Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir

by Katherine Watt

  Ninon had become, through this travesty, the acknowledged guide and leader and everyone in Paris submitted to her influence without envy or jealousy. Ninon was at the top of her game and nobody but nobody questioned her authority.

  Francais

  As I work on learning French I become increasingly baffled and increasingly interested in how the language evolved and continues to develop as new words are introduced. L’Académie française is the French council that determines all things related to language. First established by Cardinal Richelieu in the sixteen hundreds, (that man had his fingers in a lot of pies), it exists with many of the same conventions and habits from over four hundred years ago.

  The council is protective and has rigid laws pertaining to and preventing anglicisms sneaking into the French language. The forty member council, known as Les Immortals will spend days arguing over an appropriate French word for “hashtag”. They came up with mot diese. Translated in English, that would be “harsh word”

  I guess these guys are also the culprits for determining whether a noun is masculine or feminine. This is totally mind boggling to me! There seems to be little rhyme or reason as to which gender is assigned to a specific word. And yet, of course, the other parts of the sentence all reflect the gender of the noun, so if you get it wrong… I am always being corrected by someone. “Un Oeuf!” Really? And egg is masculine? Une carafe! “That’s how I knew your French was not so good!”

  Le visage (the face) masculine

  La bouche (the mouth) feminine

  Un oeil (an eye) masculine

  Le nez (the nose) masculine

  Le menton (the chin) masculine

  La joue (the cheek) feminine

  Le front (the forehead) masculine

  Why are the mouth and the cheek feminine but the rest of the face masculine?

  La langue (the tongue) feminine

  Is there some kind of trend or methodology here?

  The chest (la poitrine) is feminine, but breast (le sein) is masculine!

  A storm is feminine. Thunder is masculine. Lightning is feminine. A heatwave is feminine.

  The Transmigration of Souls

  A belief held by two thirds of the human race.

  “Has it occurred to you that transmigration is at once an explanation and a justification of the evil of the world? If the evils we suffer are the result of sins committed in our past lives we can bear them with resignation and hope that if in this one we strive toward virtue our future lives will be less afflicted. But it’s easy enough to bear our own evils, all we need for that is a little manliness; what’s intolerable is the evil, often so unmerited in appearance, that befalls others. If you can persuade yourself that it is the inevitable result of the past you may pity, you may do what you can to alleviate, and you should, but you have no cause to be indignant.”

  Somerset Maugham, The Razor’s Edge

  School Yard Fights

  When I was thirteen years old I had my one and only schoolyard fight. It actually was not in a school yard but on a dirt road that served as a fire access road that we used as a shortcut to walk home from school. My family just moved into town, from the poor track where we had lived for the last ten years. It was a major move for us. Upward mobility! Now we got to walk home from school, the town’s Catholic School.

  The house around the corner from the shortcut was a massive Victorian, kind of falling apart. It sat on a big corner lot and had a wrap around porch. At one time it must have been rather grand. Those days it was pretty trashy. As was the family who lived in it. There were, as in most families in town in those days, a bunch of kids, mostly nondescript. It was hard to tell one kid from another. And that was particularly true of the two girls my age; twins, Arlene and Marlene.

  For some reason they decided that these new Catholic kids would not be allowed to pass their ratty house nor get to the shortcut. The ultimate result was a big neighborhood brawl with my brother and sisters and all our neighborhood friends coming to the support of me, and the big family of ne’er do wells, far more experienced in the ways of hand to hand combat, coming to fisticuffs in the short cut.

  Long story short, our neighborhood shockingly won. There was something about dirty fighting and Arlene getting punched in her boob which was probably going to halt its growth forever. But we had established dominance of the shortcut and while I was still a bit terrified when I rounded the corner and saw that big house, all future trouble from the twins came in the form of verbal taunts. I shortly found a different route and skipped the shortcut and their block altogether.

  There followed decades of only peaceful behavior on my part (although I can’t say the same about my siblings). Until now. I had my second school yard brawl. This time the Social Network was the battle ground. I kicked the hornet’s nest and the hornet came out ready to sting.

  Nearly every day I posted on my Facebook page an update of my writing progress, often with a picture of my lunch and my laptop. It helps me feel connected to friends and family across the ocean, and judging from their feedback, they enjoy it as well. Crazy Caroleen doesn’t have a Facebook account. She doesn’t believe in Facebook. She thinks people are stalking her; her insane mother, her evil sister, her greedy thieving nephew, and don’t even get started on her husband’s relatives. She does however post a nearly daily photo depicting her fabulous Paris life on Instagram, complete with fifty ridiculous hashtags (mots dieses); #bistrochairs #parisbistro #pariscafe #montmartrelife #igersparis #aperitif #apero #peoplewatching#streetstyle #frenchwomennevergetfat #imsofabulous #livingoffotherpeoplesmoney #youdbestupidtobelieveanythingisay #dontyouwishyouwereme #blahblahblahblah…

  After the divorce Caroleen blocked me from her Instagram page so I frankly have no idea what she posts anymore. But I had a sneaking suspicion that she still takes a peek at mine, and that she probably looks at my Facebook page as well. So after the lunch at Cépage last week I went low. Yes, I went low. It was beneath my dignity. And the hornet stung me.

