Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir

by Katherine Watt

  After a couple of months, Caroleen was becoming a bore. Her stories had each been repeated dozens of times. Her cultural theories were beginning to be proven to be full of holes. Her politics were ghastly. I still need to test whether her views on Muslims reflect those of Parisians in general. It soon became very uncomfortable for me to listen to her rants about “All Arabs” in Paris, about every Arab woman in the city, wearing their “burkas” and spitting on her on the métro in their quest for forcing Sharia law on the women of France.

  She sits with her laptop in the same seat at Cépage, next to the one available power outlet and after the first café crème, doesn’t buy anything more until late in the afternoon. If I haven’t come in by then to buy her a glass of something, she may spring for an apéro to earn the right to a bowl of munchies. Once she’s gobbled those down, and usually mine as well, she grabs the arm of la serveuse and asks for more; shoving both bowls at her and making quick work of polishing them both off. I suggested that perhaps it was poor form to monopolize a table all day and not actually buy enough to justify the rent. “Nonsense”was her reply. “I’m family.”

  I noticed that my own welcome at Cépage got increasingly spotty. I had trouble flagging down the server. I could never seem to get another verre. And the previously friendly service had become downright rude.

  I went out of my way to become especially friendly. Finally I started leaving bigger tips. Buying friends in Paris.

  A quick survey of the room at Le Grand Comptoir showed several well placed power outlets. By 2:00 the restaurant has gotten more crowded. Gads, the French are on a later time schedule than I am used to!

  Two glasses of wine down and nearly finished with my risotto. I realize I’m going to have to drink more slowly if I’m going to manage to spend the four hours I’ve committed to writing each day.

  I suppose I could just ask Philippe, the owner. Can I write here two days each week? But first I need to determine, if in fact I can write here two days a week? Can I write? #imnohemingway.

  At two in the morning I have so many ideas that seem brilliant in the dead of night. But by the light of day, maybe not so much. I had thought about asking Philippe to sit down and tell me the story of his life; all in French of course. But he is very busy greeting patrons and manning the bar. Enjoying a glass of champagne and singing, all the while singing little snippets of songs that play on the stereo. And some that don’t.

  Yes, I do think this will work. Now I just have to determine if I can write.

  The Career Path

  Any path to becoming a woman of independent means for Ninon may curl the toes of a young woman entering any western university today. In seventeenth century Paris a young girl had limited choices; find a husband, enter the convent, or sell your body. The latter option took a couple of routes; become an everyday run of the mill prostitute, or if one were beautiful enough, smart enough and clever enough, to secure an arrangement. In other words, to become a courtesan, a kept woman who makes her living by making love. At that time Paris counted some 30,000 common whores and another 10,000 luxury prostitutes.

  Ninon’s first arrangement was with Jean Coulou, councillor at the Paris Parliament and a neighbor in the Marais. He was a wealthy libertine with an equally unfaithful wife. She received 500 livres per month. By way of comparison, common whores got between 3 and 4 livres per meeting. This arrangement continued for nine years, until Monsieur Coulou’s death. Ninon was not limited to this arrangement and soon added to it a second arrangement with Francois-Jacques comte d’Aubijoux who contributed to her coffers another 500 livres per month, leaving her comfortably well off.

  By the age of twenty-five Ninon could no longer be bought and sold and she chose her lovers from those she liked. When the very rich Marc-Antoine Perrachon gifted her with a house worth 8,000 ecrus, she shortly returned the gift when he felt it entitled him to intrusions she did not welcome. She moved house a second time, and then finally a third time, putting her adjacent to Palais Royal, ground zero for the who’s who of Parisian society. Her home at rue des Tournelles was by no means a sumptuous aristocratic townhouse, but more typical of the middle class bourgeoisie and the same maxim was at play in Ninon’s day as exists today; location, location, location. Ninon was rubbing elbows with royalty. What is today Place des Vosges was the place to be.

