But I should have guessed that this elegant gentleman’s aristocratic ways were not what I should encounter on my first trip to that fabled metropolis. As straight off the train at Gare du Nord one had a tug of war with a porter over my luggage. Nor had a financially careful university pal, a scholar in French, who, already in Paris, obtained for me what I had anticipated to be suitable accommodation at an hotel. This was a double bed in a rather suspiciously ornate chamber one short flight up from the street and from whose window one could nearly lean to tap passers by on the head. In my overnight occupancy, and when I discovered upon waking that I was decorated with the little red bites, I challenged my Trinity scholar friend who sheepishly revealed that the dirt cheap room was also rented out hourly by the hotel proprietor for afternoon assignations.
I did learn a thing or two as matters slowly but surely improved over the years. One already knew of and had practically stayed in every cheap hotel there was to be found in the sixth arrondissement between Boulevard St Germain and the Seine. Then my first novel The Ginger Man was published in Paris. And this in turn brought troubles requiring lawyers and more frequent visits to a city I was beginning to know well. Keeping pace, as it were, with the number of lawyers was the number of new hotels I tried. Although they did not increase significantly in their merit of stars, they did improve with toilet amenities and in their absence of bedbugs. However, as the prolonged battle of The Ginger Man raged, one’s fortunes with other published books improved. And finally one graduated from the no star hotel, up to and through one, two and three stars. And then in a great burst of change, and more for convenience than in deference to my elegant lawyers, one switched from the left bank to the right. And at long last to a four star and finally to the Place Vendôme and the de luxe of the Ritz itself. Where the bedsheets felt like silk and one’s beer was served in silver ice buckets and where, upon the blotter on one’s writing desk, was written: ‘Gentlemen are requested not to throw their cigar stubs in the garden.’
Litigation over The Ginger Man having now spread from Paris to London and from London to New York, the city in the middle seemed the best place to pursue one’s reclusive life and especially as a modest bit of affluence had now come to pass. And it became more than occasional, as one sat in one’s eyrie overlooking Tyburnia and surveying the rooftops of London while dining upon leeks vinaigrette and Coquilles St Jacques followed by raspberries, muffins, whipped cream and Château d’Yquem, to declare a homesickness for France. And then reaching for the telephone one would book a taxi to Victoria station for the next morning in time to catch the Golden Arrow train to Paris.
But alas it was upon such an impromptu occasion that the Ritz Hotel was booked out solid. And what if this was the case all over Paris. I had not now again seen my French friend of university years but often thought of him. Sitting sadly and lonely in my university rooms and once describing to me that when great prolonged times of melancholia came into his life he would always go away by himself, not to Nice or Biarritz, nor his family’s various châteaux in the countryside, but to stay alone at a Paris hotel, of which, he said, I always reminded him. And I recall as he told me of this that I would be standing at an easel in the middle of my college sitting room painting a somewhat risqué portrait of some trustful lady to whom I boasted this accomplishment. And he would smile and plaintively say, ah and you here painting like this always reminds me of that hotel for it is named after one of the great Italian painters of the Renaissance.
Being only a brash amateur with brushes, canvas and paints, I was flattered by the reference and, in the train on this visit to Paris, racked my brain for the name of this hotel. The anxiety growing that despite my improved finances I could end up again in some dingy bedbug infested room. As the French countryside sped by I was watching one of those affable but quiet and well behaved American gentlemen seated across the aisle having the set gourmet’s de luxe Golden Arrow lunch that came with the ticket. And the drama of this began to take my attention. As if he were intent upon getting his money’s worth, the American’s soup came which he smilingly and hungrily guzzled down while grabbing in turn the three different wines in their three different glasses to help wash things alimentarywards. Then arrived an hors d’oeuvre which equally went down, and instantly replacing it a tasty savoury was set before him. Followed by Galantine de Volaille. The American was now clearly gorged and sated and in some desperation was racking his brains for the French words to say stop, I’ve had enough. His face was turning green, he was now writhing in his sofa chair. The waiter taking your man’s gesticulations as inspired praise and to please keep the dishes coming. Finally, as yet one more course arrived, this defeated American half stood up and raised a limp hand and arm to block as another laden plate hovered to descend before him. And in the most plaintively heartfelt words I have ever heard spoken, declared.
