Lisette's Paris Notebook

by Catherine Bateson

  ‘So,’ Anders said, after we’d bought our ice-cream, and sauntered back to sit near the water, ‘tell me about yourself, Lisette. Tell me about your life in Australia with your seamstress mother. It would be winter there now, yes?’

  I nodded. ‘But not like European winter,’ I said, ‘although Melbourne gets pretty cold.’

  ‘There is snow?’

  ‘Not in the city.’ I laughed. ‘Not unless you go to the mountains, and sometimes not even then.’

  ‘You ski?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Skate?’

  ‘No, not even that,’ I said. ‘I have rollerbladed.’

  ‘I ski,’ Anders said, ‘every winter. It is seriously beautiful. That rush. But also I cross-country ski. That is hard work – but the serenity! If you do not ski, what do you do in winter?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. We read books. My mother and I light a fire and watch movies together some nights.’

  ‘It sounds so exciting,’ Anders said. ‘Do you do everything with your mother? I daresay she gets out her sewing and you talk together like in an old-fashioned book?’

  ‘Of course not! I have friends. We go out.’ Was that strictly true? Ami and I stayed in mostly. We did sew. We watched Doctor Who, drank green tea and sometimes knitted. There was no way to make that sound exciting, even though I loved those nights.

  ‘What’s the club scene like?’

  I was on safer ground. ‘I don’t like clubs,’ I said, ‘but we live near a couple of bars with live music. We go there.’

  Anders nodded. ‘And your mother goes with you?’

  ‘No!’ I was indignant.

  ‘I thought perhaps you have a very young mother?’

  ‘She’s not that young,’ I said. ‘She wouldn’t come out to see a band.’

  ‘Does she resemble you, your little sewing mother?’

  ‘Not really. She has dark, curly hair and she’s shorter than I am. She’s a great dressmaker.’ I wondered if I even liked Anders, despite his cool tattoo and artful stubble. ‘What about you? What do hipsters do in Germany?’

  Anders snorted. ‘What all the interesting people do. I go to clubs, but also music concerts – piano recitals. My friends and I party in the summer. We travel also. We hike on weekends sometimes. It is a good life. You should come to Germany, Lise. It is different to Paris.’

  ‘I’d love to go everywhere,’ I said, and realised that what I’d said was true. I’d never thought of it before, but since being in Paris, I knew that I wanted to travel to new places. Maybe I was more like my father than I realised? When he’d abandoned Mum, he just took off and never came back. Mum had always called that narcissistic, selfish and ego-driven. But was it? Could you also call it adventurous, curious and – well, let’s face it, young?

  ‘There are so many places to see,’ Anders said, carefully wiping his fingers on his paper serviette. ‘It must be hard for Australians to do that, so far away at the end of the world.’

  ‘Asia is close,’ I retorted, ‘also New Zealand. They ski there!’

  Anders laughed. ‘You are very fierce, Lise. I like that.’ He leant forward. He was going to kiss me! I tilted my head towards him and closed my eyes. Nothing happened. Anders dabbed at the top of my T-shirt with his serviette. ‘But you are messy!’

  ‘The sorbet is dripping.’ How mortifying!

  ‘Only so it can be closer to you.’ Anders smiled, looking into my eyes so intensely that I had to blink. ‘That was delicious,’ he continued, standing up and stretching his arms above his head, so I could clearly see his biceps and the tendons on his forearms. ‘Now, I shall go back to work. And you, Lise, what will you do?’

  ‘I’m going to take some photographs,’ I said, making up my mind suddenly. ‘It’s too nice a day not to keep walking.’

  ‘You should buy one of those Lomo cameras,’ Anders said. ‘They are more interesting. I can tell you are an artist, Lise, the seamstress’s daughter. You must do better than take ordinary photographs like anyone with their digital camera. You must capture a Paris that is entirely your own. I can take you to a shop that sells them, if you are interested?’

