Lisette's Paris Notebook

by Catherine Bateson

  ‘Jackson Pollock?’ I knew who Jackson Pollock was. We’d done a school excursion to Canberra and seen Blue Poles. When I mentioned that, Anders and Mackenzie were interested. ‘Was it angst-ridden?’

  ‘Angsty?’ I asked.

  Anders nodded and leant in eagerly for my answer. I tried to remember the painting. If I’d known then that a handsome German guy was going to be quizzing me about it one day, I’d have paid more attention.

  ‘It was big,’ I said, nodding emphatically, as though big was a word that referred to more than mere size. ‘Big and – strangely ordered.’ I started to remember fragments of what my art teacher had said. ‘You think the painting is chaos, but it isn’t. I mean there’s no focal point, but there’s still order.’

  ‘I think it is only the boys who go for Pollock,’ Goldie said. ‘My preference is Helen Frankenthaler.’

  Mackenzie dismissed Helen Frankenthaler with an explosive, ‘Phht! You would, Goldie. It’s all those soft, limpid colours. Why don’t you just worship Marie Laurencin and be done with it?’

  ‘I like Marie Laurencin,’ I said, surprised by my own voice. She was one of the painters I’d sought out in L’Orangerie. ‘She did a portrait of Chanel. I bought two postcards. I’m going to send one to Mum.’

  Goldie smiled at me. ‘You and I gravitate to the female. Mackenzie is pioneering and Anders is, after all, deeply German. They like the angst.’ She pronounced the word the way Anders had.

  ‘We need the angst.’ Anders laughed. ‘Without the angst, the joy is hidden. Everything becomes the same and nothing is felt. Is this not so, Lise? Even for pretty girls who should know nothing but joy.’

  Was he calling me pretty in that patronising way? I narrowed my eyes. ‘Yeah, sure,’ I said, ‘I suffer when my French Vogue isn’t delivered on the due date. That’s my angst.’

  ‘Touché,’ Anders said.

  ‘You’d better apologise,’ Mackenzie told him severely, ‘we frontiers people don’t like being talked down to by Euro trash.’

  Anders got to his feet, causing a flurry of disturbed pigeons, and gave me a short bow. ‘I am sincerely sorry. It was a clumsy compliment.’

  ‘You’re forgiven.’

  ‘Forgive, but don’t forget,’ Goldie advised. ‘What’s the time? I can hear my glass sirens calling, calling.’

  ‘I have to go too. I’ve got a – an appointment. To see the haute couture exhibition.’

  I chucked the last of my baguette at the pigeons, who descended with such feathery force that Mackenzie shielded her face.

  Anders smirked. ‘So you do get Vogue delivered?’

  ‘Why else learn French? An Asian language would be far more useful in my part of the world.’

  ‘But you will be at our next French lesson?’

  ‘Of course.’ I waved jauntily at everyone even though I was hours early for Madame Christophe. If I had stayed any longer, I’d have had to flirt and I was out of my league.

  Instead, I found my way to a park. I dragged my camera out of my backpack and took photos of the statue, the pigeons and the hedges. The French lessons were worth it, I thought. I’d have to Skype Mum and apologise. I’d have to thank Madame Christophe, too. I liked Goldie, who reminded me of Ami. She was the only other girl I’d met who would have worn a mustard plaid skirt, short enough to reveal lacy stocking tops, with a purple T-shirt. I wondered what country she came from – somewhere exotic by her looks. Maybe the Philippines? Mackenzie was earnest and sweet and we both spoke the same language. Anders was another plus, and even though he was too hot to be single, he was clearly open to flirtation. If I was game.

  When I was tired of sitting in the park, I explored the shops in the covered walkway that surrounded it. Over half of them were small galleries and I had to agree with Fabienne. I didn’t see a single piece of art that I would have hung on my bedroom wall.

  Madame Christophe was waiting for me outside the building even though I wasn’t late. She was studying her shop window and motioned me over to join her.

  ‘I do the window, but it is not quite correct, is it? It needs to attract the Americans.’

  Madame Christophe had put a small sample of almost everything she sold in the window. It was cluttered. I had helped Mum do the windows of her studio, La Vie en Rose, and I’d grown up with less is more. Not that I always agreed.

