A T-shaped stage was set up as a runway. It had a black curtain behind it, running the length of the wall.
The room was full of people, and a woman and a man wearing suits rushed around the room, speaking into walkie-talkies. Pretty soon, the lights turned off. They didn’t dim, like they might if they were hooked up to a professional lighting board. Someone just flipped the switch at the back of the room. Two spotlights lit up the runway, and music played behind us.
The models continuously entered and posed in the corners of the stage and then exited. They could have been from right off of the street. One of them had cellulite all around her thighs, and I couldn’t stop staring. A short man modeled a tiny, tight bathing suit. He had an incredible amount of body hair. I thought he was trying to make eye contact with me each time he strolled onto the stage, so I avoided his face. I didn’t want to look at his dark downy chest, but I didn’t want to look any lower, either. Instead I just studied my ravaged fingernails.
Lulu leaned forward, completely engaged, and clapped after each outfit. To her, this was a real Parisian fashion show. The female announcer’s hair had grown out from the roots, and only the bottom two thirds of it was blonde. The rest was dark, like mine. Tons of teal eyeliner and too much blush spackled her square face. “Très bien!” she would call out in a nasal voice, after each ensemble, and clap her hands with only the tips of her fingers, holding them up to her bosom.
I was bored almost instantly, so I amused myself by making her microphone flop down from its anchor at the top of the mic stand. Every once in a while, she would begin to speak into it, and it would tilt until it was facing downward. Her words would trail off, her lips still moving. Her eyes would lift to the back of the room, searching for technical help, before yanking it back into place. I guess I have my moments of evil.
***
I ended up purchasing a béret, which I probably could have found at the mall where I worked, but it seemed like a classic thing to bring home: It was always more fun to wear something that had a story.
The hat was made of black wool. I wore it out of the store, but took it off shortly after realizing that wearing a béret in France probably made me look even more like a dork than I already was. I hadn't seen anyone wearing one since we had been there.
It also made my head feel extremely hot.
7
The Lido
6:30.
Out came our map, and we figured out where we needed to go.
It might seem strange that Lulu planned to bring me to a production where the women perform without most of their clothes. The truth was that she saw herself as a very progressive, modern woman. She even enjoyed shocking people a little, I think.
I remember hearing some Lulu Lore about how she used to venture into the city with her friends to see the drag shows there.
She also loved The Gays, priding herself as someone who was very accepting of people who were different. I don’t know that this generous view extended to everyone, but it absolutely applied to the gay community and had for a long time.
Another one of the Mysterious Life of Lulu stories has it that she used to travel to the casinos in Tahoe with two of her friends, April and Daisy. She left Grampy at home (it just wasn’t his idea of a great weekend), but the two other women would bring their husbands. It turned out, after years of this routine, that the two men were having more fun in the hotel room than the ladies were having at the black jack table. It was a “don’t ask, don’t tell” type of arrangement, and it apparently kept the spouses busy and happy, so it was something that was overlooked every summer.
She also had a male friend, who was older than my mother but still worked as a server at a popular Mexican food restaurant in her neighborhood, which we frequented. He'd been saying, "Careful, it's hot," after depositing enchiladas on tables there since he was around seventeen. Hooray for solidarity in the workforce. “He,” Lulu would lean in close and whisper, “is gay.”
As someone who had been involved in musical theater for most of my life, this did not shock me. I had plenty of gay friends, including one young lady who chased after me for the better part of a year—even though she knew that I was devoted to my boyfriend and not interested in exploring lesbianism.
The part that did shock me was how Lulu and the waiter had smoked marijuana at a party over twenty years ago. That was her favorite part to tell.
The thought of my grandmother toking it up with Roddy was enough to make my head spin.
***
Our destination came into view.
The front of the building was covered in bright lights and photos. An usher accompanied us into a dark, cool theater. It turned out that we actually had really good seats. I silently thanked Henri—he must have had a hand in this.
Our tickets included dinner, so I ordered the filet mignon I had been craving since our arrival. Lulu ordered chicken. And a bottle of champagne.
“My granddaughter is only twenty,” she told our waiter.
He was wearing a white coat and shirt, with a black tie, cummerbund, and black slacks. His small, thin black moustache and his hair were neatly slicked back. Lulu continued: “In our country, she is not allowed to drink alcohol yet, so this is a special occasion.”
“Oui, Madame,” he smiled at me in a condescending way that made me want to crawl into a hole.
“Wheech bottle do you desire?”
Looking at the extensive list, she ultimately picked a bottle. A bottle of two-hundred dollar French champagne.
I didn’t know much about champagne at the time. I didn’t know, for instance, that the local convenience store keeps cheap bottles in the cooler above the orange soda and root beer. However, I did realize that two hundred dollars was a lot of money for a woman who usually insisted on drinking tap water in dining establishments. I was suitably impressed.
“Magnifique!” the waiter grinned. “Excellent choice!” It was like the words came straight from his nose, sounding like “esselont shwoss.”
He disappeared.
Someone brought bread, which was served straight on the table, as we put our napkins on our laps. Thanking her, I noticed that we were sitting in a beautifully ornate theater. Our table was up above a small audience area.
