. Stan would pee in his pants before he’d give up on a croissant.

 

The companion walked away. No handshake and didn’t look back. Turned a corner and disappeared.  Stan looked like he was deciding between a handful of sleeping pills or rolling up his sleeves and using a sharp knife. I’m sure the waiter would help with the knife. 

 

Now I had to decide. Leave, or stay.  Curiosity won. I slid into a chair at Stanley’s table.

 

“What’s up Stanley?”  The waiter gave a glance at Stanley, gave an “Ho shit” look, swallowed deeply and forced himself to bring me exactly what I always order.  I sipped my second cup of coffee au lait.  Stan looked up, nodded to me, and said nothing.

 

I knew it was coming. One, two, three… 

 

“Lawyer.” He still didn’t look up. From the shady look of him, by the grease hair, I would have guessed Mafia hit man.  No telling which is worse.  I chose not to ask.  “How’s the writing coming?”  

 

He swiped the table swiftly with the back of his hand, sending the white plate and what was left of the croissant to their clattering doom. 

 

The waiter, who had been leaning over the counter in the opposite direction, spun around like a man who’d pissed and had forgotten to unzip his pants.  I looked toward him, showed him the palm of my hand. Everything is ok, then signaled for two cognacs and make it double shots.

 

The waiter walked smartly toward us and quickly swept up the reason I had ordered Cognac.  

 

I ignored him and kept the conversation running. “So, what’s up with the patron of cracks in the law.” 

 

“I don’t…”.       

 

“The hell you don’t”. 

 

The cognacs quickly appeared.

 

Stanley took a small sip without looking at me, then an honest sip. 

 

“We’re in Paris. Writing is going well. You have a beautiful wife….” My speech of consolation trails off.  

 

He sighed. “I haven’t told you everything”. 

 

“And by that you mean you’ve told me nothing.”  But I didn’t say it. Salt in the wound, etc.  

 

“The lawyer told me... “.  He took a deep breath. “Well, I’m being charged with plagiarism.”  

 

The waiter came to the table, unannounced and pointed to the empty snifters.  “Oui, s’il vous plait.” And pour one for yourself. My French is usually limited to merci and merde, but fingers pointing to his chest and cupping a hand to the lips did the job. Fingers smash the language barrier for drinks, bills, and up yours.   

 

The waiter stood behind the bar and downed his before he brought ours. He didn’t ask if we wanted anything else. One smashed dish had already ruined his day. He got back behind the bar and started polishing glasses, with a careful eye on the snifters at our table.  Shouldn’t have watched, dropped his, sending slivers of very polished glass to hide here and there.

 

A quick, sour look in my direction told me it couldn’t be his fault. 

 

Stan still hadn’t looked at me, fat fingers locked and twisted together. Watching the fingers twist, it struck me that the lawyer might not be a lawyer. 

 

Suit. Yes. Nice suit? No. This is Paris, not a Nebraska faith healer’s Bingo game.  “Stanley, who was that guy.”  

 

“I told you.”  

 

“Slick hair? Unshaven? Suit from a second hand market? Try again.”

 

Something told me the ride home was going to be a rocky one for ole’ Stanley.

 

Later in the afternoon I went for a walk, but not down the boulevards. Heavy traffic rusts the mind and I wanted to let ribbons of thought breeze through helplessly. What about Stan and the lawyer, if he was one?  I managed to forget the whole nest of troubles, and turned onto a rather narrow and definitely old street, with grayish buildings. One dotted with tiny mom and pop markets, other various shops, and a few art stores with paint brushes, simple art and such.

 

I turned another corner and stopped to listen to sweet, smooth and yet tumbled Gypsy jazz. A few people walked on, barely noticing. 

 

Musicians in worn jeans and untucked shirts, rugged whiskers, except for the girl playing base. A smile, bright eyes, and carelessly coffered hair.  From the smooth sound of the guitar, I would swear Django Reinhardt was doing the strumming, but unlike Django this one had all his fingers, and from the sounds, Stephane Grappelli’s son had mastered his father’s jazz violin. Sweet sounds and smooth tones, from the heart.  Glorious. Golden. I tossed coins in the hat and stayed to marvel through every note. 

 

When they finally took a break to chat, sip glasses of beer, and smoke French Gauloises, I moved on, not knowing where, but old buildings on every side. Once or twice faces appeared in windows high above, looking down at me, or to do the chore of putting clothes out to dry. 

 

Along the way I found an old secondhand bookstore, not unlike Shakespeare and Company, but lacking English books.  I bought two well-used books in French, with high hopes. The seller was an older lady, gray hair, glasses, and plainly dressed. She said very little as she wrapped up my books.

 

Farther down the same street I spied another tiny shop, with one tall window, filled with pen and ink drawings of all sizes, framed in black. As I stared, a man’s voice startled me. Thin man, with a white shirt, and suspenders holding up his dark gray pants. The old, gray haired ancient waved twice with his fingers, wanting me to follow him through his scared green entry way.  My English did no good. I would have used my French if I had any. No matter, he ushered me inside to a worn, but comfortable chair and pointed for me to sit.  

 

I took my time glancing around his interesting shop, filled with nothing but black ink portraits and buildings, flowers and trees, castles and old automobiles.  