‘Hey, gee, buddy, what do you say we skip this one.’
But it was almost exactly at this time of witnessing the American’s dilemma over his interminable lunch and as we passed the town of Gisors that the long faded name of my university friend’s hotel entered one’s brain. At the train terminus I said the magic word to the taxi driver, and racing along gloomy, bourgeois Boulevard Haussmann and dodging around through the traffic circling the Arc de Triomphe and a little way down Avenue Kléber, he pulled up on an entrance apron in front of this edifice of blond stone. Arriving out of the blue without reservation at the reception desk I timidly mentioned the fairly distinguished name of my old school pal and welcoming smiles appeared on all faces.
Now then. Some few years have passed and fewer and fewer of my days have been spent in Paris. Left to be relived and remembered in the pages of The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B. The inspiration for this book coming just as strangely as nearly everything now did concerning that city to whence one would go crossing the cold grey waters of a windswept English Channel to hole up in the confines of one’s favourite hotel. It was upon a London autumnal day that I was in a taxi passing eastwards towards Knightsbridge and as I looked out the window, there standing on the pavement in front of the entrance to the Hyde Park Hotel was my old French pal from university years. With my taxi proceeding forward and further away, I tried to get the stubborn window down to give a shout. When I finally succeeded and bellowed as loud as I could, a fire apparatus at the same time came swerving out of Sloane Street into Knightsbridge, its electric motor horn blaring and bells sounding, and drowning out my voice crying his name.
And like death upon a face you will never see again, I was haunted by this incident. Recalling joys and sorrows of our university years. His dazzlingly handsome parents I’d see from my Trinity College sitting room window, coming to visit him. The sight overcoming me with a sadness. As it seeming always to be raining. Their elegance carried by their beautifully shod feet stepping along the cold glistening dank pavement of New Square. And I thought. Imagine, they must love their son. Enough to come all the way to these bereft climes from their grand château and Paris townhouse and call upon him in his gloomy, chill college chambers.
And some many months later, following the incident in Knightsbridge and still unable to forget, I betook myself to a table at a window in an eighteenth floor eyrie overlooking the fading autumnal green of New York City’s Central Park. Gazing north towards the horizon of Harlem, I was to spend a resolute three weeks to form merely those first opening words of The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B.
He was born in Paris in a big white house on a little square off Avenue Foch. Of a mother blonde and beautiful and a father quiet and rich.
And now one does have left this legacy. To come and stay at my friend’s and now my own favourite Paris hotel. And since the days of my impecunious college scholar friend who introduced me to my first French bedbugs, my goings and coming from Paris have been much differently assisted. Especially by an intrepid Anglo Irish gentleman called Peter Dawson, to whom the French refer as their own très bizarre and très correct
and très endearing version of James Bond. And he, too, has long been an aficionado of the Raphaël. In his efficient manner and in one of his exotically fast motor cars he comes to meet us at the airport to sweep us into Paris. Doing so with the same deft touch the great Renaissance painters used to administer their brush strokes to their masterpieces, as smoothly by a hair’s breadth he navigates between fenders through some of the most unpredictably dangerous traffic on earth, while comfortingly informing one that Parisian motorists no longer try to hit pedestrians, as it has got too expensive.
Très bizarre and très correct, Peter has already informed Alain Astier, the manager of the Raphaël, of this, my sentimental return. And Monsieur Astier has replied that no effort shall be spared to make my stay comfortable. And now to enter once again the discreet grandeur of this hotel’s panelled hall. Pass by the sanctum of these welcomingly intimate reception rooms. Where in the sumptuous peace and quiet, judicious gentlemen of great power come to sit and confer undisturbed and unobserved. At the reception counter, under the great Turner painting, one books in. Guided by a gentleman of the hotel, my lovely lady and I ascend in the hushed panelled interior of the lift to one’s apartment. To be enfolded gently by its cloistered elegance within. Standing again as one has previously done in this suite, a profound symphony of colour upon which the eye wanders across the rug and the soft crimson carpet to the blue bordered cream panelled mirrored doors and alcoves.
