Taxi Tales from Paris

by Nicky Gentil

  Be that as it may, their main survival strategy appeared to lie in a fundamental need to reassure themselves that I was actually okay – ‘Don’t be sad, Mummy’ or ‘Don’t cry, Mummy, please’ – as if they were capable of dealing with anything life threw at them as long as their mother remained the same, unchanged, with a smile on her face at all times, whatever the circumstances. And, since that was all they apparently required to be able to carry on come what may, I was more than happy to do that for them.

  It is, however, never good to repress negative feelings because, as we all know, this only seems to feed them allowing them to develop insidiously, thereby causing them to resurface at a later date with increased strength. So, even though I couldn’t show my feelings in front of my children, it was extremely important for me to carve out moments of solitude in order that I too could let the barriers down.

  Alone one morning, I was on the verge of succumbing to this very need when my husband invited me to have lunch with him. Holding back the tears once more, I accepted his invitation, telling myself that it would be better to get out and have a change of scenery, rather than stay at home weeping.

  At the same time, doing this required huge levels of self-control; we ended up having lunch in a restaurant that was full of my husband’s colleagues, with the result that I had to put on a show of normality, smiling and talking to them as if everything was absolutely fine.

  It was a show that I was struggling to maintain by the time I got into a taxi to go home; I just about managed to stammer my address to the cabdriver but that was it.

  Immediately, he turned off the radio – as if he had understood, without needing to be told, that I was desperate for some peace and quiet. During the entire journey, he maintained a respectful silence. And when, at last, he pulled up in front of the building where I live, he simply turned to me and said:

  ‘Madame, do take care of yourself.’

  Just like his silence up to that point, his simple words seemed to be worth all the compassion in the world. And somehow − I don’t quite know how − he managed to say them in a tone of voice imbued with so much concern for my wellbeing, that I began to find it increasingly difficult to maintain my composure.

  Thus it was that I swiftly alighted from the car – only just managing to utter a most grateful ‘merci’ – and rushed up to our flat where, alone at last, I was finally able to open the floodgates and release the river of tears that had been seeking to flow from my eyes for so very long.

  Tales on Some Most Unexpected Compliments

  As an antidote to the sad tone of the last three tales, I believe the time has come to recall a few cab rides on a really light-hearted (some would argue totally superficial and I’m inclined to agree!) subject.

  Compliments. I just love receiving them. Let’s face it, who doesn’t? Especially when you’re a girl, which is indeed my case!

  I remember one day watching the French actress Emmanuelle Béart fire off a series of spontaneous answers to a questionnaire, during an interview with a well-known television presenter over here called Thierry Ardisson. Only one question momentarily floored her: ‘Is there any type of compliment that you do not like receiving?’ Here she had to pause for thought, before eventually declaring a resolute: ‘No.’

  I happen to agree with her. By that I mean I love receiving any type of compliment, even when I know full well that it is not sincere! To give you an example, whenever my son wants something from me he will start off with a little speech that, over time, has become our special ritual:

  ‘Mummy, I really want you to know that I love you very much. You’re the best mother in the world. And I would just like to add that you’re looking particularly beautiful today.’

  Obviously, his words are anything but sincere. I know this. My son knows this. What’s more, he knows that I know that he knows! To put it another slightly less repetitive way, here we are playing our traditional game that precedes negotiation of any kind. And – I freely admit − I love this game for the delicious feeling of complicity it creates between us.

  As a general rule of thumb, it is then fair to say that compliments make me smile, they brighten up my day, and this goes for all types.

  Having said that, I also like receiving compliments because I can. By this I mean that, here in France, the cultural approach somehow makes it okay. And I fundamentally believe, as do other Brits who live in this country, that what makes it okay all comes down to the way feminism is perceived and defined in relation to the role of women in this society.

  Please bear with me while I explain…

  In England, back in my student days, I would regularly come across a certain category of feminist who appeared to take the concept of feminism to mean equality full stop, as opposed to equality of rights. The type of woman, who adhered to this mode of thinking, would react violently if a man dared to hold a door open for her, to offer to carry her heavy bag, or worse still if he had the audacity to pay her – shock horror – a compliment. Furthermore, this type of militant feminist, in order to send out a clear signal that she was equal to men on every level, would generally feel obliged to sport a most masculine look.

  I remember, for example, one ardent feminist student friend of mine who would make a point of wearing the appropriate ‘uniform’ at all times. In other words, she dressed permanently in an old T-shirt and a pair of ripped dungarees – a ‘style’, if you can call it thus, she completed with a short, spiky haircut.

