So much for Montgomery's bullshit about shine-or-don't-getasked- back. The salon was a business.
But, as I quickly noted, it had its habitués. Chet was one of them. So too was a guy named Claude. Short, sad-faced, with sharp features and a black suit with narrow lapels and dark glasses, he looked like a cheap hood from one of Jean-Pierre Melville's fifties gangster films.
'What do you do?' he asked me in English.
'You know I can speak French.'
'Ah, but Lorraine prefers if the salon is in English.'
'But we're in Paris.'
'No, monsieur. We are in Madame's Paris. And in Madame's Paris, we all speak English.'
'You're shitting me.'
'I shit not. Madame does not speak much in the way of French. Enough to order dinner in a restaurant or scream at the Moroccan femme de ménage if her vanity mirror is dusty. Otherwise . . . rien.'
'But she's been living here for . . . ?'
'Thirty years.'
'That's crazy.'
'Paris is full of anglophones who haven't bothered to learn the language. And Paris accommodates them – because Paris is very accommodating.'
'As long as you are white.'
Claude looked at me as if I was insane.
'Why should such things concern you? This salon . . . it is a wonderful souk des idées.'
'And what idées are you peddling, Claude?'
'I peddle nothing. I am merely a pedagogue. Private French-language lessons. Very reasonable rates. And I will come to your apartment.' He proffered me a business card. 'If you are trying to improve your French . . .'
'But why improve my French when I can come here and speak English with you?'
He smiled tightly.
'Very droll, monsieur. And what is your profession?'
I told him. He rolled his eyes and gestured to the crowd in front of us.
'Everyone is a writer here. They all talk of a book they are trying to write . . .'
Then he drifted off.
Claude did have a point. I met at least four other wouldbe writers. Then there was the super-cocky guy from Chicago (I have never met a reserved, modest Chicagoan) in his early forties who taught 'media studies' at Northwestern, and had just published his first novel with some obscurantist press (but – he told me – it had still merited a short mention in the New York Times Book Review) and was spending a year in Paris on some sort of fellowship, and went off into this extended monologue about how, in 'decades to come', we'd all be recognized as a new 'lost generation', fleeing the oppressive conformism of the Bush years, blah, blah, blah . . . to which I could only say . . . in a deadpan voice, 'Yes, we are the totally lost generation.'
'Are you being sarcastic?' he asked.
'What makes you think that?'
He walked away.
I started to drink heavily. I picked up a glass of the red cask wine. It tasted rough, but I still downed three of them in rapid succession. It didn't do wonders for my stomach – vinegar never does – but it did give me the necessary Dutch courage to continue mingling. I decided to try my luck with any available woman who crossed my path and didn't have the sort of face that would frighten domestic animals. So I got talking to Jackie – a divorcee from Sacramento ('It's a hole, but I won our six-thousand-foot ranch house from Howard in the settlement, and I've got a little PR firm there that handles the state legislature, and Lake Tahoe isn't far, and I heard about Lorraine's salon in a guidebook – the place where all the Parisian artists commingle every Sunday night – and you say you're a writer . . . who publishes you? . . . oh, right . . .'). And I got talking with Alison who worked as a business journalist with Reuters – a large, flirty Brit who told me that she hated her job, but loved living in Paris ('Because it's not bloody Birmingham, where I grew up'), even though she did find it very lonely. She came to the salon most weeks and had made some friends here, but had still not found that 'special friend' she'd been looking for.
'It's all because I'm too possessive,' she said.
'You think that?'
'That's what my last boyfriend told me. I couldn't let go.'
'Was he right?'
'His wife certainly thought so. When he wouldn't marry me – even though he promised twice that he was going to leave her for me – I waited outside his apartment in Passy all weekend. Then, when he still wouldn't come out, I smashed the windscreen of his Mercedes with a brick.'
'That is a little extreme.'
'That's what all men say. Because, like him, they're all cowards . . . and little shits.'