  Ninon’s modest apartments required only four servants: a cook, kitchen helper, valet and chambermaid. The small but elegant salon limited the number of guests to an intimate but meaningful gathering. She entertained with decorum the cream of court and town. An invitation to become one of the Les Oiseaux des Tournelles was quickly becoming the hottest ticket to be had.

  About Last Night

  Today was supposed to be Ninon’s day but then last night happened. I learned what it really takes to make a French friend(s)… Three bottles of champagne, and a little foie gras doesn’t hurt.

  Here I am, back at GCA my new writing café, and it’s packed. Poor Philippe is running around like a poulet sans tête. My usual writing table is occupied, but clever girl that I am, I have grabbed another that has not yet been cleaned off.

  Montmartre is nuts today. It’s three days after Christmas and the streets are mobbed; literally, the streets. The sidewalks are empty, as my Uber driver pointed out. Yet the tourists are strolling in the streets with no regard for cars. I guess I am considered a local now and my driver snarled “touristes!” and continued to speak to me in French.

  About last night…Stephanie suggested that Magalie, she and I meet for champagne at Le Terass at six pm. It was a dark and stormy night. I probed that we find a place indoors but they weren’t having it. It’s only a three block walk for me but by the time I arrived I was frozen. As luck would have it, there was a table in the inside bar. As even better luck would have it, by the time Magalie arrived, Stephanie and I had snagged an even better table inside and were comfortably ensconced with all of beautifully lit Paris laid out before us. By the time Lady Eiffel did her on the hour twinkly bit, we were well into our first bottle of bubbly.

  Stephanie has been a careful friend for several years. Maybe more. I say careful because she is my landlord. Every time I am in Paris, whether staying in my usual apartment or not, we get together for at least a drink, usually a meal. I am always sensitive to her budget because I suspect she doesn’t make a lot of money. I pay every time I can get away with it. We’ve talked about many things; careers, men, fashion, food, men, Paris, friends, restaurants, men. A couple of times I’ve tried to talk about politics to test Caroleen’s extreme pronouncements. But Stephanie usually shrugs, purses her lips and indicates she has nothing to say.

  The subject of men is our favorite. Let me go on record as saying I have immense respect for Stephanie. She is an independent woman who is adventurous, thoughtful, brave and won’t settle for less than she deserves. She loves dogs and has taken more than a few into her foster care until a good family could be found for them.

  The closest we have come to having real girlfriend talks has been on the subject of men. Stephanie takes an annual week long trip to Club Med in Turkey with a group of friends. The last two years she has met men she liked. She even returned to Paris with a small hope the relationship may endure when she came home.

  I’m curious why Stephanie has not met anyone she likes in Paris. She’s beautiful. She’s smart. She’s successful. Maybe it’s the line of work she is in. She works long hours and her contacts are usually clients (mostly foreigners), her cleaning staff, and her handyman. The handyman is a 70-year-old widow who gives her a good deal. She said the Telecom tech who came to fix her connection also gave her a good deal and offered her more services at her pleasure. She did not reciprocate the feelings.

  I on the other hand, who am dumpy and old and don’t zoom around Paris in high heels on a cute little yellow scooter seem to fall in love every other week since I hit this city.

  I have
always sensed a distance in Stephanie’s relationship with me, despite our man gossip. Last night it was confirmed. She slipped and said that I was a client.

  “Mais non! Nous sommes amies!”

  And then last night happened.

  I first met Magalie on Christmas Eve, when I had been invited to join Stephanie and her parents for a traditional family Christmas Eve dinner. At the last minute Magalie was also included.

  Stephanie knows Magalie tangentially through work. She manages a cleaning business that supports a large number of short term rental agencies. Magalie, like Stephanie, is the typical Parisienne beauty. Think: chicly dressed, hair carelessly pulled into a haphazard ponytail.

  The evening progressed completely in French. Stephanie’s parents speak no English and at this point I didn’t realize how very fluent in English Magalie was. The only English during the evening were Magalie’s frequent outbursts of “Fuck!” and “stop” which was the word used for the current foster pup, a badly behaved, wiry little thing given to climbing all over everyone. Evidently the dog is being trained to be bilingual; stop and descendre!

