We'll Never Have Paris

by Andrew Gallix

  FP: [Singing.] Hands up! Baby, hands up!

  The cathedral steps very nearly did me in, for real. I actually thought I might die. There are 387 steps in all, and after the first twenty, it felt like I was shouldering a massive barrel-shaped hunch, containing sherry.

  FP: Mercy! Domine; salvum me fac, Deus!

  Tourist: Is he all right?

  Hugo lets us imagine a view from the cathedral’s lofty heights in 1482. The spectator, on arriving, out of breath, upon this summit, was first of all struck by a dazzling confusion of roofs, chimneys, streets, bridges, squares, spires, steeples. All burst upon the eye at once. Little has changed in that sense. Especially the “out of breath’ part. As well as seeing gargoyles up close, and the Eiffel Tower in the distance, Notre-Dame offers a bird’s-eye view of Shakespeare and Company. It’s possible to see the third floor window to the House of George, where Agatha, from this height, would best resemble a fur ball. While it’s wonderful to take in the broad expanse of Paris, without threat of the cathedral being stormed by an angry mob, that warm bookshop room does beckon.

  The kitchen and table area in the House of George is also used, I discover, by employees of the shop. Collec- tively known as “Tumbleweeds”, they tend to be visitors to Paris from all parts of the world, who receive free board in exchange for two hours’ work a day. Before and after their shifts, they congregate in here, at the window-side table, to eat and to chat. Although exhausted from my epic cathedral climb, an Austrian woman, who attended my talk, is keen to pick my brain.

  Austrian Woman: It was interesting, your interview, but sometimes a bit confusing.

  FP: What do you mean?

  Austrian Woman: Well, Adam would ask you a question, and then you would talk about something else, not relevant to the question.

  FP: Hmm. I think I was expanding on his questions. Taking them to the next level.

  Austrian Woman: No. I don’t think so. Like he asked about your attendance at the Booker Prize ceremony, and you started talking about the foot-flushing system of French toilets.

  FP: I was really, really tired. Have you ever travelled all the way from London to Paris? Oh my word. It’s such a demanding journey. Exhausting.

  Austrian Woman: You were shouting, “VROOMVROOM!”

  FP: I suppose they’ll be wanting you downstairs now, won’t they? At the coalface…?

  Sylvia drops by with her young son Gabriel. Given the worldwide fame of her bookshop, with its illustrious past, Sylvia is arguably more of a celebrity than many of the authors she stocks. So it’s like having a celebrity turn up at your house, out of the blue, to say hi. Except, of course, this house is hers. Gabriel is two, and he’s a bit tired and grizzly. To keep him entertained, I do a repetitive dance, in a German techno style, with piston-like hands. It doesn’t seem to cheer him up at all, so I do it faster.

  Sylvia: Anyway, I better get this one home.

  FP: Oh, before I forget… a woman dropped by, at the door there. She had a message for you. Something about killing all the Dalmatians? I think a ransom was required…

  As they leave, I pretend to shoot Agatha dead, blam, blam, blam, and Gabriel is briefly appeased.

  On Rue Descartes, not far from the Pantheon, I pass La Maison de Verlaine, a restaurant dedicated to Paul Verlaine. It was in this building that Verlaine died of alcoholism and misery. A plaque on the same building denotes that Ernest Hemingway was also resident between 1921 and 1925. A bar nearby serves drinks, and all that talk of death and alcoholism and misery has made me thirsty. The bartender resembles the young woman who stares out from the bar in Manet’s The Bar at the Folies-Bergère, except there’s fewer mirrors and bottles, and she’s actually looking down, at her phone. When I awake, it’s the middle of the night. I’m slumped against a wall, on the side of a cobblestone street. After much squinting and refocusing, the street reveals itself as Rue Mouffetard, which kind of rings a bell. A pigeon lies splattered on the road. Like me, it was given wings for flight, but has ended up sprawled on the ground, wedged in the cobbled ruts. Just around the corner is George Orwell’s street, Rue du Pot-de-Fer. It’s a very sing-songy name, something you appreciate more when you sing it aloud, to the tune of “Chanson D’Amour”. As I walk slowly back towards the Seine, I sing that street, passing through other Parisian streets, which may be songs also.

