Lisette's Paris Notebook

by Catherine Bateson

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I suppose I’m here to find out?’

  ‘I think you are like a clear canvas,’ Anders said. ‘You stand in front of yourself, not knowing where to begin.’

  ‘That’s silly, Anders.’ I followed him to a seat overlooking the river. ‘I’m already someone. I’m my mother’s daughter, a friend—’

  ‘What about your father?’ Anders said. ‘You never mention him.’

  I shrugged. I wasn’t going to tell Anders my family history. I didn’t trust him enough. ‘Of course, but the matriarchal line is stronger.’

  Anders rolled his eyes. ‘All these strong women. Men have been belittled. We have handed over our power.’

  ‘That’s such crap!’

  ‘Easy for you to say.’ Anders fed Napoléon a small piece of sausage and then lapsed into silence while we watched the tourist barges go by. He didn’t try to kiss me again.

  ‘I like stuff,’ I said, surprising myself, ‘you know – like your coffee bowls. Things other people have owned.’

  ‘Well, there’s a mark on your canvas,’ Ander said. He didn’t sound entirely convinced. ‘Not a particularly large or useful mark but one should not judge an unfinished artwork.’

  ‘When we’re finished, we’re dead,’ I said sharply. ‘Honestly Anders, you are so patronising.’

  ‘I am wise,’ he said. ‘Come on, Lise, let’s do something. You have nothing planned?’

  ‘I have to get Napoléon home early for his dinner, but that’s all.’

  ‘Let’s go to the Père Lachaise,’ Anders said. ‘This will appeal to you as you like old things.’

  ‘The cemetery? I didn’t mean that old!’

  ‘It’s very picturesque, very beautiful. Fabienne will enjoy hearing about our visit next week. Everyone should see the Père Lachaise. Even Napoléon will enjoy it.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. Anders’ enthusiasm was catching. ‘I guess we could do that.’

  ‘We’ll buy some beer,’ Anders said, ‘so we can toast the departed. There are so many great people buried there.’

  ‘Are you sure you can drink in a cemetery in daylight?’

  ‘This is Europe, Lise. We drink everywhere.’

  I still wasn’t used to being allowed to take a dog on the metro, but Napoléon was obviously comfortable with the whole thing and curled up on his own seat as though he’d paid for his ticket.

  ‘He is very French,’ Anders said, with a slight note of disapproval.

  The Père Lachaise was huge. I’d never seen such a big cemetery. Not that I spent a lot of time in cemeteries. There’d been once when Mum decided she’d better make sure they’d put up a plaque for Greatma and we trundled off with a bouquet of flowers. It was sad but in an unreal kind of way. The plaque had nothing to do with Greatma. It was just a bit of metal with her name on it. Then there’d been the Saturday afternoons that Ami and I had photographed cemetery angels for visual arts. They were my experiences. Of course, I had not been to my father’s funeral – I hadn’t even known it had taken place.

  This was more of a tourist attraction than a proper cemetery. There were tourists everywhere and all of them were searching for Jim Morrison’s grave.

  ‘It’s the big attraction,’ Anders said dismissively. ‘We will not worry about him. Oscar Wilde is the other most visited. His grave we will find. But it is Héloïse and Abelard I enjoy most. These we will toast.’

  I hadn’t heard of Héloïse and Abelard, so Anders told me the story of the doomed lovers and how they’d castrated Abelard when he was caught with Héloïse, his student. Anders shuddered theatrically as he told me and pretended to clutch his groin. ‘See how we are emasculated!’

  ‘It still happens, of course,’ I said, ‘in Australia.’

  ‘They castrate men?’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that! But if you’re a teacher and you’re caught with a student, you can go to jail.’

  ‘And that is the end of the romantic stories,’ Anders said. ‘Where are we without forbidden love?’

  ‘I think it’s seen more as paedophilia,’ I said sharply.

  ‘But do you think so with Héloïse and Abelard? We have their passionate letters as witness to their love.’

  ‘It was different back then,’ I said. ‘You married younger.’

  ‘That is true,’ Anders said, uncapping the warm beer, ‘but I think with these two’ – he motioned to the old grave – ‘it was more about class difference. That still happens.’

  ‘Not in Australia,’ I said stoutly, taking the smallest sip of the warm beer.

