Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir

by Katherine Watt

  Finally after a couple of turns we found Zo, a charming French restaurant with Asian influences. It was absolutely bustling for a Monday night. We seemed to be the only English speakers. A long table of some two dozen people lined one end of the room; someone’s birthday. Other diners were in twos and threes. It was more sophisticated than the jazz dinner that I shared with the couple a few nights earlier but these were people who were comfortable in any environment and with any caliber of people. We carried on our comfortable conversation for hours over bottles of Chardonnay, tapas and teriyaki salmon.

  Reluctantly we made our way out into the fall night and walked arm in arm in arm along the cobbles towards a street busy enough for me to find a taxi back home. Although we were only friends for five short days, we felt like lifelong buddies. True aficionados of all things Parisian, I will be as sad as they are when the wheels go up on the plane taking them back to California on Friday.

  Coffee and a Cigarette

  He came in the restaurant briefly to pick up a newspaper. Then he sat at one of the small café tables outside, just beyond the window from where I was sitting. Handsome face, salt and pepper grey hair - a lot of it. That two day stubble that French men all seem to have (except Philippe who is always very cleanly shaven). He orders a coffee and while he waits for it he lights a Gitane. He’s wearing a sharp looking fleece pullover with a violet scarf wrapped around his neck and carefully tucked into the neckline of the pullover.

  For quite a while he just sipped his coffee and smoked his cigarette and gazed at the street. What was he thinking about, this very French specimen of a man? He has taken far more sips of that tiny cup of coffee than I would ever manage to find in an espresso. Is he just touching his lips to the hot liquid? He tilts his head back toward the sun and blows out five bursts of smoke. His cigarette has burned down nearly to his finger tips. Another sip.

  He stubs out the cigarette and finishes the coffee. He closes his eyes and lets the sun settle on his face. Perfectly still for a few moments until he puts his elbow on the table and rests his face in his palm. A brief nap? A moment of meditation? He nods as if answering someone. The conversation in his head?

  I remember sitting in this same seat at GCA, watching a silent snowfall just a few short months ago. Now Fall is here and the weather is crisp and every good Frenchman is wearing a scarf. The days of La Canicule and short shorts and bare skin are past. Soon it will be cold and wet and the days will be very short. Everyone will be in puffy coats and boots with big wool scarves wrapped around their necks and faces.

  But for now he sits on the terrace with the sun on his face and the internal dialog, whatever it is, running through his head.

  Understanding Ninon

  I’m sitting in GCA on a Friday afternoon, eating an amazing serving of moules frites in the best marinière sauce ever (it’s all I can do not to pick up the bowl and slurp the remaining sauce right from the bowl when every last moule has been devoured), drinking a good Côtes du Rhône and watching Philippe sing and dance around the restaurant. And between slurps, sips and sighs, I am reading Ninon’s letters to the Maquis.

  “Do you know, Maquis, that you will end by putting me into a temper?” Ninon writes. “Heavens, how very stupid you are sometimes!”

  I wish that I could read the Maquis’ letter. What could cause such an outburst?

  Is the Maquis truly obtuse or is he egging Ninon on?

  “What is the destiny of women?” Ninon asks. “What is their role on earth? Is it to please? Now a charming figure, personal graces, in a word, all the amiable and brilliant qualities are the only means of succeeding in that role.”

  No wonder Ninon has declared herself to be a man.

  Later I sit in my Paris apartment watching the Senate Committee hearing preceding the vote to confirm Brett Kavanaugh as the latest Supreme Court justice. Accused of attempted rape and drunken behavior he simply refuses to answer direct questions. He whimpers. He blusters. He shouts. He pouts. The comparisons and contrasts cannot elude me.

  What is the role of women on earth? Is it different in France than in the US? Is it so very different from the role of men on earth? If, in fact, it is as Ninon contends to please, charm and be amiable, I agree. Would I rather be a man. I enjoy being a woman. But at times it may seem less than desirable. Today there is an emerging philosophy regarding gender. One can freely decide to be gender fluid, gender queer or non-binary. How would Ninon have responded to these options? For my part, I’m definitely a woman who loves men. But I’ve always thought there was a great advantage to be able to think a bit like a man. It’s a bit like eavesdropping on a conversation that’s spoken in a language that nobody thinks you speak.

