The passing of time makes remembering harder, that is an obvious and banal thing to say and yet it also makes it that much more of an imperative. Nobody warns you about that when you’re young, just like they don’t warn you about many things like how time itself and its passing speeds up or that loneliness never gets any easier. Paris is not the place to be when you’re young and poor.
I just looked up the name of the street and the thought comes to me: people die crossing the Boulevard de Sébastopol in the middle of the day. How many exactly, throughout the course of history, is a fact, but it is also anyone’s guess.
The Irish Genius
Gerry Feehily
Myers flicked his Marlboro away and walked to the entrance of the Hôtel de Crillon, Place de la Concorde. Two porters stood on both sides of the revolving doors to this august five star residence. Bonsoir Monsieur! they cried, snapping to attention, their tone somewhat jocular. Both wore green swallowtail coats, green top hats and white kid gloves as in some terrible alcoholic dream of being chased down alleys by little goblin men.
Bonsoir, said Myers, himself in a vintage tweed overcoat, of uncommon yellow and red weave.
J’ai un rendez vous, he said, his throat tight.
Just ask at the reception, they said as one, in English, their eyes wet with glee.
Myers shoved his way through the revolving doors into the lobby. White and black tile floor, columns, a vast marble reception desk. A group of Brazilians, in baggy jogging pants and t-shirts, ogled the frescoes on the ceiling thirty feet up. On a white sofa, a Chinese couple with two gangling teenage boys sat slumped, surrounded by bags from the swishest fashion designers that Paris had to offer the world. All gazed into their mobile phones, the white light of the future glowing on faces gone bloodless from a day at the boutiques of Avenue Montaigne. All was lofty, all was hushed, long velvet curtains, delicate gold leaf patterns running down pillars, receptionists in tight black suits and Human League quiffs. And somewhere, did Myers not hear the putter of water, and a hand gliding along a harp?
A bellboy came to enquire.
Je cherche le bar, said Myers, kneading the bunched up tissues and Métro tickets in his coat pockets.
Mais bien sûr, Monsieur! said the bellboy, chuckling, and directed him to the lift, pressed the silver button for him. As he did this he sniffed the air a second, looked Myers up and down, and then mutely doffed his hat as the lift door hissed open. Myers sniffed the air too, catching a smell of something. It wasn’t a hotel smell. It wasn’t his deodorant, but something else.
His sister Aisling sat engulfed in a giant velvet armchair in the bar looking for all the world like the actress she’d dreamed of becoming as a child. A PR consultant to one of the world’s largest humanitarian organisations, she had that air of being someone, a name on the tip of one’s tongue, the sort of woman you see in airport lounges, going round the Earth, a universal gringa at the heart of conflict zones. Hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing a white dress of ancient Greek inspiration, she was on her way to Venice, but had decided on a stopover in Paris.
Something very special had happened in her life, she’d explained over the phone. She wanted him to meet her fiancé, Hamilton.
I want him to meet my older brother, who lives in Paris, she’d said.
She stood up, they kissed.
Yuck, cigarettes, she said.
Myers’ future brother-in-law, Hamilton, was sitting on the sofa opposite her.
Oh hallo Gus, he said.
So here was the multi-millionaire his parents had been raving about — Hamilton, and that was his first name. An Englander for sure, goggly blue eyes, shoulder length limp blond hair, long teeth. Rolling in money, and yet wearing a white hoodie, yellow jeans and scuffed tennis shoes. He had one of those particularly thin English mouths, Myers noted, reminiscent of cruel captains of the eighteenth century whipping the peasants with an ash stick. He got up off the sofa, deploying himself to his full six foot six and they shook hands.
Come and have some champagne, he said.
Well! said Myers.
As he took off his coat, spread it on the back of a giant armchair, he caught that smell again. It was certainly not deodorant. It had something of an attic to it, and also something of a cellar, underground and skyborne, earth and dust. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
Incredible hotel, he said.
