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.