  ‘So, if you or your family were very rich, they’d be happy for you to marry a penniless artist?’ Anders grinned at me, swigging his beer.

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ I said. ‘It wouldn’t really be their business, anyway.’

  ‘Things are the same in Germany,’ Anders said seriously, ‘but there can still be . . . problems. Statements, remarks that sting.’ ‘You’re speaking from experience?’ This was turning out to be the most revealing conversation I’d had with Anders. It was clear he was the penniless artist. Perhaps that was why he was in Paris and grumpy about women. He was nursing a broken heart. Could I be the one who mended it for him?

  ‘Don’t be so serious, Lise! I am no Abelard, believe me!’ His loud laugh attracted the attention of a couple, who both frowned as though laughter was forbidden in the cemetery. It wouldn’t have surprised me – we’d already seen cemetery officials zooming around in carts reprimanding people for sitting on the lawns. No rest in this cemetery!

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’ I was offended. It had been what Ami called ‘a moment’ and Anders had backed away.

  ‘Come.’ Anders held out his hand. ‘Let’s go and see the great Oscar – another doomed lover.’

  ‘Surely the fact that everyone is here,’ I said, gesturing over the graves, ‘indicates that we’re all doomed.’

  ‘Oh, Lise! You have the angst. But it is true, of course. No matter what we do we end up here. All the more reason to enjoy this day, this company.’ And leaning forward Anders kissed me for the second time. Just when I’d begun to relax and think about kissing him back, he pulled away. ‘There,’ he said, ‘that is to cheer us both up. What better than a kiss among the dead?’

  Napoléon was home for his early dinner, as was I. I had hoped the afternoon would turn into a proper date. I’d thought we might have dinner together at one of the cafes I never went to. We’d sit side by side and order the smoked salmon. Or I would; Anders would eat something more meaty like the charcuterie platter. We could share. But that didn’t happen and nor was the kiss repeated. At the Châtelet Métro he waved me goodbye, saying he had an exhibition opening to catch and walked off, leaving Napoléon and me to walk slowly home in the opposite direction. Instead of smoked salmon, I ate two-minute noodles, watched the street from my apartment window and marvelled at how sadly glorious it was to be in Paris alone and – maybe – falling in love.

  Mum said everyone should own at least one smiling dress – the dress you put on when all is right in your world and you want everyone to know you’re smiling inside. Mum’s has lots of flowers embroidered at the hem. I left my smiling dress at home. It’s scrunched up at the back of my wardrobe where I balled it up and threw it when Mum ‘found’ the photos of my father. It’s the floral shift Mum made me last summer, before I knew my father’s full name or that he’d wanted to see me.

  I wasn’t prepared for the open studio to be so busy. Anders was hyped and I could see why – people kept arriving. It looked as though the plastic cups would run out and the remaining food began to look sad on the industrial china plates. Goldie and I had both been instructed to wear our ‘vintage’ dresses, which we did and everyone oohed and aahed over us as though we were celebrities.

  The video of us was projected against one bare wall of the studio, and on another wall were stills from the video, blown up and superimposed with collages. Some of them I liked more than others. The o
ne where we were nearly covered by a photo of Paris pigeons was creepy.

  Fabienne turned up in a sheer lace mini dress. You couldn’t help but see how slim and toned her tanned legs were.

  ‘So it was planned, this wearing of the dresses?’ she asked Goldie.

  ‘Tonight, yes, but on the day, no. It was a happy accident.’

  ‘But what a disaster for you both. Arriving alike!’

  Goldie shrugged. ‘We didn’t mind,’ she said mildly, ‘did we, Lise?’

  Fabienne was genuinely shocked. ‘If that happened to me, I would . . .’ Her English failed her. ‘But of course, there is no real fashion in your countries.’

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or make an angry retort but Goldie just shook her head slightly so I let it go.

  Mackenzie arrived with a tall Canadian boy who she introduced as Ethan. She was wearing her new bra. I could see the straps when her T-shirt slid off one shoulder. He chatted to me for a while about environmental issues in Australia. I was pleased for Mackenzie’s sake that he was such a decent guy and sorry when they both left. That left me at a loose end. Goldie was flirting with someone I didn’t know. I made small talk with an Italian girl from the French class, but it was hard going with limited French. I was beginning to feel bored and lonely when Anders came up with a beer.