Sparkling, square chandeliers surrounded the stage, suspended from the ceiling. It reminded me of the time I went to Reno with my boyfriend and his mother. I had been too young to gamble, but we saw a concert at one of the many theaters there. It was nicer than any venue where I had performed, and the people around us were dressed in their best.
Feeling wilted after our long day, I excused myself to visit the restroom. I wished that I could wash my face, but I hadn’t brought any makeup to reapply.
An attendant stood with her arms crossed, waiting to… what? To help me out? I never really understood this occupation. Maybe it makes people feel rich and important? It really just made me feel uncomfortable. I reached for a paper towel, which was in a tall, neat stack.
Without looking in my direction, the attendant blocked my hand as fast as a ninja and swooped up a paper towel with a flourish—holding it in my direction without even glancing at me. Wadding and drenching it, I put it on the back of my neck. I wiped off my lipstick and reapplied it. Melted eyeliner gathered around the bottom of my eyes, so I cleaned that up, too. I tried to separate my bangs—which were smashed together after hours of heat and stress—and decided to grow them out.
Feeling better already, I went back to join Lulu.
***
I didn’t think about tipping the attendant until I was already seated across from my grandmother. Damn. Now she’ll remember me if I have to go back in there. What will she do to retaliate? Of course she would do nothing. But it made me feel more uncomfortable than ever about the idea of having restroom attendants in attendance.
***
The waiter came back with a little flat blade and scraped the breadcrumbs from our table. This felt absurdly decadent. He disappeared again a
nd then reappeared instantly, holding our bottle of champagne, cradling it in his arm like an infant. Then he thrust it in Lulu’s face so she could check the label. She barely glanced at it.
“Have you ever heard of the Plusot Winery?” she asked.
He shook his head
“Hoohoohoo. Plusot Winery! I lived there more than thirty years ago. It’s in France. Plusot Winery!”
Looking annoyed, he announced, “Zere are a lot of wineries in France, Madame. I have never heard of eet.” He liberated the cork on our bottle with a loud “pop,” and a little volcano of foam erupted from the top. Pouring her a glass, he then aimed the bottle in my direction.
“Only a little bit,” Lulu told him, “we are breaking the American drinking law!” I don't think I've ever heard such a loud stage whisper.
I wanted to scream, “IT’S THE CALIFORNIA LAW! WE’RE NOT IN CALIFORNIA! BESIDES, I’VE HAD ALCOHOL BEFORE! LOTS AND LOTS OF IT! GALLONS!”
I didn’t. I just sat lower in my chair and waited for the waiter to pour my two fingers of champagne. It tasted just fine to me, so I sipped it until my steak arrived. My dinner was delicious, and I enjoyed the feel of firm meat between my teeth.
Lulu was on her second glass.
Lulu hadn’t touched her chicken.
Maybe it was because she hadn’t eaten. Or maybe the medication she was taking interacted poorly with the champagne. Whatever the reason, she turned into an obnoxious drunk almost immediately.
“Plusot Winery! Any one ever heard of it? Loire Valley?” she called out and giggled.
Her feet didn’t reach the floor, and one of her shoes dropped to the ground.
“Lulu, it was a long time ago,” I insisted. “Eat your dinner.”
"Bring on the dancing girls!” she hooted, then: “We’re at the place in France where the naked ladies dance!”
Oh, Good Lord, they were going to ask us to leave before the show even began.
Thankfully there was a lot of noise. Different conversations in many different languages wafted through the air and disappeared somewhere around the lighting fixtures.
“Shhhhhhhh. Eat your chicken, Lulu. We need to get something in your stomach!”
The waiter glided past our table, glaring at us. Lulu gestured for glass number three, and I couldn’t find the words to stop her. He Who Was Supremely Annoyed poured the champagne. A much smaller glass than the last.
Then she grabbed his arm, and he looked alarmed. He was wearing a gold pinky ring. “Take the bottle and dump it out,” she commanded earnestly.
"M-Madame, zere are at least anozer two glasses left in the—"
“Don’t care.” She shook her head emphatically. “Dump it out. I wanna bring it home with me.”
Putting a hand up near his throat, he looked pained. “As you weesh,” he frowned.
“Thanksh,” she slurred, “you are a good man.”
He left to drain the champagne. Hopefully into someone’s glass in the kitchen.
I grabbed Lulu’s fork and speared a chunk of chicken.
“Open your mouth!” Like I was feeding a toddler. I should have said something like, “Here comes the airplane—open wide!”
In turn, she was acting exactly that age, crossing her arms and shaking her head, white hair bouncing.
Glaring at her, I put down the fork. I should have made a piece fly up and tag her on the stubborn nose. But I didn’t: how’s that for willpower?
***
The performance began, and my party animal grandmother used two fingers in her mouth to whistle like a bachelor party guest. I scrunched my eyes closed and took a deep breath.
The show was full of color, music, and breasts.
Many, many breasts.
Large breasts. Small breasts. Obviously human engineered breasts. There were dance numbers which represented countries from all over the world. Countries where I am sure breasts are usually covered.
