Paris Without Her

by Gregory Curtis

  It was still a ways to April but, yes, shamelessly excited during the weeks before our departure, we would sometimes spontaneously sing “April in Paris,” even though neither of us could sing and neither of us knew any of the words except “Chestnuts in blossom / Holiday tables under the treeeeeees.” What were “holiday tables”? We didn’t know, but Tracy said, “We’ll find out when we’re there!”

  At least we really would be in Paris in April. We could also sing “The last time I saw Paris, her heart was warm and gay.” But since we had not yet seen Paris even once, singing that song struck us both as premature.

  In Paris in early spring, there are often cloudless days when the sky is so radiantly blue that it casts a glowing aura around the splendors of the city. The day we arrived was such a day, although neither one of us was settled and confident enough to enjoy it. If getting lost in the countryside was a pleasant adventure, getting lost in Paris, at the wheel of a car in the midst of honking traffic, was a frustrating nightmare. By now it was rather late in the afternoon. Rush-hour traffic was just beginning as the road signs on the highway let us know we were approaching the Périphérique. And then, more quickly than we had expected, the Périphérique was looming just ahead of us. There were two signs. Both separately and together, they seemed to be playing an inspired, demonic joke on us. One sign, in addition to a number of unfamiliar French place-names, said “Nord”—north—and the other, in addition to a number of different but also unfamiliar French place-names, said “Ouest”—west. Neither sign said “Est.”

  I said, “Which way do you think I should go?”

  “Uhhhhh…” Tracy said as she turned the map back and forth in her hands. How was she supposed to know?

  I chose “Ouest,” simply because I wouldn’t have to change lanes, and the traffic was intimidating. We could see what had to be Paris to our right. I saw an exit for the Avenue de Versailles and took it impulsively: at least I recognized the name. Very quickly, we were off the freeway and on a street in Paris. We had arrived. But where were we? Tracy was turning the map back and forth as we both looked frantically for street names. There weren’t any that we could see. Finally, at a stoplight, one of us saw white letters on a small blue plaque on the corner of a building. It said “Avenue de New York.” That was a little bit comforting, but, still, where were we? Right Bank or Left Bank? And, either way, how did we get from wherever we were to the Hôtel d’Angleterre at 44 rue Jacob?

  We finally figured out that we were on the Right Bank, although I don’t remember how. And I no longer have any idea how we managed to get over to the Left Bank and find the rue Jacob. It’s a well-known street with more than its share of history, lined then and now with galleries, studios, and specialty shops selling fine fabrics or ceramics. But it’s also narrow and somewhat hermetic, being sandwiched between the broad Boulevard Saint-Germain and the river. And it’s one-way. Our thrill when we at last turned onto the street changed to anguish when we realized that we were at 60 rue Jacob, not 44, and the numbers got higher as we drove in the only direction we could go. At least we could pull over and figure out how to navigate the one-way streets to circle back to the rue de Seine, from which we could start back down the rue Jacob from its beginning to number 44. There, after an extended struggle with Parisian traffic, we found a small, white, unprepossessing building that was our hotel. We hurriedly hauled our luggage from the car to just inside the door—there was no doorman or porter—and after a quick kiss, I left Tracy with the luggage to check in. Surely, there would be someone to help her. I got back behind the wheel to return the rented car.

  There was an address on the rental contract, and now it was my turn to rotate the Paris map back and forth in my hands as I tried to find the street. It turned out to be on the other side of the river. By now it was dark, and the small blue-and-white street signs on the corners of buildings, which had been difficult to see in daylight, were impossible to see from the car. Several times, I pulled over at an intersection and got out to see where I was. But, after much guesswork and frustration, I did at last find the office of the rental-car company, or at least I found an office of a rental-car company. The address was correct, but the name on the contract and the name on the door did not match. And, of course, since it was early evening, the office was closed. I didn’t care. I parked the car on the street and dropped the keys along with a note showing where I had left the car through a slot in the door. I walked away hoping for the best. I never heard anything about a missing car from any rental company, so I guess I was lucky.

  Faced now with getting back to the hotel on the other side of the river, I saw a Métro station nearby and boldly went down the steps to try it. I knew the Saint-Germain-des-Prés stop was very close to the rue Jacob. Studying the map in the station, I figured out which direction to take and saw where I would have to transfer to another train. I bought a ticket, plunged into the long tunnel beyond the turnstile, and soon found the platform. In a few moments, a train arrived and I got on. As we passed the next stop, I was relieved to see that I was going in the right direction. I reached the transfer point, got on the other train, and a short while later emerged from the Saint-Germain-des-Prés station. I knew the way from there to the hotel. I was filled with pride and energy. I had done it, I had found my way home in Paris. At the hotel desk, I learned our room number, climbed the stairs, and knocked at the door. Tracy opened the door and stepped back demurely. In a rush, I started telling her about my triumphal adventure on the Métro. Very quickly, but still too late to prevent her from becoming annoyed, I saw that, for our first night in Paris, Tracy had bathed, combed her hair, put on perfume and makeup, and was wearing black lingerie that I had never seen.

