“It’s strong,” I admitted, “but you know what the French call American coffee? Jus de chaussette—‘sock juice.’ They think our coffee’s so weak they can’t drink it.”
“Do you drink it?” he challenged. I nodded. “Well, damn,” he said, “takes all kinds, I guess.” However I had till then been ranked in his mind, which could not have been very high given all my wasted years in France, clearly I had dropped another full notch.
* * *
Friday afternoons I was on the train to Paris, still wondering what I had got myself into. I had signed on for six months, a month longer than I had bargained for, but long enough, I figured, to fund at least one, and perhaps even two, issues of the magazine.
I spent the weekends with Jeannette, walking hand in hand, both enamored of the city and each other. And I talked more about this transplanted Irishman Samuel Beckett, whose play we had seen together and one of whose stories I was now translating. Translating? Why in the world would you be translating an Irishman’s writing into English? Like Joseph Conrad before him, I explained, Beckett had recently chosen to write in his adopted language. My suspicion is, he felt comfortable in French, France had become home for him, and possibly, after writing for fifteen years in English with almost no recognition, he thinks he might find a more perceptive audience here. And besides, France is his home now, and like Joyce he has no intention of returning to Ireland. French is the language he wakes up to, the language he thinks in, the one he speaks all or most of the time every day, the one that now courses through his Irish brain. So in a way it’s natural for him to write in French. Jeannette remained pensive.
* * *
As winter had moved into spring, Jeannette’s parents could not help but notice their daughter’s growing infatuation, which she made scant effort to conceal.
At Easter, Jeannette announced to her parents that I had invited her to Chaumont for the long weekend. Hers was not a request, it was an announcement; theirs was not to give permission but to bless. This they did wholeheartedly, which both pleased and surprised me, for in these 1950s I had trouble imagining American parents assenting to a similar situation. But they apparently reasoned she was of age and had had a mind of her own since she was four. Besides, her father told her, I like the American. Of all the young men you have brought home, this one strikes me as by far the most interesting, the most attractive, the most solid. He is different: I like the fact that he’s both an athlete and an intellectual. How many young men play tennis with Charles Lapicque, wrestle with the French Olympic team, and can also talk about Stendhal, Proust, and Sartre?
If there had been any doubt about our relationship, those four Easter weekend days dispelled it. They were magical. As I took her to the Chaumont station Monday night, I felt as if the world were coming to an end. My world. This was the girl of my life. Sorry, the woman of my life. On the station platform, with the lights of the train still in the distance but bearing down hard, I turned to her and told her how I felt. Would she marry me? Would she share her life with me? In all candor, I said, I had no idea in which direction it would be heading over the next few years. Her arms tightening around my neck and the long kiss that followed gave me my answer.
* * *
We decided on a July date, July 18, to allow recovery from the Bastille Day festivities. Moving forward, I learned that in France, one had to post banns, a published proclamation of your intent to marry, to forewarn one and all in the event there was reason to oppose said ceremony. Hear ye, hear ye! It all seemed medieval to me. I was still learning the ways of the Old World. Anyway, the banns had been duly posted: to date no irate ex-suitors, creditors, or other potential objectors had appeared to give cause why I was unworthy to bind my life to this young woman. I was on tenterhooks for several weeks, but now figured that if anyone in officialdom cared, he would have appeared long ago. Ours was to be a civil wedding, at the Courbevoie town hall, followed by a reception at Jeannette’s parents’ house. We both wanted a simple, intimate affair. My parents were alerted but not formally invited, a major social blunder on my part. Patsy was the reason or pretext, I wasn’t sure which. Mother had made it clear, when after three years in France I had brought Patsy home, that she did not approve of my blond girlfriend. It wasn’t merely Patsy’s bleached-blond hair that had made my dear mother raise an eyebrow; Patsy was a few years order than me, and horror of horror, to top it off, she was a divorcée! But the final straw came when Mother realized we were sleeping together under her roof. Though we were allotted separate rooms upon arrival, they were fortunately connecting, so we would repair to our assigned lairs, then conjoin in all senses almost immediately, till dawn sped us back to our respective cells. Mother wondered aloud at breakfast one morning the third or fourth day of Patsy’s stay, would a single person of sound mind and body have to sleep first in one bed, then in the other?