'Nice meeting you,' I said, backing away.
'That's right, run off, just like every other coward with a penis.'
I threw back the fourth glass of wine and desperately wanted another, but feared that the mad man-hating Brit might still be at the bar. I looked around the room again. The salon's volume was reaching high pitch now. Everyone seemed to be talking with strange animation. All I could feel was mounting despair – for the artificiality of this set-up, for the shrieking Southern Belle voice of Madame which towered over the amassed hubbub, for the undercurrent of sadness which was so prevalent in every conversation I'd had, and for my own pervasive awkwardness. Here was proof (as if it was needed) that my isolated weeks in Paris had turned me into a real Oblomov – inept when it came to social niceties or even managing to sustain a simple dialogue with someone else. I hated it here – not just because it was a sham, but because it also exposed everything I hated about myself.
Feeling just a little tight, I decided that some air was needed. So I headed out of the kitchen, weaving my way through the throng in the living room, making a beeline for the balcony.
It was a clear, cold night. No stars, but a full moon over Paris. The balcony was long and narrow. I went to the edge of it, put my glass down on the top of the balustrade, and breathed deeply – hoping the winter chill would muffle the buzz in my head. But instead the night air just seemed to deepen my lightheadedness; the sense that there was something faintly illusory about this salon, this balcony, this amazing fuck-off view. I glanced at my watch. It wasn't yet nine. I wondered if I could catch a screening of something around nine thirty at the Accatone or any of the half-dozen other cinemas located within five minutes from here. But if I did make a film that let out at 11.30 p.m., I'd be cutting it very fine to get to work by midnight. And I didn't want to risk not getting to work on time, just in case this was the first night when a visitor for Monsieur Monde showed up right after twelve, and word would get back to Mr Beard and the Boss that I had been negligent, and they might decide to let me go, and then I'd be back to square one in this city, and . . . shit . . . look at that view of the Panthéon from here . . .
'I'm certain you're thinking, "I merit an apartment like this."'
The voice caught me by surprise. It was a woman's voice – low, slightly husky, and emanating from a far corner of the balcony. I looked over. I saw a figure silhouetted in this dark nook, her figure outlined in shadow, the red ember of a cigarette lighting up the darkness.
'You can't know what I'm thinking.'
'True – but I can conjecture,' she said, continuing on in French. 'And having seen your discomfort during the salon this evening, it is clear you are not at ease here.'
'You've been observing me all evening?'
'Do not flatter yourself. I have simply caught sight of you, from time to time, looking forlorn. A little-boy-lost who tries to chat up women without success, and then escapes to the balcony, and stares out at the Panthéon and thinks—'
'Hey, thanks for the searing psychological profile, but if you'll excuse me I think I'm out of here.'
I started to leave.
'Do you always react so badly to a little gentle teasing?'
I turned back toward her, but could still only see the outline of her body and the glow of her cigarette.
'Bizarrely, I find teasing from a total stranger just a little odd.'
'I think you find teasing from a woman difficul
t.'
'Many thanks for another slap in the face.'
'You see, my point entirely. I make a few passing comments and you are immediately defensive.'
'Maybe because I don't like games like this one.'
'Who is playing a game here?'
'You are.'
'That is news to me – as all I think I am doing is engaging in banter . . . or flirtation, if you want to give it its proper name.'
'This is your idea of flirtation?'
'Well, what's your idea of flirtation? Trying to have a reasonable discussion with a crazy woman like that Alison monster?'
' "Monster" is a slight exaggeration.'
'Oh please, don't tell me you're going to defend her after she emasculated you . . .'
'She didn't exactly do that . . .'
'It certainly sounded that way to me. "Coward with a penis" isn't exactly an ego-enhancing—'
'How did you know she said that?'
'I was in the kitchen at the time.'
'I didn't see you.'
'That's because you were so absorbed with that psychotic that you didn't notice I was standing nearby.'
'And listening to everything we said?'
'Absolutely.'