  Relishing the sensation of enjoying happiness

  or

  Voulez vous coucher avec moi

  Ce sois….. I’m sitting in GCA with the intention of writing. Actually, nothing seems to be happening. Same place, same time, but I’m not feeling very inspired. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe I’m burned out from all of the recent visitors to Paris. I’m re-reading Ninon’s letters to the Maquis; still struggling to get a deeper sense of who she is. These are her very words (albeit translated into English by a middle voice). Yet she still eludes me.

  I sink back into my seat and take a long breath, not only of oxygen but of everything around me. At first I closed my book and ate my salad with intention. Endive, blue cheese and walnuts. I focused on the flavors and textures of my meal; distinctly salty and slightly bitter the creamy blue cheese took the front stage, dominating as it coated the chopped bases and also bitter solid chunks of endive. The sweet, buttery walnuts perfectly balanced this combination. I focused on noticing the flavor of every bite until I got a little bored and found myself looking at my phone.

  Stop. What else is going on around me? Philippe is humming and singing snippets of the songs on the sound system. Today he seems to have chosen a black soul genre. “Stand by me”, Philippe sings. I slipped in awhile earlier when he was busy and helped myself to a seat in the back of the restaurant, facing rue Gérando. Soon he noticed me and came over to plant bises on my cheeks.

  It’s cold outside, Fall has definitely arrived in Paris. Nobody is sitting on the terrace and the restaurant is fuller than normal. In twos, threes and fours, customers are convivially eating, drinking and chatting. It feels good. The familiarity of the scene outside, rue Gérando as the seasons continue to march on. Last week, the young mec sat outside with a cigarette in the sunshine. Today, everyone, myself included, wears a scarf and I see my first puffy coats. People walk more briskly. Where not so long ago the window of the consignment shop across the street displayed mannequins in sportswear and shorts, today they are wearing coats, scarves and hats. Berets actually. I’ve never seen an actual French person wearing a beret; only tourists. Philippe is wearing his navy pull over, which he hasn’t worn in months, since a false Spring presented itself and he seemed to think he could hasten his beloved summer if he dressed accordingly.

  “Mrs. Jones... every day in the same café…” Philippe whistles along. Does he understand the words to the songs he whistles?

  None of this is getting me any closer to Ninon… or Philippe!

  Ninon says, “Love is a passion which is neither good nor bad of itself; it is only those who are affected by it that determines whether it is good or bad…. it drags us out of the rut. It stirs us up.”

  There! That is precisely what Paris has done to me with all of these crazy infatuations! Stéphane, Daniele, Thierry, Philippe… I have been dragged out of my rut, a long rut of more than a decade, and it has completely stirred me up. It’s as if my nerves are always on their ends. Everything tastes better. Music sounds like it’s talking to me. Even the changing leaves on the trees have an urgency in them; reminding me always of the passage of time.

  “Voulez vous coucher avec moi…..” Philippe is whistling and doing his little dance. It’
s just a bit too much for me. Time to pay my bill and grab a taxi to Le Terrass to meet visiting family for apéro.

  Tired

  I’m just tired. I can’t seem to sleep enough, which I think is not a good thing. What is causing this constant fatigue? I have to go to 204 rue Marcadet to pick up the Amazon package I was not home to receive; two grill pans for the stove top, one for me and one for Charlotte. It’s a walk of about 400 meters. Two blocks and one hellishly long set of stairs. Going down to get there. Going up to come home. Or I can catch the 95 bus right across the street from where I pick-up my package, a relatively heavy package, and take it two stops to Damremont Caulaincourt, walk a block and a bit up hill to hop on the 80 bus the rest of the way. That seems like the best bet to me. I’m so very tired.