  On my daily lunch post I said something about “working at Cépage and Crazy Caroleen was there, nursing her one café crème for hours on end as she used their wifi and power”. I also posted the waiters admonition that when I’m eating, I should be eating; when I’m working, work. And a picture of my magret de canard.

  It took less than eight hours for the post to show up on my own Instagram account from a newly created account. “You sure eat a lot. One of your Facebook friends did a screenshot of your post and sent it to Caroleen! Do you know that it’s illegal to try to destroy the reputation of a good person? We are looking into legal action. You are a Grotesque Fat Fuck!”

  Ouch. The sting got to me. Those three words played again and again in my head. While I would like to say it had no impact on me at all, it sadly did. Not the threat of legal action. That’s silly. And to be honest, the grotesque fat fuck comment faded and felt more like a sad attempt to sting that wasn’t very creative. But it totally ruined my ability to use Cépage for a writing venue. There is no way I can go there and take the chance of running into either her or her horrible husband. Cépage! One hundred easy steps from my front door! For that matter, I’m not even sure I want to run the risk of running into her at Les Loups. Or Le Café de La Butte. My entire neighborhood (where she doesn’t even live) is ruined! I’ve given up the shortcut! After all of these decades. I should never have posted what I did. I went low and I lost.

  I deleted the post and posted my own. “Nice try. I knew you were looking.” Trying to grab back a little control. But after my excitement about getting back Cépage, whether she was there or not, I lost it again.

  What would Ninon do?

  Progress

  I came to GCA to write today. What can I do? I can’t go to Cépage. It’s some kind of holiday and Philippe is standing on the corner out front. Waiting for me? He greets me with la bise when I get out of the cab and complains that the re
staurant is empty. All of Paris is en vacances. It’s true! Nobody around but tourists. (How quickly I have come to eschew tourists.)

  He sets me up with two tables; one for my beverages, the other for my work stuff. Did he see that on Facebook? The guys at Cépage do that for me. Or at least they used to, when I could still go there. He’s never done it. Maybe it’s just because there is nobody else in the restaurant.

  He talks about inspiration and some other things I don’t understand at all. I tell him that he is my inspiration; his singing and his dancing. He sings and dances for me. I showed him the progress of my book so far; 130 pages. He’s surprised! What does he think I’ve been doing all of this time?

  “So, 250 pages total?” he asks.

  “Nooooo, probably at least 400.” I say. He pantomimes a fat book. I laugh. I don’t think Philippe is much of a reader. I’m quite certain he doesn’t read English. There’s little concern he’ll read my book.

  “A best seller!” he declares.

  He has a lot of confidence in me. And he’s proud of his contribution to the arts.

  A very pretty girl in very short shorts comes in looking for the toilettes. He points the direction. She heads off up the steps. He doesn’t even look. Saturday the new waiter told me “I like you.” A while later he confided, “I would like to go out with you.” “I only have eyes for Philippe.” I told him. His eyes got big as saucers. As the afternoon wore on Philippe was clearly not happy with him. He probably asked out all of the female clients. Philippe scowled at me. I said “Another one bites the dust.” He did that thing French men do with their mouths and indicated that I was right.

  He’s an odd duck. So why am I so interested in this odd duck?

  Marquis de la Chatre - called away by duty

  “Have no scruples about the quantity of your pleasures, but only of their quality.” Ninon’s father’s last words.

  It was hot in Paris. Hot like it can only be hot in Paris; sticky, stinky, cloying hot. Ninon was in her apartments, tempted to throw open all of the windows to allow in some fresh air, but the air outside was anything but fresh. The waves of the glass panes in the windows barely concealed the waves of steam rising from the cobbles, a combination of heat, horse leavings, the evaporating rivulets of effluence tossed from the windows of the neighboring apartments, and other piles of detritus. It was days like this one could only wish to be elsewhere; anywhere other than Paris.

  Ninon gazed in her dressing table mirror. She mopped the perspiration from her forehead and powdered her face. She briefly wished she were going with Chatre. She had allowed him to occupy her boudoir longer than most. She had developed a great affection for him. He was clever and handsome and funny and the art of love making seemed to come instinctively to him. She was actually very sad to see him leaving. However he was being called to his family estate in Provence to deal with a matter of utmost urgency.

  Provence. Oh that sounded almost heavenly. Yes, it was hot there as well. But certainly the air was fresher, if for no reason than there was more of it. More trees. More rivers. More fields of glorious sunflowers and lavender and wide open greenery. Cicadas rather than street traffic and neighborhood squalling provided the background music. One could go days without seeing people other than those in your own employ. And while the horses still shit and people still tossed out their personal refuse, there was more space for it to be absorbed. More air to breathe.

  But it was not to be. Ninon had matters of her own that demanded her attention; her salon had become so popular that it was now a nightly event, the biggest event in the City these days. De la Chatre may be gone for months and she could simply not be absent for such a duration. Months! She exhaled deeply and went back to her toilet. He would be here soon and she wanted to be at her best.