Hamilton handed him a glass.
I’ve been hearing so much about you, he said. Travelling the world, and now living in Paris, writing a novel!
I’d like to hear so much more about you, Hamilton, said Myers.
Really? I don’t like talking about myself! he said.
He gave Aisling a look and they both laughed.
Well, how did you guys meet? said Myers.
Ah, said Hamilton, putting his champagne flute down on the glass table and giving the bottle of Dom Perignon in an ice bucket a twist. I met your sister at this forum in Los Angeles for Iranian dissidents, and I thought she was Iranian she was so bloody exotic looking and so I started chatting her up, didn’t I?
And both he and Aisling started to laugh.
And how’s the humanitarian work going, Aisling? asked Myers.
Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that, she said.
Particularly that! said Hamilton, pointing at her champagne flute. On which note, let’s refill, he added.
They all clinked glasses, looking out at the view, at the bone grey façades of the inner courtyard, the exquisite iron balconies, with the tip of the Eiffel Tower blinking over it all.
Bloody great view, said Hamilton.
Yes, said Myers.
We were up at Sacré-Coeur this afternoon, said Hamilton. All kinds of knobbly winding streets and peaky roofed houses. You’d half expect to meet a wild haired genius on every corner, spouting poetry into a mirror, wouldn’t you!
Yes, you would, said Myers.
But we didn’t, did we? That’s why we came to Paris, isn’t it. But now you’re here, thank God, with an actual writer.
And here you are too, Hamilton, an actual tech entrepreneur.
There are more important things in life! said Hamilton. What’s that smell in here? said Aisling, looking around. Oh yes, said Hamilton. Thought I got a whiff of something.
Myers drained his glass and set it down.
That smell, I’m afraid, is my coat, he said. They went to the rooftop to the hotel restaurant. As guests at the Crillon, Hamilton and Aisling did not need to divest. Myers gave his coat to the waiter, muttering about some accident with a cat. Please, Monsieur, there is no need to explain! said the waiter, holding it out with both hands as though the cat itself had died. They thumbed the menus at a table that gave on to the city below, the Eiffel Tower twinkling, blue searchlights on the tip of it spreading beams 360° over all the world. There were diners from all the continents here, speaking heatedly, the Brazilians, the Chinese family, an Arabian with three veiled wives sipping Cokes. One thing was sure. They were all having a great time.
Hamilton closed the menu. This place got a great write-up in the Guardian, he said.
Brilliant, said Myers.
And this is my treat, you can have anything you want. Hey, that’s very kind of you, said Myers.
We just saw Mum and Dad the other week, said Aisling. I love your parents! They’re such great people. Ireland! While eating the starter, Aisling explained they were going to take the Orient Express to Venice and stay three nights at the Palazzo Gritti before flying out to New York for a script meeting.
Ah, said Myers.
Hamilton’s been asked to help finance a film about child soldiers in Sierra Leone, said Aisling.
The script is utterly devastating, said Hamilton.
They plan to actually film it using real former child soldiers, his sister added.
That’s really amazing, Hamilton, said Myers. So you’re in film production now?
Not just, said Hamilton, looking to his future wife.
/> He’s founded a water charity too, said Aisling. He’s going to run a marathon in the Sahara to raise money for it. Digging wells in Africa.
Wow, said Myers.
And what about you, Gus? asked Hamilton.
Me? he said.
Have you heard anything from Irmgardt? said Aisling.
The waiter came over with their dishes, one in each hand, the third way halfway up his arm. The sommelier whisked behind them with the wine. The waiter said, This is the Barbary duck, with a purée of celery, a coulis of fruit of the forest. Bon appétit!
This looks very good, says Hamilton.
The sommelier sniffed the cork. This is a dark, rich Bordeaux, he said, with earth and cheese undertones. He poured the wine, which made a tock tock sound in the silence, sloshing about in the crystal glass, making the silence somewhat deeper.