Eventually, I no longer saw only boobs and noticed some of the really cool things about the production: there was a real ice skating rink during one part and a water fountain show during one of the songs. An aircraft came out of the ceiling for one number. A dancer was carried onstage by a huge artificial elephant during another. Once you got past the knockers, it was a really fabulous production.
***
I clapped my hands after the finale and saw that my grandmother had fallen asleep. Her chin touched her chest, and I’m sure I would have heard snoring if the cast hadn’t arrived for their bows. She was slumped so far down in her seat that I couldn’t see below her nose without standing a bit. Both miniature white wicker shoes sat on the floor underneath her feet.
Only a few bites of her meal were missing from her plate.
Waiting until most of the audience had filed out the door, Mr. Annoyed slammed the empty champagne bottle down in front of me, making Lulu open her eyes.
“Oh dear,” she yawned. Then she realized where she was sitting. “Oh dear!”
“Come on, Lulu, let’s go find the Metro station. I have your bottle.”
I grabbed her purse and my bags and helped her out of her seat.
It took her a few minutes to wake up, but she was completely awake by the time we reached the Arc de Triomphe.
So much larger than I had imagined, it had been there at the end of the Champs-Élysées all day, and I hadn’t noticed it. Lights were focused on it, and I could see all the beautiful carvings. Likenesses of soldiers and angels holding trumpets spilled down the sides. Names were inscribed in it as well. Large enough for a bi-plane to fly right through the center, it was enormous. It was almost two hundred years old, having been commissioned by Napoleon Bonaparte.
I was in awe, but sensed that Lulu needed to get back to the hotel. Holding her free arm, we maneuvered the steps down into the Charles de Gaulle Metro Station.
***
The car that we chose was almost empty, and we chose seats a few rows down from some young men. They were being goofy, singing what sounded like French drinking songs. I doubted that they had been drinking two hundred dollar champagne. One of them held a large water bottle, and I suspected it was full of something other than the intended product.
For a moment it looked like Lulu was going to fall asleep again, but instead she began to sing:
“Frère Jacues, Frère Jacques,
Dormez-vous, dormez-vous?
Sonnez les matines,
Sonnez les matines,
Din, din, don! Din, din, don!"
Then she continued in English:
“Are you sleeping, Are you sleeping,
Brother John, Brother John?
Morning bells are ringing,
Morning bells are ringing,
Ding, Ding, Dong! Ding, Ding, Dong!”
Cheers of encouragement sounded behind us. I sat with my back to them, hands in my lap.
“This is fun,” Lulu said.
“Fun,” I echoed through gritted teeth. About as fun as the time I had my wisdom teeth removed. Even though I was a product of evolution and only had three, getting them pulled was this kind of fun. It was fun, and it started with a capital F. Kind of like another word I wanted to shout.
Only that word had four letters.
***
The ride seemed to last forever. Eventually, Lulu returned to her snoring state.
One of the boys came over and sat next to me. With long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and dark brown eyes, he looked like he could have been a movie star. He looked a lot like Johnny Depp, actually. That’s Johnny Depp from
21 Jump Street, not Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland, and definitely not Johnny Depp as Willy Wonka.
He was wearing blue jeans and a tan flannel shirt. And Doc Martens. I was such a sucker for those boots.
Good-looking, but inebriated, he sat too close.
“Bonjour,” he smiled. I could smell the liquor on his breath. The alcoholic fumes that he and my grandmother were expelling made me pray th
at no one lit a match.
I nodded my head.
“Parlez-vous français?”
I made the international symbol for “a little” with my hands.
“You are American?” he asked.
“Oui.”
“I would have thought you Italian, but your companion was singing in English.”
“Yes, she was, wasn’t she? Sorry about that. It’s been a long night.”
“What made your night so long?” He seemed to struggle to find the words, but his pronunciation was spot on.
“We just got out from The Lido.” I wasn’t sure why I was giving him this information, but it felt so good to talk to someone who wasn’t losing their mind or three sheets to the wind.
“You saw it with her?”
“Yes, my grandmother.”
He chuckled, and his friends looked in our direction, curious.
“Why don’t you drop her off, then join us? We are going to the—" he searched for the right word “the clubs, tonight.” Damn those French lips.
“I can’t, sorry.” Giving him a tired smile, I shrugged.
“You can.” His fingers walked up my arm.
I didn’t like it. He was acting more familiar by the second, and it made me uncomfortable.
“I have a boyfriend. He wouldn’t approve.”
“He doesn’t have to know. You can tell him that you and your grand-mère returned to the hotel and got a good night of sleep.” Under hooded lids, his eyes tried their best to seduce me.
“Merci, non. Bonne nuit.” I turned to look out the window.
After he returned to his friends, they all laughed. It wasn’t kind laughter, and it made me feel that I had made the right decision turning down his offer. When we finally reached our station, I was relieved.
“Lulu, you have to wake up.” I gently shook her shoulders. “This is our stop.”
I guided her off of the train as the boys waved through the window. One threw kisses in our direction. I stood watching until they disappeared into the shadows.
***
The late hour was conducive to all kinds of questionable public behavior, and it was a slow, grueling trip along the dark, cobblestone streets.
Frankie in Paris Page 8