  Tomas, the manager of Cépage that Caroleen called an evil little faggot, took my plate and quickly rattled off some French to me. Caroleen said he would never wait on me because I was associated with her. He’s actually been very kind to me. I thought he was asking me how my meal was. It turns out he was asking me how I was.

  “Non!” he said “Ça va VOUS!”

  “Ahhh, Ça va! J’ai la pêche!” I responded, which always garners huge laughs. Maybe I’m not one hundred percent sure that it’s an appropriate comment.

  On his next pass I said “Mon français est très mauvais, mais j’essaie!”

  “Noooo” he assured me. “Your French is very good.”

  Ha! But Tomas is starting to look quite cute to me. He’s very compact. It’s a shame that he weighs about half as much as I do. Should that matter?

  Why am I so darn tired?

  Ninon

  “I have had lovers, but none of them deceived me by any illusions. I could penetrate their motives astonishingly well. I was always persuaded that if whatever was value from the standpoint of intellect and character, was considered as anything among the reasons that led them to love me, it was only because those qualities stimulated their vanity. They were amorous of me, because I had a beautiful figure, and they possessed the desire. So it came about that they never obtained more than a second place in my heart. I have always conserved for friendship the deference, the constancy, and the respect even, when a sentiment so noble, so worth deserves as in an elevated soul. It has never been possible for me to overcome my distrust for hearts in which love was the principal actor. This weakness degraded them in my eyes; I considered them incompetent to raise their mind up to sentiments of true esteem for a woman for whom they have felt a desire.”

  “What is the world’s idea of a virtuous woman? Are not men so unjust as to believe that the wisest woman is she who best conceals her weakness; or who, by a forced retreat puts herself beyond the possibility of having any? Rather than accord us a single perfection, they carry wickedness to the point of attributing to us a perpetual state of violence, every time we undertake to resist their advances. One of our friends said: ‘There is not an honest woman who is not tired of being so. And what recompense do they offer for the cruel torments to which they have condemned us? Do they raise up an altar to our heroism? No! The most honest woman, they say, is she who is not talked about, that is to say, a perfect indifference on the part of a woman, a general oblivion is the price of our virtue. Must women not have much of it to preserve it at such a price? Who would be tempted to abandon it?”

  “Tell me this: Is a society woman obliged to have an attachment? Is she not exempt from tenderness? It is sufficient for her to be amiable and courteous, everything on the surface. As soon as she becomes expert in the role she has undertaken, then, the only mistrust the world has of her is that she has no heart. A fine figure, haughty airs, caprices, fashionable jargon, fantasies, and fads, that is all that is required of her. She can be essentially virtuous with impunity. Does any one presume to make advances? “If he met with resistance and quickly give over to worrying her, he thinks her heart is already captured, and he patiently awaits his turn.”

  – ”Life, Letters, and Epicurean Philosophy of Ninon de l’Enclos”

  True merit is that which is esteemed by those we aim to please.

  The Ongoing Saga of My Search for a Home

  For about a month now I have known the bad news. I cannot stay in my wonderful little apartment on my wonderful petite rue next year. Or at least for six months next year. After that is uncertain. Which makes my options uncertain. Which makes me crazy. It’s difficult to speak to anyone about it because everyone else’s opinions are truly getting on my nerves.

  Stephanie, of course, wants me to rent something from her. She is getting some unknown percentage of the rent I pay each month. Her income is at stake. But the other apartment is only available for six weeks. Will the owner decide that she wants to live in Paris forever? Will she come and decide that it will never be a place that she wants to live and after six months sell it? By that time will the property market it Montmartre be so out of control that she will want to sell it for double the price that the apartment upstairs sold for? Will I even know it is for sale? And if I do, will I want to buy it?

  Magalie thinks I need to rent a furnished apartment. She has a friend, not Silvie, not Stephanie, who can help me out. She will introduce me soon. We can look at apartments together.

  Evelyn’s finder told me it doesn’t make sense for us to start looking until January. In Paris it is only required to give thirty days notice so we won’t know what will be on the market until January at the soonest.