Adjoining the sitting room, the bedroom awaits like a proscenium stage behind light blue satin drapes and the brass curvature of the bedstead gleams at each end of the crocheted counterpane, inviting one reassuringly to calmly and deeply sleep. Ah, but one hears a sound of a clanking board down in the street. I go to part the window curtains and to peer down through autumn leaves into this quiet rue off Avenue Kléber. On the corner an ancient lady, befurred against the chill, is now being led by the kindly hands of a young man to her car to be chauffeured away. And we know, we absolutely surely know, she is going somewhere very nice. More clanks of boards occur as I continue to watch. The street is being sealed off. A marvellous activity is erupting as lorries arrive. And as always I am ready to be entertained. The tree pruners have come. Like balletic jungle monkeys these acrobatic gentlemen climb, spidering their sure footed way up through the branches. Suddenly, to the loud whine of chainsaws, the boughs and their leaves fall. And no surgeon anywhere amputates with more gentle care and finesse. To stop the sap bleeding, they apply their balm. Worthy of a man to be invited to join any of the great hospital staffs in the world.
Like a meteor tangential into space, a whole day in Paris has passed. One has walked one’s usual eleven miles up and down the rues and boulevards, always mindful to stop here and there in a likely café to watch out for the odd great pinball player. One has dutifully stood over the pavement holes the blue denimed workmen of Paris mysteriously dig. Finally to return pleasantly tired to the Raphaël and there in contented reverie lie on the blue chaise longue. I imagine it as the same chaise longue upon which Balthazar B, forgotten by the world, must have reclined in his loneliness. Perusing as he did the newspaper’s long list of motor accidents. The clock upon the wall constantly reads ten minutes past twelve. The tree pruners gone. Darkness descending upon the street outside. With a push of an ebony button tipped with mother of pearl, soft lighting glows to life. One visits the twin basins in the bathroom, which made Balthazar’s aloneness even lonelier with only one face to wash. And the great crystal tears hanging from the sitting room chandelier might have symbolized his sorrow. But now they suspend above the ormolu mounted marble topped splendour: great curvingly yellow bananas, black and green grapes, red blushing pears, mauve pink peaches and purple dates. A frosted silver ice bucket with a bottle of Hôtel Raphaël champagne, courtesy of Alain Astier, awaits. Just as does this quietly alert elegant gentleman, who comes but shyly and smilingly discreetly near to smile at you and make sure you are content. And perhaps even very happy.
We are now five in this sedately dignified drawing room. Peter and his lovely Katrina have arrived. James Bond’s strong hands are necessary to make the champagne cork go pop. But just as we expect, this pale golden wine delights the palate, and is poured for both our beloved ladies. The distinguished photographer David Gamble is here in his black cape and scarlet shirt, his eyes missing no colour or shape as they dart to focus on every face and every corner of the room. For these few glad moments nothing is wrong with the world. And too soon the time has come to go.
Now, with Peter’s tyres only briefly and gently scorching the roadway, we go without delay along Avenue Victor Hugo. To stop where a door opens before us to the splendidly modern restaurant Vivarois. With a garden out the window, we sit to enjoy the cuisine of the handsome Monsieur Claude Peyrot, one of France’s greatest chefs. The wines flow and in wondrous succession the splendidly delicious courses come. Claude appears and listens modestly to our delighted appreciation as Peter calls to drink a toast to this eminent master of cuisine. And which makes me remember again that sad American of yesteryear on the train to Paris whose hunger was sated too soon, but who inspired me to recall the name of the Raphaël. To the tranquillity of which place we return to take our coffee and Armagnac. On the way we motor along Zizi Street, perhaps better known as Avenue du Maréchal Fayolle but famed for people who show each other their private parts. Peter slows the great twelve cylinder engine down to a deep throbbing purr. But the police this night seem to be too much in evidence and, although these devotees are in their earnest abundance, most parts remain private with no zizi or pomponette to be seen anywhere.