  FP: RUE. DU POT. DE FERRR. LAT DE DAT DE DAT! When I awake, it’s an overcast morning. When I awake again, as in now, it’s a bright and sunny afternoon. The cold, however, prevails. Most of those braving the outdoors stand stiffly, arms pulled down, as if preparing to jump into a swimming pool fully clothed. In desperate need of sustenance, I surrender to a café near my bookshop home, requesting an English breakfast. When served, it is completely foreign to me. The waitress, who isn’t English, or French, speaks English.

  Waitress: Everything okay?

  FP: Wonderful. I must say, I’m very impressed with all the driver-less cars zipping around out there. Compared to England, France is so advanced, such a high-tech country.

  Waitress: Driver-less cars? Really? I have not noticed any.

  FP: You must have. Every single car, virtually. Only front passengers.

  Waitress: Ah. You see, here in France, the steering wheels are on the left side.

  FP: [Pause.] I work at a university.

  Don DeLillo’s symposium is being held, in part, at the Sorbonne, a famous university just down the road. One of the Sorbonne’s most infamous alumni is the Japanese student Issei Sagawa, who, in the early 1980s, killed a fellow student and ate various parts of her body. Japan still hunts and kills whales, and you have to wonder if this is actually just Issei Sagawa, serving his own voracious appetite. Although not registered for the symposium, I’m hoping I can blag my way in by capitalising on my language difficulties. Besides, as a scholar presently reading White Noise, perhaps I can actually bring something to the party. If nothing else, it’s a good chance to find out what happens at these conference things. If David Lodge’s Small World is anything to go by, academics deliver papers on the subject in question, and then they drink loads and everyone makes out. But are the drinks free? I’m going to find out. No I’m not. At the Sorbonne’s main entrance, on Rue Saint-Jacques, uniformed guards are demanding ID, and even patting down selected entrants. On the pavement opposite, two police officers wield huge sub-machine guns. Walking around the block, to the reception entrance on Rue de la Sorbonne, I encounter further security types in blue uniforms and peaked hats. Back on Rue Saint-Jacques, I try to reason with the guards.

  FP: Eh… I am… how you say… “Writer” [scribbling on air] in “Residence” [hands pressed in air like roof gable] at the University of Greenwich [undulating hand, like ship on waves], England, Angleterre [Benny Hill peace sign, cross eyes, tongue out].

  Guard: [Shrugging shoulders.]

  FP: Eh… I… don’t eat… people. I… eat… English breakfasts. Or…I would, if… you… knew how… to make them.

  The guard, out of patience, steers me on my way.

  FP: Eh… my university has two domes, two [two fingers]. Yours, only one [one finger].

  Don DeLillo is not staying in the House of George, although I bet he wishes it were so. The organisers of his symposium, at which he is scheduled to talk, as a “living writer”, have probably lumbered him with some swanky hotel, in a room previously occupied by a retired couple dipping into an immense pension accrued from a shameful company for which they performed boring, soul-destroying work. Tonight however, Don DeLillo is meeting interviewer Adam around the third floor table. Agatha is probably welcome, but I’ve been asked to stay scarce. It’s my final night in Paris, and I’m going to see Don DeLillo in the world’s most famous bookshop. As a visiting author myself, I’ve even been reserved a special seat. Turns out I’ll need it. A queue starts forming outside at least two hours beforehand, and once the sun departs, it’s blinking cold. Leaving the event attendees to form into ice sculptures, I go off in search of a hot-stuff
pub.

  Dear Anna,

  Bonjour from gay Paree!

  The other night, I performed live on stage here in France, to a crowd of people. A bit like Jay-Z. There was even a special artists’ entrance door, and when I came through it, there they were, my waiting crowd. Yay, it’s Francis! They weren’t screaming with excitement, although at one point I did have a sort of encore, in the sense that I went off the stage and then came back on again.

  Paris is the city of lovers, and also a place to die of alcoholism and misery, or to be shot dead for trying to be funny, or where a “friend” might eat you. Did you know that French drivers drive on the right? Of course you did. Everyone knows that!

  Love, Uncle Francis.