In short, with those memories rushing back, and not wanting to be judged again for getting involved inappropriately—with one so young, of such different background and culture, whose English was virtually nonexistent, what else?—I informed the Dear Ones by telegram, only a week or so before the blessed event, that I was hitching my life to a rising star, but not issuing therein a formal invitation to come.
It was an unfortunate miscalculation—for which I still, to this day, feel guilty. Not to mention Jeannette, who was perplexed and disappointed. Perhaps one should, in winding down, make a full and candid account of all one’s egregious mistakes in life, no holds barred, and the one with the fewest misjudgments wins. Mine, I fear, would place me near the bottom of Dante’s circles.
* * *
The joyous day dawned bright and clear, not a given in Paris even in midsummer. I donned my best suit (correction: my better, for I had but two), the pepper and salt from Dahlgren and Son, a starched white shirt, and an impeccable (for never having been worn) pale blue tie. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought that in the main, I was suitable for the occasion. A closer look: I could have done with a haircut.
Paul greeted me at the door, a boutonniere peeking coyly from the lapel of his dark blue suit, which made me realize I should doubtless have had one, too. His spectacled glance showed his full approval of my sartorial effort.
“The ladies are still dressing,” he said. “We’ll go on ahead and have a pot1 before the ceremony, if that’s all right with you.”
Anything he proposed that morning would have been all right with me, for not only was I on automatic but Jeannette’s father was still, for me, an Olympian figure, a man so quietly erudite and many-sided that I generally listened in awe and without comment when he held forth on the state of the world, personal or professional. If de Gaulle, Adenauer, and other postwar leaders read him daily for information and enlightenment, how could I but bow to this early-morning suggestion? We descended the three flights of outdoor stairs to where his car was parked and drove the three or four minutes to the Courbevoie Hôtel de Ville, across the street from which was a sidewalk café. We sat on the terrace, he relaxed, I just short of stone, desperately searching for words to break the sudden silence when, blessedly, he said: “So what will you have to drink?”
“What are you having?” I deferred, not wanting to blunder.
“A Fernet Branca,” he said.
“Make it two,” I said, having no idea what it was, even after all those bar-worn years.
The waiter arrived with two small aperitif glasses containing a thickish dark brown liquid.
Paul raised his glass. “To your health,” he said. “And happiness.”
I raised mine and bid him the same. If I had tasted the drink before doing so, I might have toasted differently. It was the vilest concoction I had ever tasted: bitter, foul, all but undrinkable. I sipped, glancing desperately around to see if there was a nearby plant I could douse.
“It’s better if you gulp it down,” Paul said, matching his words by emptying his glass.
Seeing no saving plant in sight, I braced mysel
f and did the same.
“Good, isn’t it?” Paul said approvingly. “Excellent for the digestion. And one’s health in general.”
I nodded and managed a thin smile.
“Want another?” he said. “Good for the nerves, too.”
“Maybe later,” I said. “My nerves are fine, thank you.”
Just then, two cars pulled up, one bearing Jeannette and her mother, the other with Frank and Jeanne, Michel and Francine Holley. Frank was my best man, Francine Jeannette’s matron of honor. In this civil ceremony, they were dubbed simply “witnesses,” there to sign our marriage papers to prove we had not made the whole thing up. Jeannette was stunning in a white silk suit with thin gray stripes, the skirt not full-length but well below the knee, with matching hat and gloves, and a modest bouquet of baby’s breath and roses clutched to her waist. We sat in stiff-backed chairs before a long desk of plain wood, behind which stood the assistant mayor, who could not have been more than twenty-five or so but looked solemn enough to appear twice that, his marriage book open. Behind him was a French flag—bleu, blanc, rouge—at rest on its silver pole.