But one always cherishes to return to the quiet elegance of the Raphaël. And in the mornings to go past the flower tinted glass behind the reception desk. Reassured to feel one’s step softly upon the carpets of this long entrance hall. The gleam of the marble black and white tiles between the panelled walls. The engraved round globes of glass gently giving light to the paintings. On a grand table of sea green marble sits a tropically bright red leafed flower in a Japanese vase. A large sofa awaits upholstered in its anaconda skin motif. And upon which sit two sleekly groomed ladies on the threshold of entering their riper years. One hears English words spoken between the stream of French.
‘Ah, my dear, but I wanted to hold on to Jean Marc’s friendship but then it is Pierre’s money which talks.’
And, I suppose, just as money talks, nothing lasts. The quiet grandeur is the same, but since the days of Balthazar other things have changed at the Raphaël. The beau monde have come. The très chic just flown in from Nice and Monaco. Sporting the latest. Wrist watchstraps worn on top of shirtcuffs. In long black leathers and flowing robes, foppish and dandified. They stride by so ultrasmart. Earrings clanging like cathedral bells. These glamorous people so in a hurry who live according to a lifestyle. And are here and are there and are everywhere.
Ah, but wait. Early evening approaches again. The sacred moment in the oak panelled, crimson carpeted bar of the Raphaël. The ice bucket stands appear and the golden necks of champagne bottles peek from their chilled confines. Just as they did in those days of Balthazar. Who came here to mourn a lost love. And whose ghost now walks the Avenue Kléber. Down to the Trocadéro and the Cimetière Passy. Where, behind high ivy clad walls, lie those illustrious and respectable who repose in peace under the gleaming marble and faded stone. No longer worried lonely. As living hearts are. Who walk beneath the branches from which the biggest of Paris’s chestnut conkers fall. And bop you alive on the head.
1991
My First Love
To stare so far back in one’s memory, one wonders how much could be true. But it is all that I know that I find left in my mind. My first love lived where I lived in what one remembers as one of the strangest suburban communities in America, called by the prosaic name of Woodlawn. Its uniqueness arising from its geographical location on the far northern marches of New York City from which it was isolated on its three triangular sides by large open spaces
in the form of a wilderness park and one of America’s largest and most sylvanly beautiful cemeteries where, in their vast mausoleums, some of America’s fabled tycoons rest in peace, richer dead than they were when alive. And where Herman Melville lies along with them.
One wonders too now if idyllic dreams have taken over what must have been then many a sad forlorn time. But those who lived there and who knew it as I did seem to concur that as a place it had all the qualities of your most pleasantly homespun American small town, and a community whose ties were that close that a reunion was held not that many years ago of those who grew up there. In the vastness of Van Cortlandt Park, deer roamed and possum played, and one rode horses, hunted game and also trapped for fur skins, as did my closest friend Alan, who knew all there was to know about the American Indian, whose lore he emulated and over whose previous stamping grounds we wandered. And almost as if from central casting came Alan’s younger sister, whom I took out on her first date and who was my first love.
As it might happen in a small midwestern town, the news of Carol and I as boy and girlfriend did, in one day, reach a good many ears to establish that one was ‘going steady’. With her two elder brothers, Alan and Donald, the eldest, they were all three handsome and, aided and abetted by their engagingly friendly manners, were possessed of an astonishing natural elegance and assurance. Beautiful as was her face and stunning her figure, one best remembers more than the loveliness of her looks, of which she seemed totally unaware, her warmth and captivating personable nature. To all of which was exotically added the natural musky perfume of her presence.
J.P. Donleavy: An Author and His Image Page 14
