Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir

by Katherine Watt

  It was another hot, quiet August day. Not much was opened in the neighborhood, or any neighborhood. The restaurant was mostly empty with just a middle aged couple sitting at the bar and an occasional tourist taking a seat on the terrace. Things were a little out of whack. Philippe wasn’t there when I arrived but the unfriendly, part-time manager was working. And Guillaume was working, even though it was too early for him. The couple at the bar kept looking at me. I got the distinct feeling that they knew something about me but I had never seen them. Kind of like Aimee and her sisters, everyone seems to know something about the American girl who writes at GCA. It all felt upside down and weird.

  I may be reading way too much into this but this part-time manager gives me a very strange vibe. He seems to look at me in a way that says “I know what you’re up to and I don’t like it. If there is anything at all I can do about it I will stop it.” As if he’s protecting Philippe against me. Protecting him for someone else. Maybe the blonde? He seems to have the same, maybe even stronger relationship with her that Philippe has.

  After a short bit Philippe came into the dining room. Where did he come from? From outside? Or just from his office upstairs? I didn’t notice. He came to me right away and gave me kisses on both cheeks. How was I? Did I need his inspiration? I was distracted, lost in Paris of the 1600s. It took me a bit to realize he was standing in front of me and asking me questions. And there was a new twinkle in his eye. He was looking at me like I was someone special. And I was lost in Ninon’s world. The couple at the bar glared at me. The part-time manager gave me side eye.

  When I left I felt different. I can’t really say why. I just felt like he knew. He knew that he felt the same way.

  I went home and pulled my shell around me. I spent two entire days watching Netflix. I watched every movie that Netflix recommended when I searched “Hugh Grant”. I watched a ridiculous number of love stories. Of course they all had happy endings. I mourned my own personal absence of a happy ending. I descended into a gloomy bad feeling about my own lot in life.

  I’m struggling with Ninon. I don’t feel like I really know her. There are so many contradictions. Her epicureanism. Maybe I don’t really understand epicureanism. Today when you say the word people think “ah, you want to eat good food and drink good wine.”

  Let’s revisit Epicurus’s own words:

  “When we say… that pleasure is the end and aim, we do not mean the pleasures of the prodigal or the pleasures of sensuality, as we are understood by some through ignorance, prejudice or wilful misrepresentation. By pleasure we mean the absence of pain in the body and of trouble in the soul. It is not by an unbroken succession of drinking bouts and of revelry, not by sexual lust, nor the enjoyment of fish and other delicacies of a luxurious table, which produce a pleasant life; it is sober reasoning, searching out the grounds of every choice and avoidance, and banishing those beliefs through which the greatest tumults take possession of the soul.”

  Absence of pain in the body and trouble in the soul. Sober reasoning. Searching out the grounds of every choice and avoidance and banishing those beliefs through which the greatest tumults take possession of the soul.

  It feels very elusive. What does that mean in my own life? How do I insure against absence of pain and trouble in my soul? How do I exorcise those tumults that tend to take possession of my own soul?

  But Ninon was also given to distractions of the heart. She fell in love quickly and often. And it seems like she also fell out of love as quickly and as often. This coupled with her intelligence, her cleverness, her ability to share her philosophy both in writing and in person, were her legacy. She was clearly special, standing above all other women, not because she was more beautiful than other women, although she was, and not because she was more educated, although she was, but because she had something no one else had, neither women nor men.

  And then there was the whole friendship thing. Friendship was said to mean more to Ninon than all else. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for a friend. I have read story after story of times when Ninon came through for a friend.

  So what is bothering me? I just don’t feel like I know her. For all the stories I have read, both about her and in her own words, I just don’t feel like I know who Ninon was. When I took my deep dive into all things Hemingway, I felt like I really knew the man. I didn’t particularly like him. But I felt like I could see him; the stubble on his cheeks, the boozy but searching look in his eyes, his belly not quite covered by the ratty shirt not quite tucked into the belt of his pants, that don’t quite fit right. I could see the dirt under his fingernails, the cigar ash in his beard, smell his boozy breath and not so fresh body odor. I could see him looking through me, deciding that I wasn’t worth his notice.

  Ninon would not have looked through me. I think she would have looked at me, into me, wanting to know what I needed. How can she help me? I think that Ninon can help me. I think she was put in front of me at this time, in this place, to help me get through this challenge. To learn to love. All I have to do is open myself to her. To hear her lesson. It’s not too late. And if I don’t listen, I will not love in this life.

  The old me would seduce the part-time manager who doesn’t like me and hate myself in the process. The old me would give Philippe away to one of my friends What will the new me do?

  Caroleen Strikes Again

  Stephanie texted me: “Going to be in the neighborhood to greet some new clients. Would you like to meet at Cépage for a coffee at 10:30?” I haven’t seen Stephanie in a few weeks. It would be good to catch up.