  “Madame”, her maid interrupted her deep thoughts. “Monsieur la Chatre is in the salon.”

  “Merci” Ninon responded. “Please offer him un verre and tell him I will be with him shortly.”

  Ninon knew that although she was not ready to end it with la Chatre, naturally, it would be necessary to bring this to a close. She was not want to go without a lover for weeks, certainly not the months la Chatre was expecting to be gone. She took a deep breath, applied a dab of scent just above her bodice and rose to meet her lover.

  La Chatre jumped up from his seat when Ninon entered the salon. “My beloved!” He moved toward her to take her into his arms. Ninon moved instead toward the window, considering for one moment opening it to relieve the oppressiveness of the heat of the still stuffy room. Looking on the cobbles below made her realize the folly of that idea. She allowed la Chatre to grab her hand and bring it to his lips.

  “I am most devastated that I find it impossible not to leave you now. How can I go?”

  Ninon pulled away. Her lover was certainly better than most, fastidious about his wardrobe and personal cleanliness, but it was impossible to come from the streets of Paris without some of the fetid atmosphere clinging to one’s garments.

  Having been outside all day, La Chatre had become desensitized to his own state and completely misinterpreted Ninon’s distancing herself. He felt that she had begun the process of separation before he had even left! His entire aspect deflated as if the air had been let out of his body.

  “Alas my darling, the love you inspire in others is very different from the love you feel. You will always be in my heart, and absence will be a new fire to consume me.”

  Ninon clutched a scented lace handkerchief and took a long sniff of it. Lowering it to her side she moved closer to la Chatre and allowed him to pull her close.

  He continued, “To you, absence is the end of affection. Every object I imagine I see around you will be odious to me, but to you they will be fascinating.”

  Ninon could not deny this logic. Her history certainly proved that this was likely to be true. But she still loved La Chatre and wanted to put him at ease.

  “Mon cher,” she protested, “why must you assume that your absence will lessen my love for you? Can you think so little of me? To believe that my ardor will be diminished by your absence? Please have some faith in me; in our love for each other.” Ninon took two steps, distancing herself just a little and raising the handkerchief to her face again.

  “My love for you will certainly endure this brief separation. You can be sure of my fidelity and know that I will think only of your return.”

  This conversation went on for an hour; La Chatre expressing his fear that his beloved would forget him; Ninon protesting and pledging her constancy to her lover. Finally La Chatre had a bizarre idea but became fixated on it. He asked Ninon to commit a pledge of fidelity in writing!

  “If you will do a thing, you will stand to it.” he exclaimed! “What will tend to quiet my mind and remove my fears ought to be your duty to accept because my happiness is involved and that is more to you than love. It is your own philosophy. I want you to put in writing that you will remain faithful to me and maintain the most inviolable fidelity.”

  Ninon became completely exasperated. “Such a thing is just too bizarre!”

  But her lover became increasingly obstinate and refused to leave. “Let me dictate the document!”

  Ninon was becoming exhausted by this debate. There was no other way to draw this to a conclusion. “D’accord,” she sighed. “Tell me what you would have me write.”

  And with that la Chatre dictated a most strongly worded vow, using the most sacred of terms, almost like a wedding vow. And Ninon, knowing that there was no way to get her lover to leave, and feeling decidedly less in love with him by the moment, signed the crazy document.

  With that, the Marquis took Ninon into his arms for one last passionate kiss and confidently headed off to the South, to do his business.

  Of course there was a line of suitors waiting their opportunity to become the next of Ninon’s lovers. Within two days she
was won over by the pretty words of one who was certain that he was the next worthy candidate.

  For two days the rain had fallen, relieving the City of its crippling heat and washing, if only temporarily, the streets of the grime and grit and stink and mess. Ninon had been able to throw open all of her windows and expunge the fetid, stuffy air of her rooms. Paris seemed fresh and clean.

  Two days later, she gave in to a new lover. “Ah Ah le bon billet qu’a la Chatre!” (Oh the fine bond that la Chatre has) repeated breathlessly three times.

  Monsieur Chapelle - A love denied

  Voltaire’s Comedy of the Prude (act I scene III)

  Il ne font pas qu’on s’étonne

  Si souvent elle raisonne

  De la sublime vertu

  Dont Planton fit reveti

  Car compter son age

  Elle peut avoir vecu

  Avec ce grand personnage

  Let no one be surprised

  If she should be advised

  Of the virtue most renowned

  In Plato to be found

  For, counting up her age

  She lived ‘tis reason sound

  With that great personage.

  Ninon on “Amour”

  Love is merely a taste founded upon the senses, a blind sentiment, which admits no merit in the object which gives it birth, and which promises no recompense; a caprice, the duration of which does not depend upon our volition, and which is subject to remorse and repentance.

  I Suck at Being in Love

  Before I said I suck at Seduction. I may suck even more at being in love.

  Somehow I ended up in a bit of a funk. I’m not really sure why. My writing session at GCA at the beginning of the week went well. Well, it went well from a personal perspective. Maybe a little less well from a writing perspective. But I felt very much like something different clicked with Philippe.