  * * *

  . . .

  I groveled that night until I got a slight smile from her, something considerably less than a beaming, radiant smile, but a smile nonetheless, and the next morning we could laugh enough to move beyond the night before. We had a very large room on the second floor, overlooking the rue Jacob. An elaborate crystal chandelier hung from a ceiling beam and cast intricate shadows on the walls. Two very tall casement windows had long white curtains with brown fleurs-de-lys. Each window opened onto a small balcony, where it was pleasant to stand and watch the comings and goings on the street below. There was a double bed, a couch, a desk, and a vanity table for Tracy with a large round mirror. The bath was an expanse of white tile with a large tub and a bidet. Today this room would cost 350 euros or more, but it must not have been particularly expensive when we were there, because we never thought about the cost. We even had our breakfasts brought in on a tray every morning. The woman who served us put the tray on the desk silently, then bowed, accepted my tip with a whispered “Merci,” and shuffled backward out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  That first morning, the orange juice looked fresh, and little wisps of steam rose out of both the carafe of coffee and the white pitcher of warm milk. Tracy poured coffee and milk into a cup, took a sip, and then closed her eyes and slowly swallowed. “Heaven,” she said. The croissants were in a basket wrapped in a white cloth. They were still warm. She put some butter on one and took a small bite and once again closed her eyes. “Mmmmmm,” she said. She tore a piece off, buttered it, and said, “You have to taste this.” I opened wide and she put the morsel in my mouth. “Isn’t that the best thing you have ever tasted in your life?” she said. In that moment it actually was, even better than the meal we had had at Les Frères Troisgros. I remember the moment Tracy put that warm, buttered croissant into my mouth better than any of the much finer meals we had during that visit, or on other trips we made over the years. We ate slowly, exclaiming over every bite of bread and every sip of coffee. That was our first meal in Paris.

  The neighborhood enchanted us. There were the famous cafés—the Deux Magots, the Café de Flore, and, across the street, the Brasserie Lipp. Fine shops lined the Boulevard Saint-Germain. The anc
ient Church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, dating from the eleventh century, gave some honor and legitimacy to everything nearby, even to sidewalk stands selling crêpes. In those days, Le Drugstore was directly across the boulevard from the Deux Magots. It actually was a drugstore. Tracy bought her cigarettes there and some shampoo. But it also had a large café, and a club that was always filled with high-school and college students in a frenzy of excitement. Seven years earlier, in 1974, Carlos the Jackal had tossed a grenade from the mezzanine into the crowd below, killing two people and injuring forty. But Le Drugstore remained a destination for the young. It was vibrant and humming, and we liked it precisely because it was not traditional. In 1995, Le Drugstore moved to the Champs-Élysées, and its former location is now an Armani store. The liveliness that corner had in those days has disappeared.

  After our breakfast of ambrosia, with our green Michelin guide in hand, Tracy and I walked out into Paris and did everything that tourists do. We got lost in the Louvre. Not knowing or caring where we were, we wandered through immense galleries and climbed endless wide staircases, stopping when we saw a painting or sculpture we recognized from history-of-art classes in college. We stumbled upon the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo and the Winged Victory and a haunting self-portrait by Rembrandt. At a small counter outside one of the galleries, we bought a ham-and-cheese sandwich on a baguette and two glasses of wine. We split the sandwich and ate it while sitting outside, at a table on a balcony. When we decided to leave, we couldn’t find our way out. We finally asked a guard, and then another, and then another, until, tired but triumphant, we spilled out of the Louvre onto the rue de Rivoli.

  At Notre-Dame, a wedding was in progress. The whole wedding party was splendidly dressed, and the bride’s shimmering white gown seemed to illuminate the otherwise dark and somber sanctuary. We were approached by a woman who spoke perfect English, although she didn’t seem to be British or American. She was ingratiating at first, and pointed out some interesting details in the area where we were standing. But when we moved on, she came, too, talking without a single pause, and we couldn’t shake her. Finally, she began asking for money for—she said—a charity. I gave her a few francs just to try to get rid of her, but I refused when she asked for more. She seemed incredulous and finally walked away in a huff.