  ‘It’s a bit distracted,’ I said carefully.

  Madame Christophe frowned at the window. ‘Perhaps you are right. We search for inspiration at the haute couture.’

  I wondered briefly how Chanel would feel about being the inspiration for a clairvoyant’s shop window, but she’d been the daughter of a laundrywoman and had no father – Mum never tired of telling me the Chanel story – so she’d probably be cool with it.

  We set off, accompanied by Napoléon, of course. Madame Christophe had dressed for the exhibition in her signature charcoal, contrasted today with an acid green silk scarf. The pochette that swung at Madame’s hip was a slightly different shade of the same colour and both matched the tiny bows on her wedges. It was audacious, I felt, for someone who was so classically French, and sure enough, Madame Christophe saw me looking and patted her pochette with affection.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she whispered, ‘it is important to disorganise the rules. Schiaparelli knew this.’ Then she winked at me.

  Madame Christophe winked at me!

  ‘Now, we visit the haute couture and give it our full attention.’

  When we reached the Hôtel de Ville she stood aside so I had to pay for us both, but I was still filled with gratitude for the comradely spirit of her wink. It was right, I felt, for the gawky Australian to pay for elegance. Just as it was right for Napoléon, whining a little, to be placed in my backpack.

  ‘Otherwise he might be trampled down,’ Madame Christophe said. ‘Oof – the crowd!’

  It was crowded and so different to the fashion exhibitions I’d seen with my mother at home where a handful of middle-aged women, gay men and the odd cluster of fashion students moved from exhibit to exhibit with quiet, intense deference.

  Here, people shoved each other to get closer and examine the beadwork on a Chanel buckle or the embroidered sun on the Schiaparelli cloak in greater detail. I noticed that when Madame Christophe wanted to stand her ground in a front of a piece she simply jutted out her sharp elbows and held them there. I copied her and copped the frown of a well-dressed woman, but if I was going to be gawky I was going to use it to my advantage. I didn’t shift and when she pressed against me Napoléon came to the rescue by growling. The woman backed off, muttering ‘Pardon’ in an insincere voice.

  ‘Incroyable!’ Madame Christophe led us from one spectacular display to the next. ‘The embroidery, the beads, the work! Oh là là!’

  She asked me to take a photo but I was stopped by someone who gestured quite angrily to a sign either Madame had not seen or, more likely, ignored.

  ‘A pity,’ she said, ‘we will need to buy the expensive catalogue. This is how they make the money.’

  I was sure that Madame Christophe knew all about conservation and flashes, she was just saving face. ‘We French are like cats,’ Madame Desnois had told me. ‘When we make a mistake we look haughty and rearrange ourselves.’ Madame Christophe had just twitched her tail back into place. The thought made me smile but I hid it as I shifted Napoléon to ease my shoulder. He was just as French as his mistress and moved right back.

  The clothes – that was hardly a word that did them justice – were so beautiful it almost hurt. There were times when I tuned out from what I was looking at and listened, instead, to the talk around me. Many of the Americans gave the gowns a desultory look and continued a conversation they may have started over coffee. They contrasted with the French men – I knew they were French because of their shoes – who studied the finer details of many of the garments, before moving on to a beckoning Vionnet or Valentino. I didn’t think all the men were gay. Some had come with women who appeared to be th
eir wives and they sounded appreciative and knowledgeable as both partners gestured to a particular cut, fastening or scattering of sequins.

  I tried to imagine having a similar conversation with, say, Ben.

  ‘Oh, look, chéri,’ I’d say, ‘the simplicity of Le Smoking transformed to a Hollywood extravagance, but I prefer this quieter number with its cut-away jacket.’

  ‘But non, mon ange, Le Smoking is a vision of splendour!’

  Of course, Ben had never called me his angel and I don’t think he would even know what haute couture is. He did have a great collection of funny T-shirts that he’d ordered over the internet. It was hardly the same thing.

  ‘I love Valentino,’ a young blonde next to me said to her companion. ‘His backs make me look like a present someone has to open.’

  Did she own a Valentino? I wanted to nudge Madame Christophe but she was examining an evening gown with a weird bustle. The woman left a trail of perfume behind her as heady as hundred dollar notes.