We don’t talk anymore, said Myers, taking his glass.
She was Gus’ girlfriend, a German, said Aisling.
Oh, where from? said Hamilton.
East Berlin, said Myers.
Gus has always had clever tormented girlfriends.
Yes, just like me! laughed Hamilton. And your book, Gus, what’s it about?
Ah, loads of things, said Myers.
About tormented East German girlfriends?
Myers drained his glass, put it down.
Right now, it’s about the entrance to my apartment building, he said. There’s this prostitute, who must be about seventy years old, who’s got the code to the door, and pleasures her clients in there. In my entrance.
Oh dear.
And the thing is, she’s a transvestite.
Incredible, said Hamilton. Still working at seventy. There must be a niche market for that!
Oscar Wilde talked about genius, continued Myers. He said genius was half male and half female. She wears this black dress, her face is painted white, but the make-up’s cracked. There’s something uncanny about her.
Is she a genius then? said Hamilton.
Do you know what I say, said Myers, when I come in the door, and there’s a client taking her from behind, his pants down, usually an old geezer? I say Bonsoir, and she says Bonsoir back, or she says Bonsoir first because in this town you’ve still got to say Good day and Good evening whatever the situation and it’s not ridiculous.
He hadn’t noticed that the sommelier had shuffled up behind him.
Would you care for more wine, Monsieur? he said.
Thank you, said Myers.
Cool, and is there much of a plot to this novel? asked Hamilton.
No, I suppose there isn’t a plot.
That must be interesting.
In the meantime I’m doing the usual stuff, said Myers, turning to his sister. Teaching and some translations.
Great, said Aisling.
Did you know that Les Dawson lived in Paris? said Hamilton.
Les Dawson? No I didn’t, said Myers.
He came here as a young man and wrote a novel, a big experimental novel, in the style of James Joyce. But he couldn’t find a publisher. So he went back to England and that’s how he became a stand-up comedian.
What’s the difference between roast beef and pea soup? said Aisling.
That’s an amazing story, Hamilton, said Myers.
You can roast beef, said Aisling.
What? said Myers.
That was the punchline. The difference between roast beef and pea soup.
Ah, said Myers.
It was the first joke I ever understood as a child.
I remember that joke too.
Does anyone still read James Joyce? said Hamilton.
No, said Myers, and he explained how Joyce was overrated, how in fact that duo of Paris-based Irish writers, Joyce and Beckett, was just overrated. He had a word for it, Literachore. Literature that is a chore to read, he said.
I wonder whether Les Dawson’s novel was a chore, said Hamilton.
With that five hundred million you earned selling your company you could probably buy it, said Myers, sniggering.
I’ll buy your novel about transvestite geniuses too! said Hamilton.
They all laughed, in a certain way.
Hamilton paid the bill with a black credit card after his sister had spent about five minutes checking it out item by item.
Myers poured himself the rest of the red wine.
Hamilton said, Well, we’re going to take a helicopter to see Paris by night.
Isn’t that amazing? said Aisling.
Pity you can’t come, said Hamilton. We only reserved for two. I should have thought about that.
Why? said Aisling. Weren’t we supposed to have a romantic helicopter ride?
It’ll be all spread out at our feet. The Eiffel Tower all twinkly. Gus might have liked that.
No, not at all! I live here, after all. And Paris is such a great place, said Myers, pounding Hamilton on the back.
Yes, it’s great, said Hamilton.
They all stood up to go. Myers embraced his sister.
Sort out your coat, she whispered, as she slipped an envelope into his pocket.
He patted it. He was longing for a cigarette. Throughout the meal he’d broken out into a sweat of nicotine withdrawal.
In the lobby he waved to them as the doors to their lift closed.
They were gone.