  Shakespeare and Company has wonderfully rickety features, but it’s somewhat lacking in space. Books are the priority, creating walls of their own, while the airy bits for people compete with wooden beams, jutting shelves, and tourist bags. When needed as a venue, it must squeeze the punters around the nooks, seating the chosen, accommodating the lucky. Returning from the pub, I am ushered past the shivering folk still queuing outside, and in through the ram-packed crowd. As opposed to my minor interest talk upstairs, Don DeLillo is appearing on the ground floor, in the very heart of the shop. Unlike George Orwell’s grim experiences in Paris, I am being personally escorted like a star, to my own reserved seat. Yet again I’m counting my blessings. It’s best, in such situations, to act cool, and maintain a sense of humility. But arriving directly from the pub, I can’t help smiling broadly at my good fortune, giving thumbs up to strangers, and also laughing lightly. My reserved bench seat is against a right wall, in the thick of it. Others are stuck behind supporting posts, or in back rooms, or even, I suspect, listening in from upstairs. Two modest chairs await, like theatre props, on a stage that’s the height of a hand. The stage backdrop, being bookshelves, is a mass of colourful covers and spines. The same plastic lectern I used is going to serve for Don DeLillo. But I can’t say I spoke at the same lectern as him, because when I did he hadn’t. Although technically Don DeLillo could claim to have talked at the same plinth as me. I really hope he does. I’m yet to break America. Let’s hope he’s not allergic to cats.

  Kristin Scott Thomas, the actress, has just sat down, right next to me. With her, to her right, is Bella Freud, the fashion designer. They were both personally escorted to their seats by Sylvia, who’s also famous. Check me out! Kristin Scott Thomas has recently finished a run at the Old Vic, but tonight an author’s on stage, and she’s in the audience, watching the show.

  FP: Hi, Francis Plug.

  Kristin Scott Thomas: Hello.

  FP: I didn’t see either of you at my event a couple of nights back.

  Kristin Scott Thomas: No.

  FP: Were you stuck in the queue, outside?

  Kristin Scott Thomas: No, we weren’t.

  An announcement on the tannoy asks us to avoid any photography and filming, and to switch off our phones.

  FP: It’s like being at the cinema, isn’t it? At one of your films.

  Kristin Scott Thomas shudders, even though she’s in here, where it’s warm. Don DeLillo, seventy-nine, is about the same height and build as me, so premium-sized, as opposed to bulk-buy/economy pack. He explores death a great deal in his work, and tonight, both he and Adam are wearing grey, like the skin of dead people. Adam says he is honoured to welcome Don DeLillo, one of the most important and influential writers of recent decades. Don DeLillo stands to read an extract from his novel Falling Man, which is printed on A4 pages. The passage concerns events immediately following the attack on the World Trade Center towers. Don DeLillo’s turtleneck jumper is grey. Adam wears an open grey cardigan with a lighter grey shirt beneath. “Everything is grey,” Don DeLillo reads.

  FP: Oh my word!

  Nudging Kristin Scott Thomas, I point at the grey clothing, mouthing the words, “Everything is grey.” When she displays both perplexity and annoyance, I don’t think it’s an act. The shop is incredibly quiet during the reading, given the mass of people and the proximity to the roary road by the splashy Seine. The odd scrape of a stool, one cough. An old boy to my left is wearing a black leather jacket, and this rubs and squeaks purely on account of his breathing.

  FP: [Whispering.] You sir, need an oiling.

  Old Boy: [Whispering.] Pardon me?

  FP: [Whispering.] You need an oiling.

  Before sitting down, Don DeLillo passes his reading glasses to a woman in the front row, who is of a similar age. Perhaps it’s his wife. Or maybe that was the author equivalent of throwing your underwear into the crowd. Adam asks about the 9/11-related reading. Don DeLillo mentions that his book Underworld had the twin towers on the cover, four years before they went down. He also covered the subject of terrorism in his novel Mao II back in 1991. A character in this book remarks: “Years ago I used to think it was possible for a novelist to alter the inner life of a culture. Now bomb-makers and gunmen have that territory”.

  Don DeLillo: Terrorism has become a major element in our lives. It sometimes seems as though terror and war are covering much of the planet. And in fact, it is that way, isn’t it?

  It’s reassuring to hear that when he first began, he didn’t have loads of author mates either.

  Don DeLillo: When I started I didn’t know any writers. I knew no one in the publishing industry and I didn’t have any writer friends.