  ‘And then I told her,’ another American said behind me, ‘well, if she and Junior are going to be married in Venice they’d better understand there’s been a global financial crisis and adjust their bridal register accordingly. We won’t all be able to afford air tickets, hotels and Tiffany!’

  The evening gowns made me think of Mum and I swallowed a wave of homesickness and concentrated on reading the labels instead. The words were expensively musical: broderie de fils de soie mordorés et de fils métallique and incrustations de cannelé de soie mordoré, perles de verre, dentelle mécanique de soie, mousseline de soie . . .

  Everything was silk. I imagined the whispering and fluttering of fabric if all the robes were suddenly animated, moving around, their crystals and jewels glittering in the low light and the fragile lace catching on our robust backpack straps as they shimmered past.

  ‘Lisette! Regard this Vionnet masterpiece. This has refreshed our spirits, yes? We can examine my window with a cold eye. Tomorrow morning we begin our work. Tonight I have a date.’ I could no more imagine how this opulence was going to transform Madame Christophe’s window with its collection of tarot card packs, candles and healing potions from obscure monasteries, than I could imagine the brave man dating her. Nonetheless I stood in front of a Madeleine Vionnet with chain necklaces falling from the neckline. It was impossible not to love. The gown was tissue-thin apple green silk and descended to the ground in a graceful column. It was a poem to spring. I could imagine the wearer turning from a garret window, shrugging out of her furs and then, laughing slightly, allowing a man to slip it off over her pale shoulders. She’d have to warn him that the necklaces came away with the frock. Perhaps he would know, being French.

  Madame Christophe raised her eyebrows at me and we moved on to a more contemporary costume fringed with so much distressed denim that Madame, Napoléon and I shuddered as one.

  ‘The catalogue.’ Madame Christophe handed me the French version. ‘Your mother will be delighted.’

  ‘My mother might prefer the English,’ I said.

  ‘No, you will read it together. It will be practice for you when you have returned home.’

  Before I could protest she had marched up to the cashier and begun the transaction. It was only left to me to hand over my debit card.

  I thought of saying to Anders, ‘One has to learn French, if only to read the haute couture catalogue.’ It was the kind of thing you could say wearing a silk gown or The Jacket. Perhaps I would have to shop the sales after all. Maybe flirting, fashion and French were all inextricably linked and to become proficient at any one of them I was going to have to embrace the other two. After all, I was the great-granddaughter of a woman who had owned The Jacket. It was probably in my DNA.

  STOCKINGS

  Lace-topped stay-ups would make everything else I owned more French. They are definitely the missing item in my wardrobe. I don’t care if it’s shopping.

  The next morning I was woken by an urgent knocking at my door. ‘Lisette, it is time! This is the day I do not open so we do the window!’ It was only eight a.m.

  ‘We need something frivolous in the holiday mood,’ Madame Christophe said, when I came downstairs, ‘but also with an underneath wisdom to attract the rich Americans. They both like authority and they resent it. They are children. It needs to be chic so they are reassured I am the real French, but friendly so they feel the trust. It needs to speak to l’amour. Everyone wants to know about love.’

  The materials with which we were to accomplish this small miracle included a basket, a parasol, a length of blue silk and a hunk of crystal. I thought back to my visual communications design class and Ms Lui talking about the client’s vision.

  ‘I get that you want a window design that’s sexy, elegant, wise and inviting,’ I said, ‘and I’m sure we’ll achieve that, but before we start, let’s talk about what your job means to you.’ I felt very bold saying this to Madame Christophe but it was obvious she had window-dressing problems.

  ‘It is not a job,’ she said dramatically, ‘it is my life. I am called. And the work, it is always about love and loss. Or directions in which to go to improve. It is the human condition for people to want to see the future.’

  ‘But the future – what does the future mean?’

  Madame Christophe gave a shrug. ‘It is – there is an English expression – a closed book. But for me the pages turn.’

  ‘Okay. That’s perfect. That’s what we need.’

  ‘A book? Holiday reading?’

  ‘Not holiday reading and not just one book. We need two – one closed and one open. Both old.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ Madame Christophe said, but she bustled obediently into her apartment and returned with two books.