Myers hadn’t been out in the west of Paris for such a long time, perhaps five years. The west just wasn’t his sort of place. Or that’s what he tried to tell himself. It was actually lovely, though, but he didn’t want to think about that. Not now.
The footman saluted him jovially as he walked out onto the Place de la Concorde, where Louis XVI had his head chopped off, like Robespierre, like Danton, in the name of a freer and more egalitarian society. But there were so many cars turning round the Place and heading towards the Champs Elysées that you couldn’t get a sense of the historical import of the place, only its regal style.
Danton had said that the French Revolution wouldn’t be complete until the last king was strangled with the guts of the last priest, but now neither priests nor kings had any influence on how society worked. It was people like Hamilton now. People like Myers were the children of this Revolution that had opened the world up forever, like the footmen too, but so was Hamilton. However, in stark contrast to his future brother-in-law, Myers had two revolving credits running and about fifty euros in the bank.
He found his bicycle where he’d left it, locked to a pole on the corner of Rivoli in front of WHSmith’s. The books in the window had cheerful pastel drawings of young ponytailed women in jogging pants. There were also book covers with birthday cakes, and confetti, and takeout caffe latte cups. The author of a bestselling book about how French women kept their men in check with their devastating sexual technique was doing a signing there the next day.
Myers unlocked his bicycle. As he rode, he detected a clunking sound coming from the mudguard as if a car had clipped it going round the corner, or as if someone had kicked it.
Down Rue Saint-Honoré he rode past high-end clothes stores. Then he cut up Rue du Louvre and turned right onto Rue du 4 Septembre. By the time he’d got to Réaumur-Sébastopol, he passed as through a portal into another Paris, of North African tat stores and Chinese mobile phones shops, West African hairdressers, Turkish kebab joints. He rode up grimy Boulevard Sébastopol and switched into a lower gear to make it up Boulevard de Magenta and onto Boulevard Barbès. Underneath the overhead Métro, North African lads were selling cartons of contraband Marlboros, bootlegged Rolexes. He locked his crocked bike in front of his building, and then crossed the street.
At the foot of the Sacré Coeur, he sat down. The city beneath, the Eiffel Tower lit up still. He wasn’t on his own. There were hundreds of people there, from Asia, from North and South America, Africa, all watching the city with him and taking photographs. Humanity craves heights and vistas. Here was a great one, and it had to be said, the Eiffel Tower never let you down. It just looked so go
od, its feet, its curves, the way it went up in one mighty Yes into the Parisian night. Myers smoked one Marlboro after another.
A luminous white ball hovered up above the Tower, stopped then hovered around the structure, before fleeing east along the river. It looked like a fairy light. Within that fairy light, his sister sat with her future husband, Hamilton, the first multimillionaire he’d ever met, with his cruel English mouth. They’d be looking at the grand boulevards of the city, the gently curving Seine. They’d be seeing the dome of the Panthéon, the spires and towers of Notre-Dame from above, everywhere sparkling. The flight would inspire in them a meditative state, one of acceptance and quiet joy. They would look down on everything, full of a sense of benediction and think:
I understand.
Myers walked down the steps, then down the hill of Rue Custine to Boulevard Barbès. He punched the code into his building and in the entrance there she stood, her face painted white, scarlet lips, in her black dress.
She had her client, a young man, pressed against the door, his hands against the wall, head down, trousers puddled around his sneakers.
Bonsoir Monsieur! she said, thrusting, panting, her eyes gleaming.
Myers took his hands off the entrance light.
Bonsoir, he said.
Et bonne nuit aussi! said the client, through clenched teeth.
Trying to ignore their groans of joy, he climbed the stairs, up to the fifth, under the roof, unlocked the door. A pair of cockroaches on their nocturnal promenade about-turned and scuttled to the corners of the room. Myers sat down on his bed. He was definitely going to do something about the coat. It was difficult to work out what it stank of though, but rather than name its notes and tones like some sort of expensive wine, it smelled of a quality — neglect.
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