  ‘It’s going well,’ he said, ‘don’t you think? Thank God it is nearly over. Then we can party.’

  ‘So what is this?’

  ‘This is not the party. This is the ordeal. When it is over, the people I like most will stay, we open more beer, I find the secret food and we philosophise and get drunk.’

  ‘You have more food?’ I was indignant – and hungry.

  ‘Of course! I shopped today at the Bastille Market, some for the studio, some for our party. You are staying, Lise?’

  I thought that if you had just come in the door of the studio, you might think we were a couple. Particularly if you then noticed that I was one of the girls on the wall.

  ‘Yes, of course. I wouldn’t want to miss a party!’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to miss the party,’ Anders said seriously, and dropped a light kiss on the top of my head, before moving away to greet another arrival. I looked around and saw Goldie. She was frowning at me. The boy she had been talking to had disappeared. Was she jealous? Then the boy came back with beer and claimed her attention again. It was hot in the studio so I went out to the courtyard and wandered around, looking up at the still-blue sky. I wasn’t lonely anymore, just waiting. I tried to look casual, or as though I was thinking about art. Finally, Anders came out.

  ‘I think you’re right, Lise,’ he said. ‘This would be the best place for us all to be. Nearly everyone has gone. Will you help me set up?’

  Anders had stashed the small studio fridge full of food. We washed the heavy china plates and I arranged cheese and fruit, cut up baguettes and put olives into a couple of little bowls. I felt almost like a proper girlfriend, except that I didn’t know where anything was kept.

  There were soon about ten people in the courtyard, clustered around the table. I wasn’t surprised that Mackenzie and Ethan had left but I was surprised that Fabienne had stayed. She sat cross-legged on one of the bench seats, her dress riding up to her thighs and talked to an older guy Anders had introduced as one of the printmakers. I wondered whether I’d ever be as confident as Fabienne and doubted it. Goldie came to sit with me and was about to say something serious – I could tell by her face – when Anders strolled over with a platter of cherries. She gave him a long look that I couldn’t decipher. Had there been something between them?

  Anders sat down beside me and put his arm around me as though it was the most natural thing in the world. I thought I heard Goldie sigh, but I wasn’t sure because the guy Fabienne had been talking to picked up a guitar and began to play.

  ‘This is living,’ Anders said somewhere close to my ear and I relaxed against him, letting the music fill the night. It was sad, wild music and when the guy began to sing I knew he was lamenting a love lost to him forever. The sky darkened imperceptibly as twilight inched towards night. After that song, the music shifted and even I recognised a flamenco.

  A girl kicked off her shoes and got up. Despite the jeans she was wearing, when she danced you could imagine her skirt ruffling up and hear the castanets as she clicked her fingers. Fabienne stood up too.

  ‘But she’s French, not Spanish,’ I whispered to Anders.

  ‘She can do anything,’ Anders said in my ear, watching her.

  She was ridiculously sexy. She and the girl circled each other, mirroring each other’s movements haughtily.

  ‘You’re right,’ I admitted. ‘She can do anything!’

  ‘We should have a go,’ Anders said.

  ‘No!’ I said it louder than I had intended. I didn’t want to be shown up by Fabienne.

  ‘Come on, it’s just a dance.’ He stood up.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is your gypsy soul?’ He dismissed me and joined Fabienne and the Spanish girl. He didn’t know the flamenco – that was clear – but he was muscled, arrogant and proud, and the music changed ever so slightly to include him. The women gathered him up in their movements until the dance was about rivalry. I wouldn’t have been up there dancing for anything but without Anders I felt conspicuous, as though I was a child who’d been allowed to stay up past my bedtime.

  ‘Lise,’ Goldie hissed at me urgently, ‘Lise, we’re going. We’re off to have a coffee. Do you want to come?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ll stay for a little longer. Do you have to go?’

  ‘Yes. I have to clear my head. I’ve had too much to drink. Come with us, Lise.’

  ‘No, I haven’t said goodbye.’

  ‘You can wave.’ Goldie was standing over me, swaying slightly. ‘You don’t have to say anything. It’s a party. No one says anything.’