  Was I an artist? I now owned one painting of my father’s. I’d hung it defiantly on my bedroom wall the day it arrived in the post, two days before I left for Paris. My father’s wife, who I could never call my stepmother because I had not met her, sent it via the lawyers. It was a dark, brooding landscape dominated by hills and clouds. ‘That’s Wales for you,’ Mum had said, but other than that she’d made no comment although her eyes were still red from crying. Only two days before that we’d learnt of my father’s death. I loved the moodiness of the painting, which reflected my own.

  ‘They’re those 35 mill cameras, right?’ I wanted to stop thinking about my father.

  ‘But not too serious. They are a fun thing.’

  ‘I could take black-and-white photographs,’ I said. ‘That would be cool. My friend, Ami, she bought one of the La Sardina cameras. I’d like a fish-eye. That would be great.’

  Even if I didn’t always like him, Anders intrigued me, and, this time, at least, he was offering me an opportunity I hadn’t thought of for myself.

  ‘Here,’ he said when we stepped inside the shop, ‘this is where you buy a camera. Not a fashion photography camera, a camera for happy accidents. Isn’t that so, Maurice?’

  There were a bewildering variety of cameras on display. Anders, obviously not in a terrible hurry to return to work, stayed and chatted. It surprised him that I knew how to load film. That felt good! In the end, I did choose a fish-eye Lomo. It was exciting – why hadn’t I thought of if myself?

  ‘It’s perfect for summer,’ Maurice said, ‘but don’t use it in winter. You need light for these. When you are tired of seeing everything through a fish-eye, maybe you will return for a different one.’

  ‘Perhaps I will,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Anders. I wouldn’t have bought this without you.’

  ‘It is always my pleasure to help someone discover their creativity,’ he said with that oddly formal bow. ‘I hope you will have much fun with it. What will you photograph first? The beautiful Seine?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘everyone does that. I’m going back to that stuffed fox.’

  ‘So macabre’ – Anders was startled – ‘especially for an Australian. Here, add your number to my phone. Then I can call you when I need shopping help.’

  ‘I like macabre,’ I said, taking the phone.

  ‘Odd little Lise,’ Anders murmured, and then, ‘goodbye.’ Instead of shaking my hand, he bent and kissed me on both cheeks, surprising me. Then he took my chin and looked at me again, shaking his head. ‘A dead fox. You are an artist.’ And he kissed me again, quickly on the mouth, before walking away.

  The last kiss was so unexpected, I only registered the warm softness of his mouth. I hadn’t even had time to enjoy it properly. But perhaps that was a good thing? Why had he kissed me? It was friendship. Definitely friendship. It wasn’t a boyfriend kiss, I told myself sternly. It was interesting, too, that Anders had wanted my phone number. What did it mean? Anything? Nothing?

  It was all too puzzling. I tried to put it out of my mind while I walked back across the bridges. I decided I’d make cards out of the photographs. I’d send the fox card to Ami. She’d get a kick out of that. If she’d taken a gap year, too, we could have been doing this together. I needed to talk to her. I missed her life advice.

  When Mum was pregnant with me and her own mother hated her, she strutted out in fringed suede boots and a minidress that just stretched over the bump I was then. I’ve been doodling outfits I could wear that would be different from my usual style. I wanted fun chic, a mashup of vintage with some added Vogue elegance. I’m thinking sixties – a black baby-doll dress to wear with my new stockings. I’d embroider a lipstick kiss on the Peter Pan collar. I could wear it with my Docs. But not in Paris.

  I didn’t hear from Anders, but I wasn’t surprised. He would be
busy preparing for the open studio exhibition. I did find myself thinking of that light kiss more often than I should have, and looking forward to the next French class. In between classes I took a lot of photos and found a place close by that sold and developed black-and-white film. My first results delighted me. The fox looked almost real, the barges were straight out of a picture book and even the bookstores by the river looked like something from a movie set. The photos weren’t predictable. Sometimes there was too much light and sometimes they were slightly too dark. I didn’t care. It was my Paris.

  I even got Madame Christophe to pose for me. I didn’t think she’d like the results, so I used both my cameras and decided to show her only the most flattering shots. The most flattering weren’t the most interesting. In the black-and-white fish-eye shots she looked like an elegant gnome, not the fashion statement I thought she’d enjoy being. However, when I showed her the digital photographs, she approved and then asked, rather sternly, to see the other results.