The ceremony was of a rare and welcome simplicity: the banns having been duly posted and no objector forthcoming, you both having declared your desire to become man and wife, the State so declares and wishes you long life and happiness. Sign here. We signed. Now change seats and sign the second set of papers. We rose and I passed behind her, whispering as I moved, “Bonjour, madame,” for at a stroke her status as mademoiselle had been erased forever. We signed again, stood, kissed, and were embraced by our six attendants, to emerge minutes later into the blinding sun. Outside, photographs were taken, after which we were whisked back to rue Charcot to await our guests.
We were thirty in all, only our closest friends, among them the photographer Brassaï, a lifelong friend of Paul’s, and his much younger wife, Gilberte, a birdlike, dark-haired beauty, who hid, or tried to hide, her insecurity by chirping a constant string of inanities. Paul and Brassaï had been buddies in Montparnasse since the 1920s, spending untold hours together at the Coupole exchanging lofty ideas that, had they been put into effect, would doubtless have changed the world for the better. Brassaï, a talented artist, had not yet found a meaningful outlet for his work and was often on the verge of starvation, as was another of his buddies, the American writer Henry Miller. Miller and Brassaï would often get together at the beginning of the week, at the Select or the Coupole, to map out their culinary plans for the coming days—that is, who among their respective admirers would be likely candidates for a free lunch or dinner. When asked what his job was, Brassaï often responded that he was a “telephone salesman,” neglecting to mention that what he was selling was himself and his friend. In any event, one day in the late 1920s when Paul and Brassaï were chatting on the terrace of the Coupole, Brassaï complaining that no one, but no one, was buying his paintings or sketches, Paul suggested he consider photography. “You have a great eye.” Brassaï shook his head. “A lesser art,” he said. “For lesser artists. Not for me.”
The next time they met, Paul hauled a package, which his German shepherd had been guarding jealously beneath his chair, up onto the table. “Here,” he said, “try playing with this.” It was a fairly expensive camera that Paul had picked up in a nearby pawnshop. Brassaï turned it over and over, as if examining a totally foreign object, with increasing disdain. “I wouldn’t even know how to use this—” he began, but Paul cut him off. “I had the fellow I bought it from show me,” he said. “It’s really very simple.” Within weeks, Brassaï, intrigued, became increasingly seduced and could be found prowling the streets of the city, night and day, taking pictures that, fifty-odd years later, became legendary. He still sketched, but in his heart of hearts he knew he had, with Paul’s help, found his true calling. Still, his wedding present this day was not a photograph but a wonderful pen sketch of a reclining nude. He was a small, increasingly rotund man, the salient feature of his pixie face being froglike, protruding eyes, which he used to great advantage in telling brilliant stories or jokes, of which he had an endless supply.
Champagne was flowing on the balcony, before we sat down to a Rabelaisian lunch, accompanied by rare wines that Paul had carefully chosen for the occasion. A limo was scheduled to take us back to the rue du Sabot at five o’clock, but Jeannette signaled she was having too good a time to leave, so I canceled and ordered another for six, which also proved to be too early. “Seven?” I ventured. She shook her head. “Eight?” She nodded, so on we went for another three hours, I drinking too much, she not at all, until after a full fifteen minutes of double-cheek au revoir kissing, we finally made our way down to the more modest Renault of my new father-in-law, who, at Jeannette’s request, had been designated to drive us back to the rue du Sabot.
“Honeymoon” was a word we had not even discussed, for I was due back at Chaumont on Monday morning bright and early. Emerging at two in the afternoon the next day, and after a celebratory lunch at St. Germain, we both took the train to Chaumont.
* * *
In Chaumont, the closest I had been able to come in finding an apartment was the top floor of a rooming house in the center of town. Not exactly the Ritz, but within days Jeannette had spruced it up with lace curtains on the windows—something that became one of her lifelong signatures—flowers blooming in two of our water glasses (we had four), and candles on the table for dinner, along with wineglasses that had appeared from somewhere, as had two porcelain dinner plates and four smaller matching plates, two for salad and two for dessert. Not only that, I came home those first nights to find fragrant odors wafting down the hall. Apparently, I had married a seasoned chef, an attribute of which I had no inkling. And on a two-burner stove!