  It took ages but when we’d finished, the window was Parisian-chic, mysterious and timeless. We went outside to admire it and Madame Christophe kissed me on both cheeks. ‘It is superb. You clearly have some of your father’s genes,’ she announced. Naturally I had, I thought, but I had to agree that the window was well done. We’d swathed a wooden plinth with the piece of dark blue silk and placed on that the closed book, weighted down with the hunk of glittering crystal. The silk trailed across the floor and where it ended, we’d placed the open book on a music stand. Next to that was a tall gilt pillar candlestick, signifying revelation. A scattering of tarot cards led from one to the other. Madame Christophe’s clairvoyant services sign was tucked in one corner of the window.

  ‘Lise!’

  I whirled around from the window to see Anders, dressed in jogging shorts and a T-shirt dark with sweat. He still looked good.

  ‘Hi,’ I said awkwardly.

  ‘So, this is what you do?’ He gestured to the display. ‘You are a window arranger?’

  ‘I was helping,’ I said.

  Madame Christophe gave a discreet cough. I remembered my manners and introduced them.

  ‘Enchanted.’ Anders bowed and he should have looked ridiculous but he somehow managed to look charming, I thought. Madame Christophe didn’t seem so convinced. She gave a small, stiff nod.

  ‘It’s very professional,’ Anders said. ‘If you’ve finished here, Lise, maybe we should have breakfast together? I will shower quickly at the studio and meet you back here in ten minutes? I had no idea you were so close. This is fortunate!’

  ‘Regrettably, Lisette breakfasts with me,’ Madame Christophe said before I could say a word. ‘It is our small ritual. Alas, you will have to meet with her another time.’ She dismissed Anders with a wave.

  Anders raised his eyebrows at me.

  ‘I’m sure I could miss it this time,’ I said, but Madame Christophe was already walking back into the shop.

  ‘Never mind,’ Anders said. ‘I do not want to cause any disharmony. Another time, Lise.’ He waved cheerfully and jogged off.

  I followed Madame Christophe into her apartment, seething. She’d treated me like a child. Again. On the other hand, she’d also made me feel as though I was
important to her. I didn’t know what to do and, as if in sympathy, Napoléon jumped on my lap and licked my chin.

  ‘I am sorry’ – Madame Christophe appeared from the kitchenette carrying a plate –‘but this morning, to thank you for your help, I bought you pain au chocolat from the good bakery. I did not want you missing it. He is from the French class, the jogger?’

  ‘Yes.’ I was somewhat mollified by the chocolate croissant, which looked deliciously decadent.

  ‘Germans, they are so fond of physical exercise. Bizarre.’

  ‘But healthy,’ I suggested, fending Napoléon away from my breakfast.

  ‘Perhaps. Who really knows? I have heard of people who drop dead as they run. Why run when you can stroll? What do you see? Everything is a blur, a dangerous blur. What else does this young man do?’

  ‘He’s an artist.’

  ‘I have never heard of a serious artist taking exercise. He will not be any good.’

  Anders was dismissed from the morning’s conversation but not from my mind. He’d said it was fortunate that I was staying so close to the artists’ studios. Had he meant anything by that? Perhaps he was single, but how could I find out?

  ‘You like the pain au chocolat?’

  ‘It’s delicious,’ I said honestly. The pastry was flaky and the chocolate rich and Madame Christophe had kept it warm. ‘It’s the breakfast of royalty,’ I told her, ‘and far too good for Napoléon to share.’

  ‘It is a children’s treat.’ Madame Christophe dismissed my pastry. ‘He likes you, my little Napoléon. I knew he would. He has an eye. He can see past the outside.’

  I nearly choked. It was clear that Madame Christophe was criticising my outfit of choice for the day – a green vintage corduroy tunic I’d teamed with a T-shirt celebrating an obscure boy band. I was planning to buy some stay-up lace-topped stockings to underpin the irony of this outfit, but under Madame Christophe’s reprimanding gaze I doubted the irony was apparent.

  I changed the subject. ‘How was your date?’

  ‘He bought me a very proper dinner that I enjoyed greatly but alas there was no . . . what to say? No electricity ran between us. I am not convinced by this dating through the internet.’