  “You need at least two bedrooms! A much bigger apartment! Jean-Claude will help you!” Evelyn continues to insist that I need a big apartment with my own furnishings and my own art!

  “Are you looking at art?!” she urged. “Of course,” she said, “to move in you will only need a bed and a dining table and chairs. A sofa and TV would be next.” But evidently first is art. Ooh la la la la la la… I would think first would be an apartment! I envisioned myself living on the sidewalk in my art fort, draped in blankets and furnished with my wine rack.

  Siobhan started an apartment search around the same time. In her case, her employer had granted her a substantial allocation to pay for housing, enough to rent Evelyn’s apartment! The timing was auspicious for me because Siobhan is nothing if she’s not proactive. She began looking at some amazing properties in Montmartre. The problem is Siobhan’s budget had her looking at apartments substantially bigger than I want. She does have good taste and is very interested in the precise area I want to live in so her search left me hopeful. She thinks I need at least two bedrooms and sent me to look at a couple of lovely web postings, within the range of her own budget. She also doesn’t mind hills and stairs as much as I do.

  One especially beautiful option was very close to me; a beautiful three bedroom apartment, one that would rival Evelyn’s. But it was completely empty. Of furniture. Of light fixtures. Of a kitchen! OK, factor in a 20,000 euro budget to outfit the apartment with everything I need and I would have my dream Paris apartment. And a four thousand euro a month rent payment. It’s about 35% more than I was hoping for. But it’s available NOW. I don’t want to move until March, maybe even mid April.

  “That’s nonsense!” exclaimed Siobhan. “You should not be held liable for that lease given the circumstances.”

  She showed me a couple of other postings. One on rue Caulaincourt, quite a pretty apartment but in a modern building outside of my 41 to 71 range, a newer building on a noisy part of the street with little charm, but a more charming price tag. Another in the 9ème. I do spend a lot of time in the 9ème. This would save me upwards of 100 euro a month in Uber fare. Add that to the rent budget. It was a block from Le Clou, two blocks from Le Grand Comptoir, and almost on rue des Martyrs. It could be a possibility. Siobhan ruled it out because of its proximity to the back door of Monoprix She happened to be passing early one morning when the homeless were waiting for expired groceries to be dumped. I passed by in an Uber one noon when the kids were
out of school for their lunch break. No thank you.

  Maybe I should leave Paris altogether and spend a few months somewhere else, returning to my sweet little apartment on rue Caulaincourt in September, when the owner has gone back to the US. If the owner goes back to the US. And if she’s willing to rent to me for another year. Too many ifs!

  So the options require all of the talent I acquired in my Quantitative Business Analysis class I had a hundred years ago in grad school. Shall I make a decision tree? Which branches shall I prune? The options seem endless and always moving. I can buy an apartment in Paris. I can rent an unfurnished apartment in Paris and furnish it to my own specifications. I can rent a furnished apartment in Paris. I can leave Paris for some period of time and hope to return in September.

  If I leave Paris for a period of time, where will I go? Provence seems tempting but likely to be very hot in summer. Bretagne sounds good and a quick look at potential rentals seems like an attractive option. No doubt I could come back to Paris in the Fall and I would have plenty of time to look while I’m away.

  Would I miss Paris? I could visit. Siobhan chose a big three bedroom apartment very near me. Maybe I could rent a room from her. Would I miss Philippe? Would he miss me? I am sitting in my normal seat writing and Philippe is talking to his regular pals at the bar, sipping a glass of champagne, overdue for lunch. What’s with these mecs? They stand at the bar and drink and gossip and Philippe goes back and forth between them and his customers. By late afternoon, there are nearly no lunch customers, just a few people drinking on the terrace and these mecs. One drinks chablis, one rose, one beer and Philippe champagne. Other than the beer, it seems a bit odd. Philippe and I just seem to get farther and farther apart. I get my bise. He asks how I am. And then I write. And he leaves me alone. It’s time.