  ‘You go. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Don’t . . . you know—’

  But I didn’t hear the rest of what Goldie said because everyone was clapping and the dancers and the boy had tugged her away. Then Anders was back by my side, sweating slightly.

  ‘Magnificent!’ he called to the guitarist and raised his beer bottle. ‘You are a virtuoso!’

  ‘You should dance more,’ Fabienne said. She wasn’t even sweaty, just slightly flushed and glittery. ‘Germans should always dance, it loosens them.’

  I wondered how much she had had to drink but Anders just laughed.

  ‘I drink now,’ he said, ‘that is also loosening, Fabienne.’

  He’d put his arm back around me and I was safe. When he talked, I heard his words rumble through his chest. I didn’t have to say anything. I could just sit there and be a part of it all. The guitarist, Salvador, kept playing between drinks. Sometimes Fabienne and the Spanish girl danced, sometimes they just sat, tapping their feet. The talk was about politics and art. No one, including Anders, really talked to me, but I didn’t care. It was enough to be there, close to him.

  Eventually someone from a nearby studio called out that people had to sleep and Salvador packed away his guitar. Fabienne came over to say goodnight and Anders released me and stood up. They embraced briefly and she kissed him rapidly on both cheek, but I counted three kisses, rather than two. I stood beside him but only received two airy kisses.

  ‘We are continuing on,’ she said to Anders, gesturing to Salvador, the other dancer and another couple, ‘you can join us.’ He shook his head. ‘I have to work tomorrow.’ I wasn’t invited, which would have stung but I was sleepy and warm.

  ‘Take care,’ Fabienne said to me and it wasn’t clear whether it was a warning or a farewell.

  The courtyard was empty. I yawned. ‘I have to go too,’ I said reluctantly, ‘it must be late.’

  ‘It’s still early,’ Anders said, ‘the sky isn’t dark yet.’

  ‘The sky is never dark in Paris. I thought you had to work?’

  ‘I have time to
sit for a while with you.’ Anders pulled me down, so I was on his lap. ‘I’ve been wanting to do this all night,’ he said and he kissed me firmly on the mouth. It was not like his other kisses, fleeting and light. This was a proper kiss, teasing but insistent. His arms were tight around me and I hoped he couldn’t hear me breathing more quickly.

  His hands moved over my bare back. I wished we weren’t in such an open space. I didn’t want to do anything half-undressed in a public space ever again.

  Then Anders’ phone beeped and he stopped kissing me and fumbled for it instead.

  ‘Ah,’ he said and I couldn’t identify the tone of his voice. ‘You must go home now, Lise. I have to attend to this.’ He practically pushed me off his lap as he stabbed a message out on his phone. I straightened my dress. What was I supposed to do? Kiss him goodbye? Just leave?

  ‘Well, bye, then,’ I said, giving an awkward wave that Anders didn’t even notice.

  ‘Goodnight, Lise,’ he said, still focused on his phone. He made no effort to get up from the seat.

  I didn’t understand. I paused outside the studios to think about it, but the people who regularly slept under the colonnades were laying out sleeping bags and cardboard and I didn’t want anyone to think I was staring at them, or for them to ask me for money that I didn’t have. I kept my gaze straight and my walk steady until I was well away.

  It must have been Goldie who texted, I thought. She hadn’t approved of me sitting with Anders. She’d frowned at me. It made sense – she’d texted Anders from the club or wherever she’d gone and . . . I couldn’t guess what she’d said. She shouldn’t have interfered! Anders and I were adults. We could make up our own minds about our behaviour.

  Perhaps it wasn’t Goldie, but Fabienne. Yes, had Fabienne sent Anders a message chastising him for making out with a fellow student? No, that was ridiculous. Fabienne wouldn’t be so . . . parental.

  It wasn’t so much the message that annoyed me as the way Anders had dismissed me. He could have at least stood up and given me a hug.

  What bad luck that Anders got that message just when I was prepared to – well, to do whatever he wanted? The world did not want me to have a boyfriend. Look what had happened with Ben. Timing – it was never on my side. I was even wearing my second-best bra, which didn’t, of course, match my undies, but at least they were my lacy ones, not my daggy everyday undies. I’d almost been prepared.