  In France, as I see it, the approach is – if I may be so bold – more balanced because, over here, it is perfectly possible, positively encouraged even, to be - at one and the same time - feminist and feminine. The two are not seen as being mutually exclusive, which to my mind, is a very good thing. It so happens that my student friend from England also eventually came round to this idea when she spent a year in France as part of her studies. Upon her return, she looked really beautiful – a picture of femininity – having let her hair grow and having acquired a wardrobe full of chic little black dresses! Naturally, everybody teased her mercilessly about her surprising transformation. But she would unashamedly point out that the French way of life had taught her a more agreeable way to be faithful to her convictions; it was quite possible to be a ‘girly’ girl without in any way compromising her feminist principles.

  It is because of this approach that people over here appear perfectly happy to accept, to celebrate almost, their clearly defined male or female status in society. And in this context, complimenting a woman is not tantamount to treating her as an inferior creature, or insulting her, far from it in fact.

  Now before the militant feminist brigade lambasts me for expressing this potentially controversial, most politically incorrect (some may claim) opinion, allow me to be crystal clear: there is an obvious distinction to be made between a harmless compliment that makes a woman feel good about herself, which is acceptable in French society, and the type of remark that can make a woman feel ill at ease, which − as any normal person would agree − is totally unacceptable.

  My best example of a harmless compliment that genuinely made me smile is the following: recently, a complete stranger, seeing me dressed in my dove-grey cashmere coat (worth every penny of the fortune it cost me, incidentally, because it regularly gives rise to some most unexpected compliments) declared to me in broad daylight, in a busy street, at the top of his voice:

  ‘Madame, you really are very beautiful. Will you marry me?’

  A militant feminist would most likely have slapped him across the face for his audacity. I, however, have lived in France for far too long to take offence at comments such as these so I replied:

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Monsieur, but I’m already spoken for. Turns out I’m happily married. That said you never know what lies round the corner. So, thanks for the offer. I’ll bear it in mind and keep you posted!’

  The stranger burst out laughing,
as did I, and then we each continued on our way.

  He was neither a madman nor, from what I could see, a drug addict or an alcoholic, quite the contrary in fact. Here was an ordinary man who had just spontaneously made an out of the ordinary comment to an ordinary woman. This brief exchange made us both smile, brightening up what was otherwise a bleak winter’s day. And I firmly believe that it would take a really warped personality to see any harm whatsoever in that.

  It is with this in mind that I now share, on the following pages, some of the more memorable compliments I have received over the years from various Parisian cabdrivers. That is to say, I’m sharing them not because I believe I in any way deserved them − indeed, each time they took me by surprise – but because, in the context of a different cultural approach that I happen to like, it was okay to receive them. As my English friends over here would say: ‘It could only happen in France.’

  The other reason for sharing them is that I found these exchanges hugely entertaining; they brought a smile to my face and my hope is they will do the same for you.

  An Omnipresent Fragrance

  For as long as I can remember, I have worn the same perfume. From time to time, I think I should have a change, but my children won’t allow it. As they see it, my perfume is my trademark.

  On this particular occasion, it would appear that I might just have overdone it in the perfume stakes…

  *

  As I got into the lift in our block of flats, the deliveryman who was already there exclaimed:

  ‘Wow! You smell nice.’

  ‘Thanks’, I replied, bursting out laughing, ‘It’s always reassuring to hear!’

  ‘I love your perfume. It’s…’

  Then he totally amazed me by giving me not only the name of my perfume, but also that of the house that makes it.

  ‘You’re absolutely right. Well done!’

  ‘There’s no need to congratulate me, Madame. I know this perfume off by heart. My girlfriend wears the very same!’

  *

  Later that afternoon, as I rushed to make it to the school gates on time, I tried to overtake a woman who was walking a little too slowly for my liking. This turned out to be counterproductive because she actually slowed me down, stopping me to enquire about what now looked set to be the topic of the day.

  ‘Madame, please believe me when I say that I don’t usually stop complete strangers in the street to ask questions, but the thing is you just smell so nice! May I have the name of your perfume please?’

  *

  Traditionally, the best is for last and this was no exception. By far the loveliest compliment I have ever received on my perfume came at the end of this surprising day, apparently dedicated to my omnipresent fragrance.

  I got in the taxi and, before I could utter a single word, the cabdriver exclaimed:

  ‘Wow! You smell amazing. Madame, with perfume like that you could charm the devil!’

  A Persistent Accent

  Although I left England over thirty years ago, my accent – it would seem − has never quite left me! Given that, as the chapter title suggests, this is the subject addressed here, this taxi tale only works if it’s told in French. That is why I have chosen to leave it in the original version, with the translation underneath in italics.

  *

  ‘Après le feu, c’est tout droit’

  ‘At the traffic lights, it’s straight ahead.’

  ‘Vous pouvez répéter “tout droit” s’il vous plaît ?’

  ‘Could you just repeat “straight ahead” please?’

  ‘Pourquoi ? De toute évidence, vous m’avez déjà entendu…’

  ‘Why? Clearly, you heard me the first time…’

  ‘Ça, d’accord. Mais je voudrais vous réentendre. J’adore votre accent !’