  ‘The other results?’ I was playing for time.

  ‘Your new camera. The one you are loving. Have you had those photographs developed?’

  ‘Oh, they’re just black and white. Nothing really.’

  She insisted and so I reluctantly handed them over, wincing in anticipation of her reaction.

  ‘These I like very much,’ she said, flourishing two in which she was all nose and bright eyes. ‘I would like copies.’

  ‘Of course, Madame. Naturally. I didn’t think . . .’

  ‘You do not know me,’ she said matter-of-factly, ‘but I can appreciate some . . . what would you say? Whimsy. It attracts me.’

  It was true I didn’t know Madame Christophe, although each day I felt we were becoming closer. She entrusted me to buy the morning croissants now, and I was permitted to take Napoléon. Mind you, she had introduced me to the staff at the best bakery so I didn’t make any mistakes. She had also taken me to the cafe that sold the coffee beans she liked where the tall cashier with piercings flirted with me. He always proffered a scoop for the customer to sniff before purchasing and the cafe itself had a living wall so if you drank a latte there it was like being in the tropics.

  I felt as though some of my edges were smoothing out. They had begun to build beaches down by the Seine, which amused me. They’d removed the fake meadow that had appeared in front of the Hôtel de Ville and put in a beach volleyball court instead.

  ‘Paris is full of fakery,’ I said at French class. ‘Instead of real meadows and beaches, you need artificial nature. In Australia we are surrounded by natural beauty.’

  Fabienne shrugged. ‘What’s the point of that?’ she demanded. ‘Humans, we improve on nature. That is called civilisation.’

  ‘I disagree,’ I said firmly. Fabienne’s opinions had been particularly strident that day. ‘One mark of civilisation is surely the ability to appreciate beauty in all its forms.’

  ‘The Alps, perhaps,’ Fabienne said, ‘or some majestic panorama, but a beach is not that. It is merely a playground.’

  ‘In Australia, the beaches are majestic,’ I insisted. ‘We have unspoilt coastline. You can walk for hours and be the only one there.’

  ‘What’s the point?’ Fabienne repeated. ‘Who will see you? One goes to the beach to be seen.’

  ‘What about snorkelling? Or diving?’ I tried a different approach.

  Fabienne shuddered. ‘I do not go down into the water,’ she said. ‘I would not do that. People are eaten.’

  ‘It’s a bit of a myth, actually. More people die on the roads than are taken by sharks.’

  Fabienne turned her attention from me. ‘Goldie, we leave Lisette with her unnatural love of the wilderness. Tell us about your week.’

  After the class, Mackenzie elbowed me. ‘You did it,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe it, but you actually made her shut up.’

  ‘I think she is phobic.’ Anders joined us. ‘She doesn’t like nature. She likes resorts. She views nature from over the rim of a wineglass or a coffee cup. It is always perfect then.’

  ‘She sounds like my mum,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to shut her up, actually. I just wanted to point out that Australia does have some things going for it. I’m sick of her dismissing the whole country as though we’ve got nothing.’

  ‘You are touchy.’ Anders grinned. ‘Shall we eat, everyone? Lise, how is your camera?’

  Of course I had the newly developed photographs in my bag. I pretended that I’d just picked them up as I passed them around.

  ‘Ooh,’ Mackenzie said, ‘look at the fox, Goldie.’

  ‘Strange,’ Goldie nodded. ‘I do like the fish-eye lens, Lise. How clever!’

  I was about to confess that Anders had helped me choose the camera but he interrupted. ‘We should get a group shot, Lise. You take one first and then I will take one with just the women.’

  What I really wanted was a photo of me and Anders but I certainly wasn’t going to say that. Everyone crowded together, making faces and posing, while Anders and I took the shots.

  ‘Very good,’ Anders said, handing the camera back to me. ‘I am sure they will turn out well. You are all so beautiful. Perhaps you will never be so beautiful again. This reminds me. Lise, would you pose for me? I need a model.’