  We’re in the same boat there. If Don DeLillo comes to the Greenwich Book Festival, he’ll be my friend for life. He also found enormous beauty and power in James Joyce’s Ulysses. He points out that both Joyce and Hemingway had close associations with Shakespeare and Company. James Joyce used the original shop as an office, and owner Sylvia Beach first published Ulysses in its entirety in 1922.

  After the event’s conclusion, Don DeLillo is set up at a book-signing table out back, near the children’s section. As we wait in the queue, one of the “tumbleweeds” comes around with free glasses of red wine. They know, I assume, that meeting one of the most important and influential writers of recent decades demands courage.

  FP: Two, please.

  Don DeLillo gets me to confirm the spelling of Plug, in relation to the number of “u”s.

  FP: Just the one. Although when my work is translated into Hungarian, who knows?

  Don DeLillo: Are you a writer?

  FP: Yes, I am. In fact, I did an event here myself, just two nights back. Although it was less an “author” event and more a toxic airborne event.

  Don DeLillo: I see.

  FP: I tried to visit your symposium, at the university, but they stopped me, with sub-machine guns.

  Don DeLillo: Is that a fact?

  FP: Yes. I thought about bursting through the guards, sprinting, darting, weaving, to the symposium. But then I thought, what if this symposium thing’s actually just really boring? So I thought, stuff it, and went and found a pub/ bistro place.

  Don DeLillo: I think you made a wise decision.

  FP: Of course, when you arrive at the University of Greenwich, for your Book Festival engagement, there won’t be any sub-machine guns at all. No way. Just a proper English cooked breakfast. I suppose you’ll be wanting crispy bacon. Hash browns?

  Don DeLillo: Sorry, what was this? A book festival in Greenwich?

  FP: Yes, not your New York Greenwich, obviously. With all that neon lighting and mirrored sunglasses and graffiti. No, this is the royal one, in London. With the nuclear power station. And Henry Prick…

  The two chairs remain on the little stage. Don DeLillo’s, seat, alas, is no longer warm. After grabbing a copy of my book from the shelf near the door, I begin reading from the same plastic lectern as Don DeLillo, to empty stools.

  1 This is an extract from Francis Plug: Writer in Residence (Galley Beggar Press, 2018)

  Anchovies

  Brian Dillon

  On a sunny morning in June 1990, my father fell down dead in the street as he walked home from mass. I had just turned tw
enty-one. My mother had died five years before, and now my two brothers and I lived on as best we could in our slightly decaying semi in the Dublin suburbs. I stayed out of it as much as possible for the rest of the summer, stacking shelves by day in my university’s library, and meeting up with friends in town at night, eking out a coffee or a pint till it was time to head home — if that was the word. In the autumn I went back to college, and it must have been a month or so later that my friend Austin and I decided we would spend a few days in Paris at the end of the year. He had been working as a bus conductor all summer, and I was living off my slim inheritance, so there was money. Still, it seemed amazing to me that you could sit on a freezing pavement outside the Stag’s Head pub and suck on your cigarette and say yes, why not: we’ll go to Paris for New Year. Aside from a school trip to Stratford-upon-Avon, I had never been out of Ireland. I owned nothing that resembled luggage.

  Where did we think we were going? Paris, imaginary city. Of course I had grown up with the usual clichés, but the city was made in my mind at that time out of randomly assembled and absurdly skewed images, figments of a restricted, overreaching adolescence. There were the backdrops to films by Jean-Luc Godard and Éric Rohmer, photographs by Eugène Atget (I’d read about him in Walter Benjamin) from eighty years earlier, my very small knowledge of Surrealism and Existentialism. Almost nothing contemporary. At school I had been a middling student of French, then at college given it up after one month and an embarrassing grammar test. I studied literature and philosophy instead, and cursed for the next three years (actually, I’m still cursing) my idiotic decision to quit the native language of half the writers I gave a damn about. A few months into the last year of my degree, I was thrilled at the idea of Paris largely because of all the French critics and theorists I had been reading in translation. Out of scattershot encounters with Derrida, Foucault, Cixous and Kristeva, I fantasized a city that bristled with profound, radical, stylish thought. I simply wanted to be near it all — why?