  After four or five hours of struggling to spend an evening all in French I realized one key truth about my future life in Paris. I was a completely different person in another language. I was not going to be clever or witty or interesting or amusing. It took every bit of energy I had to understand, translate in my head and respond. By the end of the evening, when I put on my coat and headed out into the cold night to climb all those Montmartre stairs to home, I was exhausted!

  So when Magalie breezed in to La Terrass and oohed and ahhed at that spectacular view and the three of us had toasted to our collective health, I discovered that she was completely fluent in English. I was delighted that the evening was able to flow in a joyous combination of French and English. I told the two that I was counting on their frank opinions about all things Parisian, men, women, life… And when Stephanie cautioned that I was her client, I put that notion to bed. No more. We are friends. We are past the client relationship! By the end of the second bottle of champagne, the question was completely drowned.

  Magalie told me about her year in Australia where she had an American boyfriend and learned to speak English. She told me about her time there working in restaurants (Double Bay – Double Pay!) and her time on a farm in the outback where she ate four avocados a day, and her time in Cairns where she met the American boyfriend.

  “If you want to learn a language,’’ she told me, ‘’ You must learn it in bed.”

  “But Stephanie told me I should take some classes!” I replied.

  “Alors! Bien, but then you must learn in bed!”

  Now I am very curious about what French I will learn in bed that I will not learn in class.

  Magalie also spent a year in Mexico and learned Spanish in bed. She has just broken up with her French boyfriend of half a dozen years with whom she lives. She wants to move out, but she can’t really afford to just now. She lives outside the Périphérique which requires three métro changes getting to and from work. She is waiting for the bank to tell her how much they would be willing to loan her so she can buy an apartment in the second arrondissement. Right now she’s guessing about three square meters worth.

  Her boyfriend, Jean-Claude, has an 11-year-old son by a woman with whom he lived for two years but never married. The boy spends every other week with JC and Magalie and treats Magalie very badly. Otherwise she would like to stay with JC but the boy is “le paille qui a cassé le dos du chameau” (the straw that broke the camel’s back). They just bought a bigger bed so in her opinion it’s really not a problem to continue to live and sleep together for the time being. The bed is so big they don’t ever touch each other.

  Over bottle number three we talked about whether Magalie’s relationship with JC is really over or is it redeemable? Afterall, a seven year investment was not a small thing. If he could successfully convince the kid to treat Magalie more respectfully, or maybe the kid could just go live full time with maman, the fancy black lady with the “googles” (sunglasses) and the attitude.

  By 11:00 pm the maître-d’ from the adjacent restaurant started bringing us food; savory choux, mixed nuts and then, foie gras. When the third bottle was upended in the ice bucket we were all besties and Magalie and I were Facebook friends. To toast our fast friendship, the Maitre-d’ brought us all a complimentary flute of more of the same.

  Parisians are known for long drawn out adieus. Not me. When I’m ready to go, I go. I popped up, put on my coat, hugs and bises all around. Then I cleverly made for the restaurant elevator while Stephanie and Magalie sauntered to the bar elevator.

  I walked up the hill in the cold Montmartre night, feeling warm in the confidence that I had broken the French girlfriend glass ceiling. All it took was three bottles of Moet and some good old HR skills.

  As for Philippe, today I got a friendly hello and handshake and initiated la bise, the very French kiss on both cheeks, or in the air near both cheeks, which he eagerly came in for. We had a rather long chat about our New Year’s plan, where was my family and then my retirement. When I left, I gave him a handshake and left him pining for la bise.

  Cold Feet

  Last night I had an attack of cold feet and such an overwhelming feeling of malaise. What the fuck am I doing?! I have given up an amazing job and a career that has been forty years in the making. Yes, it was part of the plan. And yes, I have spent the last three years preparing for this.

  What if I can’t write? What if I’m total crap at it? (Now playing, alongside the earlier tunes of What if my money doesn’t last? What If I’m just lonely all the time? What if I can never function in French? What the fuck am I doing?)