  It was a perfect morning. Although two weeks remained to August, and September’s Indian summer loomed a long time off, the weather had cooled down by a lot and some trees were beginning to turn gold. It was warm enough to wear short sleeves and enjoy the terrace. Signs of life had started to pop up; cleaners and painters freshening up the restaurants that had been closed for the past three weeks. The butcher was open and chickens turned on the rotisserie, dripping their juices on the baby potatoes below. The realtors office was open and I saw a “Vendu” sign on an apartment above. I didn’t even know it was “A Vendre”! It fits the profile of what I was looking for a year ago; “on rue Caulaincourt, entre numero 55 et 65, face à la rue, sur la deuxième étage ou plus” While I have decided that I dodged a bullet by not being able to buy an apartment, I would have liked to take a look at it.

  I arrived at Cépage and carefully snuck a peek to see if Caroleen was around. Not inside; not outside. I took a seat outside. Laurent greeted me with a hearty handshake and looked at his watch. “Un peu tôt!”

  “Oui, j’attends une amie.” I told him. I’m waiting for a friend. I ordered a café and a croissant.

  Stephanie arrived and I introduced her to Laurent. It’s good for these people to know I have other friends, in case Caroleen has been talking to them. For now I seem reasonably welcome.

  “I’m a bit nervous about coming here,” I confided to Stephanie and told her about the nasty Instagram post. She looked appropriately shocked and tisked in that French way she does. Then she leaned in to confide something to me.

  “I have to tell you something.” she said conspiratorially. Her face took on a look of dread seriousness and she leaned closer. “About four months ago, I received an anonymous letter that said horrible things about you.”

  I was at a complete loss for words.

  “I shared it with Magalie because I didn’t know what to do. We decided that it would be best not to tell you about it. We didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  “What? What did it say?”

  “That you were a very bad person and that I should not rent to you. That before long you would sue me. That you were evil and you should leave France and go back to California to your family.”

  I suspect there may have been more to it but that’s the gist of what she told me.

  “Was it in Engl
ish or French?”

  “English. It had to be her. But at the time I had no idea about any of this.”

  I just stared at Stephanie, a little baffled. Four months ago. I was still in the other apartment. I hadn’t poked the hornets’ nest. I hadn’t accosted her. I completely avoided Cépage for at least a month after “le divorce”. The only thing even slightly confrontational I had done to her was ignoring her. My mind quickly raced through all of the people who could possibly want to write such a letter. Who could have been even slightly annoyed with me and want to do such a thing. It was a quick race because there was nobody! It would be simple enough for Caroleen to figure out who to write the letter to. I probably had told her myself. For that matter, I might have even introduced her to Stephanie. But why? There is no conceivable why. I looked behind me into the restaurant at the banquet she normally lays claim to. Nobody is there.

  I spent the rest of the day not able to stop thinking about it. She’s crazy! I certainly am off the hook for my going low and posting that she was crazy on Facebook. Her disparagement proceeded mine by months! How can I go back to Cépage? How can I walk down the street? What if I see her?

  And then I slept on it. And again. And then I realized. What would Ninon do? Ninon wouldn’t post the really disgusting picture I have of her slurping oysters. I won’t post the photo either. But I won’t delete it. And I’m not going to give her Cépage. I’m not going to give her another thought from this moment on. I win.

  Une Petite Soirée

  Well, maybe not so fast! I read the letter. And I cannot get it out of my head. Try as I might to be like Ninon, the old 13 year old me keeps creeping back in. This is all so junior high school.

  Magalie and Stephanie came for apéro. As it was my first time entertaining the two chez moi, I wanted to put my best foot forward. Fortunately the cheesemonger returned from les vacances the day before and I filled in with wine and champagne from Le Franprix. I arranged what was later declared to be an impressive cheese board with some sliced meats, vegetables and olives and put out champagne glasses, wine glasses and glasses for the stuff that makes their teeth green to finish off the night.

  The girls arrived right on time with Bob the dog. Bob, being a not particularly well trained puppy went right for the cheese board.

  “Woah!” everyone cried out in unison and I moved the cheese board up to the kitchen counter until the dog calmed down. We opened the first bottle of champagne, poured glasses all around and toasted our friendship.

  It was only minutes before Magalie launched into the hot topic of the letter. She wanted to dig deeper. Why would anyone say these things about me? I am such a lovely person. She needed to hear the entire story. She refused to let me spare any detail. At this point I had frankly gotten a bit bored with it all and particularly bored and disappointed in myself for being so obsessed by it all.

  “I think I have the letter on my phone,” she said. Scroll, scroll, scroll… there it was.

  Essentially it was just a bunch of inane nonsense. Lots about my size and how much I eat and my belonging to some sort of dining club. I’m so unhealthy I can barely walk ten steps without sitting down. (By that I must have to take at least five breaks walking to Cépage). The sum of that was it would be dangerous to rent to me because I cannot possibly be healthy and something will happen which, me being American, I will surely sue Stephanie. There was more about me making friends in five minutes and then the friendships turning into drama.