 

While I sat, he held up the palm of one hand and disappeared behind a black curtain, only to reappear with a violin. He commenced to play music so sweet it brought tears to my eyes. He must have played thirty minutes. When music is so beautiful, who watches the time?  Afterwards he put the violin back in a terribly scuffed brown violin case, let it rest against a wall and offered me a drink of something like Sherry in a small crystal cup, then sat in a nearby chair. We drank and spoke in separate languages, smiling, understanding as best we could.  His warm gray eyes spoke of pleasures won and those he’d lost. His eyes held a sparkle and his tone and lilt of voice enthralled me. 

 

 It was time for me to leave. He hugged me. Startling, but comforting for both of us. Who was I in his old eyes? Loved ones long gone? Sons or daughters? Ghosts of lost friends? How much has he seen in those lost years?

 

Walking back in fading light, surrounded by even darker, old buildings, I no longer worried about Stanley or his lawyer trouble, or why the hell his beautiful wife slept in his bed. Instead, I thought of the little cafe and the middle-aged barkeeper who drank his Cognac in two swallows, and the Gypsy jazz that brought old music to the depth of my soul, and the old man with his violin skill and the wonderous unknown conversation, and of course deliciousness in a small crystal cups.  

 

I must have been walking longer than I thought, surrounded by new born memories! Somehow, I’d found bits and pieces of the old Paris I longed for.

                                                    

 

I wrote about my time in Aix en Provence, but now it’s time to tell you about a famous artist who spent most of his life there, and to give you a look at a museum that holds some of his paintings. But, I’ll go a little farther than that, with one of Cézanne’s most famous paintings, which taps into his art and a strong difference between Europe and America, that twists into morals and customs. What if men and women in middle America decided to take a swim, when an artist comes by.

 

“If you don’t mind, take off those clothes. I’d like to paint you while you slosh around in the nude. No worries, I’m an artist.”

 

“Pervert!” Followed by sirens and a night in a chilly cell.

 

Puritanism stuck like glue across the Atlantic, but faded away long ago in Europe.  In Europe, swimming in the nude is not sex.  But in America any nudity is sex. Ok, you’ll say, there are nude beaches in America. Have you been there? Me neither.  Rare in the U.S.A. In Europe it’s normal to go at least partially naked on most beaches, and you'll get a surprise when you step into a spa. Why should I mention it? Cézanne is why. He said it well: “Art is a harmony parallel with nature.”

 

Like it or not, we are a part of nature. Now that you have a taste for European art and artists and are suddenly thinking about dips in a pool a group, let’s wander on to the Musée Granet and more art by Paul Cézanne.

 

 

The rather small museum, in the center of old town, is next to Eglise Saint-Jean-de-Malte. The museum was once a part of the church, but no longer. And it holds much more than Cézanne’s art, all of it interesting and dating back to the 1700s.

 

Costs about 8 bucks to enter, but worth it. I went twice. I’m one of those who dally and ponder. I like art! Especially art known as impressionism.  Yes, Cézanne was part of the first Impressionist exhibition, held in Paris in April 1874, featured 30 artists, including core members Claude Monet, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Edgar Degas, Camille Pissarro, Berthe Morisot, Paul Cézanne, and Alfred Sisley. The artists held an independent exhibition to defy the traditional, state-run Salon, that wanted nothing to do with them. 

 

A French art critic, Louis Leroy coined the name Impressionism as sarcasm, saying the paintings were just impressions, not finished works. What is it about art that brings out voices of resistance? Guess it’s just human. Hey, we’re all critics. As if we really know or understand art or artists. I do my best to stifle my inner critic, and did pretty well with this museum and especially Cézanne. His work is easy to like. It draws you in.

 

Seeing Cézanne’s paintings, from his early to his later work, you’ll find a progression, and begin to understand why Leroy wrote what he did. All things new, and especially art, are difficult to work their way into the 'what-the-hell-is-that" mind. 

 

Interesting that Impressionism took only a relatively short time to become cherished art. By the 1920s many new artists settled in Paris and followed in the footsteps of the Impressionists and took even more different artistic directions.

 

But back to Cézanne!

 

The painter himself walked a strange road, depending on his father, a banker, who insisted his son become a banker. Cézanne did his best, but artist in the bank didn’t last. Finally, his father tossed in the cash and allowed his artist son to go to Paris, where he painted alongside a host of wonderful Impressionist artists, leading to the Impressionist exhibition.

 

But Paris didn’t last all too long either, although he would go back and forth. But fairly soon Cézanne was drawn back to Aix en Provence to settle and stay. Not a sad story. His father came recognized his son’s art and skill.

 

Like all true artists, Cézanne, lived to paint, not caring if others liked his work or not. On the other side, he was also his own toughest critic, often tossing away what he thought was not good enough, or what was on the canvas just didn’t work to suit him. In one case, he had an important person pose for him every day for weeks, only to decide, sorry, “I can get it right.”

 

With the paintings in the museum, you can see the development of his art from beautiful, but conventional into more unconventional.  The more I looked, the more I became enchanted by the curves of his art, and how the young artist blossomed into the artist he became.

 

Now let’s look at some more art!

Another of his earlier painting

Note the intensity in the eyes.