  The hangover from my attack of ennui kept me sulking around my apartment all morning and well into the afternoon. I couldn’t decide where I wanted to go or what I wanted to do. Shall I go write? Shall I go eat? Shall I go back to bed? In my self-critical self I think, good grief K, you are a fucking stalker. Besides, we’ve already discovered in the wee hours of the Paris night that you can’t write.

  Voila! My guardian angel, in the form of Izzypop on an internet message board: “Put your warm socks on, K. You’re in for a great adventure!

  So I jumped in the shower, letting the stream of hot water rinse away the negative thoughts as long as I dare, without risking no heat in the apartment for the evening. (I am not sure how they are connected, but they seem to be.)

  I texted Caroleen, “Are you working”. This was beyond taking backwards steps.

  “Oui” she texted back, “je suis dans le Quartier Latin - tu es aux Cépage? jq quelle heure?” (she never uses capital letters, and I have no idea what jq means but I get the rest)

  I respond: “Je suis chez moi. Je pensais y aller. Quel temps est bon pour vous? Ou un autre lieu?” At least if I’m going to backslide, let me do it in French! I put on my metaphoric warm socks and headed out into the rain in an Uber.

  I don’t know if I can write, but By God, I will write! 1,000 words a day. Crappy words. French words. Maybe even a few surprisingly brilliant bons mots. Let my story unfold. Let Ninon’s story unfold. It’s only one year.

  Two hundred and fifteen days I don’t have to commute. Six hundred and forty five hours not spent in my car. $2,400 worth of gasoline! One month’s rent! That makes me feel better. Maybe I won’t run out of money. Two hundred and fifteen terrible cafeteria lunches that will be replaced by French onion soup, moules frites, foie gras, lovely cheeses, truffles, and wine at lunch! (to lubricate the written word, of course!)

  And all the things I won’t have to do; listen to the whinging of CC and PK and countless others. I will never again have to deal with the spreadsheet from hell. Or to put up with JY’s temper tantrums. And never again have to endure the stink eye from my boss. No more flights from Hong Kong, Shanghai, Sydney or Berlin in coach. No more flying off (again i
n coach) to tell a dozen poor souls they are losing their jobs. No more jet lag.

  The Uber driver asks me in French if I’m on vacation. “Non!” I respond, “J’habite ici!” “But the restaurant where you are going is very touristy”. Really?

  Tuesday was congenial and seemed to be all locals. Thursday was packed and seem to be a mash of big groups of locals (office parties?) and various groups of tourists. It’s not a long walk from Sacré Coeur, up on the hill. It was busy all afternoon. Today was very quiet. Only a few tables, all speaking French. And no Philippe! So much for his pining away for my bise! New waiter; the other manager who is often there at night. Definitely not a tourist place. And it still feels like a good place to write.

  This is where I’ll put down les bons mots et les mauvais. After all, the enemy is not the badly written page; it’s the empty page.

  My old pal Hemingway said, “Never quit unless you know where your story is going next. It’s time to tell Ninon’s story.

  Go Out

  Go out… every day. Even if I have to force myself. Life happens outside of my apartment. Paris is out there. The Paris I adore. Not necessarily Paris of the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Seine. It’s the small neighborhoods, the regular Parisians who live and work and eat and shop and ride the bus. It’s the Uber drivers and the waiters and the ladies in the boulangerie who are gradually and perhaps grudgingly recognizing that I’m part of the neighborhood; the Pakistani girls at the G20, themselves immigrants to Paris who greet me and wish me une bonne journée, the interesting assortment of mecs who work at the boucherie who always treat me exactly as they do the old lady in front of me, buying small bits of everything, and the young mother behind me, keeping an eye on the baby in the stroller outside that won’t fit into the tiny shop.

  People coming to Paris want to know how they can live like a local. My neighborhood; my block, on rue Caulaincourt, between 41 and 70, is certainly the place to do that. And while the little Montmartre tourist train goes by my apartment several times a day it doesn’t stop. The number 80 bus stops. The locals get on and get off, always greeted with a bonjour from the driver.