  So there, when I write it all down, it seems like really much ado about nothing. Clearly what bothers me most is her nasty remarks about my size, not nearly as obnoxiously stated as me being a grotesque fat fuck, but also just hitting bang on my preteen insecurities. Good God! I spent the last dozen years as a highly successful executive of a billion dollar high tech company. I traveled the world visiting embassies, consulates, government officials and empowering women in developing nations. I influenced and advised very respected business leaders. I was the keynote speaker at a China Engineering Conference! And I successfully retired in Paris. How can one stinking anonymous letter from a clear crackpot upset me so much? Why is she so vile and fixated on my being in Paris? Is it because I do have friends? Because I am invited to dine with a lovely group of expats on a regular basis? Or is it because, like my daughter said, I called her on her bigotry and prejudice? I don’t know if you can call someone on something they don’t know they are.

  Jesus Christ, what am I doing, rattling off my accomplishments like some insecure idiot? Caroleen has turned me into my thirteen year old self; Bucky Beaver, taunted by the likes of Kevin Kelly on Mellus Street. I haven’t thought about this old stuff for decades.

  “Well, I think I am grateful to her!” I say, bolstered by alcohol. “She has helped me get closer to my character.”

  They both looked at me completely baffled.

  “I’ve been struggling to know Ninon. And this has helped me a lot. After many frustrated and cranky nights and days thinking about this, I realized that I need to think more like Ninon.” I continued, “You can’t be famous without your detractors. Of course, I don’t think I’m famous. But you can’t have any level of notoriety without having some people not like you. For example, for all my success at work, there were definitely people who didn’t like me. The number wasn’t large, thankfully, but people who were on the losing end of my policies and my decisions were not big fans.

  “For whatever reason, Caroleen hates me. Think of all the people who must have been intensely jealous of Ninon. Who hated her. The Queen, Anne of Austria, hated her so much she banned her to a convent. She was rescued by her Oiseaux.” I refilled my glasses and the girls. “Caroleen tried to ban me from Paris! And I was rescued by Stephanie!”

  OK it was a stretch but it was time to talk about something else. So we did. Vacations in Italy, Vacations in the US. Sex clubs in Paris. Our boozy apéro goes on late into the night, consuming multiple bottles of champagne, a bottle of wine and a good part of the Get 77 and cognac. The girls go off into the night with Bob and I go into my room where I find a chewed up slipper and a puddle of dog pee on my bedroom floor. I think that was Bob’s last apéro chez moi.

  I drag myself out of bed, wicked tired because I slept very poorly and spent the night pondering the letter. It’s still August and after what has been declared the hottest summer on record Montmartre feels like Autumn. The one tree in front of my apartment window, the one I am calling the canary in the coal mine, has lost two thirds of its golden leaves. The rest of the trees are still green but I know they’ll be following soon. It’s not cold enough for the coats many Parisians are sporting but it’s also too cold for the sleeveless outfits I’ve been wearing since I returned from California in June. I opted for a light sweater over my regular slacks and threw an umbrella in my computer bag and headed out for lunch and a writing session.

  Cépage is clearly the easiest and cheapest option. Barely 100 steps from home and with its daily l’ardoise that promises an under twelve euro lunch, it’s terribly convenient and comfortable. The staff is lovely to me and while it lacks the beau Philippe, I somehow feel that my future with Philippe will be a little enhanced by a bit of absence on my part. (Does absence really make the heart grow fonder? Or is out of sight, out of mind?)

  I entered Cépage quietly, looked around the busy restaurant and saw she wasn’t here. So I took a seat on the banquet that she doesn’t usually sit on. A man was sitting in her normal place. The pretty young Asian girl greeted me and asked if I wanted lunch, the one that Caroleen insisted the manager fire months ago when she refused to let her off the hook for her café crème when she realized she was a few euros short. Figuring that the girl couldn’t possibly like Caroleen I confided that I was checking to see if “mon ennemi” was here. “Elle me deteste” I told her, she hates me.

  “Pourquoi?” she asked, interested in this bit of gossip.

  “Je ne sais pas
?” I told her that she had written a letter to my landlord saying that I was evil and that she should not rent to me.

  “I don’t like her either.” she said, conspiratorially.

  I pulled out my book and started reading while I waited for my lunch to arrive. I was eating my lovely tagliatelles au bleu when Caroleen and her husband walked in. Being absorbed in my book, I didn’t notice it was her that walked in front of me until I looked up to see who grunted and caught sight of her husband behind her. Ha! Her entire banquet was full. They had to resort to sitting outside.

  I kept my nose in my book and the waitress came over and whispered “She’s here!”

  “I know” I said.

  “Maybe do you think she is jealous?” she asked.

  “Of what?!”

  Garron went to take their order. First he shook her hand, and then she pulled him in for la bise. Strange. I’ve never seen her la bise any of the Cépage’s servers. Garron has just returned from a few months absence. He may be the only one of the staff that doesn’t dislike her. Other than the owner, who she insists wants to sleep with her.

  Caroleen is dressed in a wool coat with a scarf wrapped around her neck. Her finger combed hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and there’s a comb stuck in randomly. She and F read their individual newspapers, talk on their individual cell phones and drink their coffees. After a short time F leaves and she sits alone. I assume she’s waiting for her regular table to become available but eventually she asks for a menu and orders something to eat and a glass of wine. It must be driving her crazy that she has to sit outside in the freezing cold 68 degree weather while I’m inside working on my computer.