  Pose for him? My instinctive reaction was to say no, absolutely not. Not if that meant to pose nude. I was about to open my mouth and say that when I intercepted a glance passing between Goldie and Mackenzie. I knew what that meant. They thought I was too young and too inexperienced. They thought I was a stupid, naive Australian girl who wouldn’t dream of taking her clothes off, even for art.

  ‘Yes, I will,’ I told Anders. ‘It will be another Paris experience.’

  ‘That’s excellent,’ Anders said. ‘I now have some hope that I’ll finish my work for the open studio.’

  When I left after lunch, my head was whirling. What had I agreed to do? I knew that people made money being artist’s models. It was nothing odd or even creepy. Except that it was. Creepy. I’d have to take all my clothes off in front of a man I didn’t really know. Why had I said yes? I was in trouble.

  I went straight back to the apartment. What could I wear? What did you wear to take off for the sake of art? Not the kinds of clothes I owned. I sat on my bed in despair and tried to imagine the scene. I’d waltz into Anders’ studio on Saturday morning – early, he’d said, for the light. I’d shrug nonchalantly out of a dress. It would have to be a dress. There were too many awkward fastenings on everything else. I’d need to be wearing good undies, too. Undies! They’d have to come off.

  Was there a website that told inexperienced artist’s models what to wear? I googled and discovered a site with lots of great advice – none of which I could take. No, I couldn’t practise with friends first. No, I couldn’t attend a life drawing class as an artist before modelling. And how on earth could I think about negative space as I changed from pose to pose? Clothing seemed like the least of my problems – but the only one I had a chance of fixing.

  I studied the haute couture catalogue for inspiration. I could completely understand how one could shrug out of a Vionnet, or slither from a Fortuny. Okay, the necklace dress would have been tricky, but there were plenty of other dresses that surely needed just a quick zipper tug or a fallen strap before they, too, would slide to the ground, leaving just the underwear.

  I would require additions to my wardrobe. They would have to look as though they’d been there right from the start – otherwise I’d look as though I’d tried way too hard.

  What a problem! I had three days to find the perfect dress to take off. I didn’t want to think about how I was going to manage to take it off in front of Anders. I wouldn’t think beyond the dress for the time being. That was enough.

  I’d seen a vintage store quite close to the apartment. I hadn’t actually been inside because I’d felt it was too intimate a space to test my French language skills. The BHV had the anonymity of any large department store, but a sec
ond-hand shop – that required more work.

  I asked Madame to loan me Napoléon.

  ‘I am going shopping,’ I told her, fulfilling her expectations.

  ‘The sales have not started,’ she cautioned. ‘It is ridiculous, Lisette, to shop before the sales.’

  ‘I’m shopping for vintage,’ I said. ‘Second-hand stuff won’t go on sale. Anyway, I can’t wait. I need something specific for Saturday.’

  Madame Christophe’s eyebrows arched.

  ‘It’s just a thing with the art students,’ I said. ‘I want something new.’

  ‘This is not logical,’ was all she said but I noticed she fussed around and changed Napoléon’s collar from his plain blue to a smart tartan, as though that was more suitable for vintage shopping.

  There were two vintage shops in the Marais. They were both full of designer vintage, which meant they were expensive. The first was staffed by two young women with impossibly perfect skin and hair. I was in and out of that shop in three minutes.

  The second was staffed by two men who asked if I was Canadian and cooed at me when I told them I was Australian, then left me alone while they continued an argument in fierce, swift French. Beautiful dresses hung on the hangers – Gucci, Versace and more – but at the back of the shop was a section of clothes that weren’t designer but still second-hand. This was the section I wanted. The clothes didn’t even look like they’d been worn. I pulled a couple of halter-neck dresses from the rack and flourished them at the men behind the counter, who directed me to a tiny fitting room that was wallpapered in red velvet.

  Eventually I chose a rockabilly style dress that was made from a blue fabric printed with cowboys riding broncos. It wasn’t the baby-doll dress that I’d imagined – but at least I could slither out of a halter-neck. Also the neckline made me look slightly bustier than I really was. I wasn’t sure if that counted as false advertising but it wouldn’t really matter as I’d be taking the dress off anyway. I shuddered at the thought. Too late to back out now.