An army PX on the air base, to which I introduced Jeannette, provided new and exotic goods generally unavailable in French stores. She entered the PX as Alice into Wonderland. Frozen goods were a novelty to her, and she was fascinated by these new American products. One day, unbeknownst to me, Jeannette brought home half a dozen cans of frozen orange juice, not knowing that one would have sufficed for several breakfasts. That night, some time past midnight, we were jolted awake by what sounded like a major bombardment. Had the Russians finally come? Had some Nazis hunkered down, hidden for a decade in the nearby forest, to finally emerge in retaliation for the ill-gotten Allied victory? And not a defensive weapon anywhere in sight! “Those shots,” Jeannette said, clutching the blankets to her throat, “I think they’re coming from across the hall,” which was where our “kitchen” was. I tiptoed to the door, cracked it open, and peered into the dimly lit corridor. My three neighbors were as wide-eyed and pale as I. Chalk one up for the American frontiersman! Just then another explosion rocked the premises, and all four doors slammed shut as one. Ah, these brave French! It was the smell that brought me to my senses, for the entire area was suddenly permeated with the fragrant odor of oranges. Like the Light Brigade itself, I charged across the hall, thrust open the door to our kitchen, and snapped on the light, just in time to see—and hear—the last can of juice explode in all its orange splendor, sending gobs of soft, not frozen now but almost sultry, OJ onto the ceiling, the walls, the floor. Not to mention the furniture. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so settled for sitting down in the gooey mess and bursting out laughing. Russians? Germans? Merely the American arctic troops, unfrozen at last, who had been assaulting us in the night. Four heads peeped around the door frame, one of them Jeannette’s. Seeing what the problem was, three dissolved into the darkness, leaving my darling new wife to share this moment of nocturnal bliss with me.
“Shall we start cleaning up?” she said.
“I think we should have an early-morning drink,” I countered.
“I think we should buy a refrigerator as soon as possible,” she suggested.
“Or start buying fresh fruits and vegetables,” I hinted. “You know, the way your countrymen do.”
20
Enter
Maurice
I HAD NEVER FELT SO HAPPY, so totally at peace, so secure, so sure that the person I had chosen, and who had chosen me, was right. I couldn’t have cared less what the future might bring; the present was all that mattered, day by precious day, moment by blessed moment. The sun was in its heaven, and, oh, yes, all was right with the world.
Sometime in mid-August one of my colleagues at the base, an American two decades my senior married to a Frenchwoman of some station and considerable breadth, asked me where I would be living in Paris. How would you like to rent our apartment on the rue de Rennes for a few months? Two bedrooms, two baths, a large salon, formal dining room, kitchen, and pantry. Your wife’s a musician? We have a grand piano in the living room. My interest piqued, I asked for how long. Four or five months at least, maybe longer. His asking price was more than reasonable. That evening I mentioned it to Jeannette, who brightened visibly. The next day we closed the deal. So in September we would begin our married Paris life in comfortable, bourgeois rather than bohemian style. After five years of self-imposed penury, I had no objection. And when I told Alex and Jane, they loved me anew, for it meant they could have the upstairs rue du Sabot quarters for several more months.
Reentering Paris that summer was like emerging from an overly long, troubling dream. That’s really not fair, for during those months I had learned that I could cope with a steady job, that my fellow Americans were just fine. Paris had never seemed so bright, so cheerful and lively, so full of light and joy. Just to stroll the old familiar streets was stimulating. We were home again.
Merlin had entered a new phase. Trocchi was still the editor, Jane the putative publisher, but in the contents Austryn began appearing with his own strange, esoteric—though not untalented—work where Trocchi had center-staged himself before. The editorials, too, became less literary, more polemical and political, as Austryn’s influence also made itself felt. All I could see was that Trocchi, despite his brave words, deep into drugs, was writing virtually nothing while paying scant attention to the magazine. In the year and a half just past, I had felt as close to him as I ever had to another man, a brother really, and, looking back, I feel remiss for not having been more forceful in my admonitions.
The Tender Hour of Twilight Page 23