  ‘I’ll grant you that. But I’d like to hear you again. I just love your accent!’

  The Windswept Look

  A strong wind was blowing over the city of Paris that day. Over my bobbed hairstyle too unfortunately − which struggles to be the sleek, sculpted creation that frames the face of Anna Wintour at the best of times! Consequently, during the cab ride, I spent a good while attempting to tame my hair back into some kind of shape. The thing is, I was about to spend another afternoon working on my jazz improvisations with my favourite pianist – Fabrice Eulry – and I had no wish to shock him by turning up looking more like an unkempt scarecrow than a music student!

  Half an hour later the taxi pulled up in front of Fabrice’s house, at which point the cabdriver turned to me and exclaimed:

  ‘Wow! You didn’t look anything like that when you got in the car. You look really beautiful now!’ − Thanks a bunch, I thought! − ‘What’s changed? What’s different about you? Did you put some makeup on?’

  Warning to all men: DON’T ever say that to a woman. She will immediately think: So, clearly, unless I’m wearing makeup I’m really ugly!

  ‘No, not at all, I already had my makeup on when I got in the car. I did, however, brush my hair. With the wind, it was all over the place.’

  ‘Well, Madame, let me tell you, you look really beautiful like that!’

  Talk about giving it to me straight! His direct comments made me burst out laughing, inciting him to add:

  ‘You know, I’m paying you a genuine compliment here. Really, I am. You look amazing. When your hair is brushed properly, it completely transforms you.’

  As I as struggled to hold back even more laughter in the face of his extremely personal comments, which he seemed more than keen to dish out under the guise of helpful advice, it was in a somewhat ironic tone of voice that I replied:

  ‘Well, given the effect it’s having, I’m happy to inform you that in future I shall be brushing my hair much more often!’

  In spite of this, I could not deny that this cabdriver had just made me feel really good about myself. After all, if at my age all it took was well-brushed hair for me to look – as far as he was concerned – ‘amazing’, then I couldn’t exactly complain, could I? In other words my little ego was feeling tremendously flattered by his unexpected comments!

  Naturally, I was about to be suitably punished for this brief moment of self-satisfaction. Naturally in every sense of the word since it was only a matter of time before the elements put me firmly back in my place…

  As I alighted from the car, the most enormous gust of wind immediately sent me back to square one. Thus it was that, in spite of my best efforts, I did indeed arrive at Fabrice’s home looking more like a dishevelled scarecrow! Quite unlike the genius of a pianist – known to those in the profession as the Chopin of boogie-woogie – who was now standing before me and who, with his customary sartorial elegance, had donned a stylish trilby hat to come and meet me at his garden gate.

  Be that as it may, I could no longer feel remotely bothered about what my hair looked like, for presently there lay before me an afternoon entirely dedicated to my great passion in life… jazz!

  The Eyes of a Film Star

  As if to proclaim loud and clear that spring was on its way, the sun was out in full force. Consequently, people appeared to be in a really good mood, the dazzling Parisian sunlight having had the magical effect of putting a smile on everybody’s face.

  The power of this magnificent weather, heralding the end of winter, to transform the overall mood was particularly evident in the case of my cabdriver that day. Here it would be fair to say that this young man was not simply joyful; he was positively overexcited!

  Thus it was that, as I got into the taxi - before I could even utter a single word - he exclaimed:

  ‘Oh my God! Wow! I just don’t believe it… You have exactly the same eyes as my girlfriend!’

  Surprised and somewhat taken aback by this most original way of greeting a client, initially I was at a loss for words.

  Be that a
s it may, as I sized up this drop-dead gorgeous, Hollywood film star of a cabdriver, I could only assume that his girlfriend was, in all likelihood, young and extremely beautiful too. And that is why, by way of a reply, I offered a tentative ‘Err… thank you?’ spoken in a tone that was both questioning – since I had no guarantee that my assumption was right − and sceptical, because the idea that I could possibly resemble the sort of girl he would be with, even in the tiniest of ways, stuck me as being a tad far-fetched!

  The young cabdriver therefore deemed it necessary to clarify his assertion by adding:

  ‘I can assure you it’s true. You have exactly the same eyes as my girlfriend! And yes, it is indeed a compliment. You know, my girlfriend really is very beautiful.’

  Of that, I most definitely did not require any convincing!

  My charming young cabdriver was, however, determined to prove his point; at the next red light, he produced a telephone with quite the largest screen I had ever seen, one that was now filled with a picture of his significant other’s face.

  As I had imagined, his girlfriend was − just like him − breathtakingly beautiful. The spitting image of Penelope Cruz, in fact, which is why I could not help but burst out laughing because any possible comparison between this beauty and me now appeared completely absurd. Perhaps, at this point, it would be useful to point out that I have a diaphanous complexion, pale green eyes and that my short, bobbed hair is naturally ash-blond. In other words, the physical differences between the two of us could not have been more enormous!