'Didn't your mother ever tell you that it was rude to listen into other people's conversations?'
'No, she didn't.'
'I was being ironic,' I said.
'Were you really?'
'Sorry.'
'For what?'
'For making a dumb comment.'
'Are you always so self-critical?'
'I suppose I am.'
'That's because . . . let me guess . . . you have suffered a terrible calamity, and since then you have doubted everything about yourself ?'
Silence. I gripped the balustrade and bit down hard on my lip and wondered, Why am I so damn transparent?
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I obviously said the wrong thing.'
'No – you scored a direct hit, a bull's-eye . . .'
The ember on the cigarette glowed one final time, then fell groundward. As it did, she moved out of the shadows and toward me. The moonlight brought her into focus. She was a woman who had some years ago traversed that threshold marked middle age, but was still bien conservée. Of medium height with thick chestnut-brown hair that was well cut and just touched her shoulders. She was slender to her waist, with just a hint of heft around her thighs. As the light crossed her face, I could see a long-healed scar across her throat . . . the remnant of some surgical procedure, no doubt. Twenty years ago, men would have called her striking, rather than beautiful. She was still handsome. Her skin, though smooth, had been gently cleaved by a network of lines around her eyes. But rather than diminish her attractiveness, they seemed to enhance it.
'You have been drinking,' she said.
'My, my, you are très perspicace.'
'No, I just know a drunken man when I see one.'
'You want a written confession?'
'It is not a crime, you know. In fact, I approve of a man who drinks. Especially one who drinks to soften the past.'
'Booze doesn't soften the past. It just blots it out . . . until the next morning. Nothing softens over time. Nothing.'
'That's a very Manichean way of looking at the world.'
'No – it's a very Manichean way of looking at oneself.'
'You don't like yourself very much, do you?'
'Who the hell are you?'
She smiled an amused smile – her eyes brimming with mischief. And I suddenly wanted to sleep with her.
'Who am I? I am a woman standing on a balcony in the Sixth arrondissement, looking out at the Panthéon, while talking to an American who has clearly lost his way in life.'
'May I kiss the hem of your shmatte, Dr Freud?'
She lit up a fresh cigarette, then said, 'Shmatte. Yiddish.
Are you Jewish?'
'My mother was.'
'Then that makes you Jewish. The mother carries the religion and passes it on—'
'Like the clap.'
'And the other part of you?' she asked.
'Dreary Midwestern Congregationalist.'
'So you considered your father a dull man?'
'You ask a lot of questions.'
'You seem willing to answer them.'
'I don't talk much about myself.'
'All Americans talk about themselves. It's how they give themselves an identity.'
'What an original thought.'
'I'm glad you think so.'
'So let me guess: you're a professor of semiotics at the Sorbonne who has written a doctoral thesis on Symbolic Nuance in American Cultural Life . . .'
'No,' she said, 'but I'm certain your doctoral thesis wasn't far off that title.'
'How did you know I was a professor?'
'Just a hunch. And your field is . . . ?'
'Was film studies. I no longer teach.'
'You lost your job?'
'Have we met before? Or do you have a file on me?'
Another smile.
'No to both questions. I'm just "bullshitting around", as they say in your country.'
'And what's the word for "bullshit" in your country?'
'Two words: buta beszéd.'
'You're Eastern European?'
'Bravo. Hungarian.'
'But your French . . . it is perfect.'
'If you have not been born French, your French is never perfect. But after fifty years in Paris, it is serviceable.'
'Fifty years? You must have been a baby when you arrived here.'
'Flattery is always pleasant . . . and utterly transparent. I was seven years old when I arrived here in 1957 . . . and now I have given away a vital piece of information: my age.'
'You look wonderful on it.'
'Now we move from flippant flattery to absurd flattery.'
'Do you have a problem with that?' I asked.
She let two of her fingers touch the top of my hand.
'Not at all,' she said.
'Do you have a name?'
The Woman In The Fifth Page 13