  Strangely, in Notre-Dame one morning in March 2019, a few weeks before the fire in April, I was approached, not by the same woman, but by someone very similar. She spoke perfect English and tried to be ingratiating by talking knowledgeably about the nave. Then she started talking about “a donation” as she motioned toward a spooky, ancient priest standing next to a pillar, wearing a long robe and leaning on a crosier. I suppose it’s possible that he was only posing as a priest. He peered at me as he lingered in the shadows. I abruptly moved away from the woman and managed to escape, but the encounter was unnerving and distasteful. It was as if time had stood still from that first visit long ago until now. I soon left the church.

  Of course, Tracy and I went to the Eiffel Tower and rode up to the top. We had an expensive dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant, although I don’t remember where. We also ate at Chez Maître Paul, on the rue Monsieur le Prince. Back then you could see Maître Paul cooking with intense concentration in the kitchen while his wife seated the guests and took their orders. Tracy was able to identify the ingredients in his famous sauces and listed them in the diary she kept. Except for that first breakfast, it was the best meal we had. We had lunch one day at the Brasserie Lipp. Across the restaurant from us was a table of obviously wealthy Frenchmen who were there when we arrived and were still there, lingering over coffee and cigarettes, when we left. Even though they paid no attention to us, their confidence and self-possession made us feel like intruders.

  In those days, a digest named Pariscope appeared each Wednesday. Along with quite literate and informed reviews, it listed every movie, play, gallery opening, lecture, reading, concert, and any other cultural event in Paris that week. It also had a section of several pages devoted to what it called “Spectacles.” Spectacles were live sex shows. If we hadn’t exactly expected to find such entertainment in Paris, neither were we very surprised when we saw that it was there. Here we were in Paris for the first time, and here we were open to all the city had to offer, soooooooo…

  Le Théâtre des 2 Boules was on the rue des Écoles in the Latin Quarter, not far from our hotel. Not only was it the spectacle closest by; it had by far the most appealing ad. (I’ve learned since that the ad was painted by the pinup artist Aslan, whose work now commands respectable prices on the Internet.) We entered the small theater late in the afternoon. There were a few men alone, but also five or six other couples more or less like ourselves. Everything looked perfectly ordinary except that a rope net extended from the top of the stage to the rear of the room. When we sat in seats in the third row, the net was only twenty inches or so above our heads. Tracy and I looked at each other. We could always tell what the other was thinking, but now our thoughts were glaringly obvious: Would they? Could they?

  Onstage, a pretty woman in her twenties was performing a vigorous striptease. The music was loud, and the audience sat perfectly still and silent. When she was nude, she came into the audience. One by one, she sprawled across the lap of each man, emitting little cries and flirtatious giggles. She sat on my knees with her back to my chest, took both of Tracy’s hands, and used them to caress her breasts. After she had visited each man in the audience, she climbed back up on the stage and bowed as the lights went down.

  We were all left sitting in the dark. There was a cough or two, but otherwise the theater was completely silent. After a long pause, the stage lights came back on. A woman was sitting in a chair on one side of the stage, and a man and a woman were sitting on a small couch on the other side, although the stage was so small that they weren’t really very far apart. All three performers were young and dressed like bohemian students. The women both had telephones and were talking. We couldn’t understand the dialogue, but its overall meaning was clear enough—the woman next to the man was inviting the other woman over to join them. They both hung up, and the lights went down but came back up just a few seconds later. The single woman had joined the pair on the small couch, and the three of them were kissing, caressing, and slowly unbuttoning and unzipping. Then our unspoken questions were answered: yes, they would, and, yes, they could.

  The two women lay down on the net first, and then the man joined them. These attractive kids didn’t just go through the motions: they seemed to be deriving at least some pleasure from their activities. But the erotic effect for me—and for Tracy as well, as I learned when we talked later—was severely diluted by our apprehension that the net would break loose, and three naked and entwined French students would crash down on our heads. Afterward, at a café with a carafe of wine, we imagined all the breaks, bruises, and black eyes that would have followed the net’s breaking. “We would have to tell our kids that we were at a party and it got out of hand,” Tracy said.

  “They wouldn’t buy it.”

  “Well, maybe not,” Tracy said, “but they wouldn’t buy the truth, either.”

  * * *

  . . .

  In the afternoons, we had coffee at the Deux Magots, and came back there for brandy after dinner. All along Saint-Germain, the sidewalk tables were crowded. Street performers and musicians came and went, hoping for tips, which they got. One wore a derby, baggy pants, and a huge, painted bow tie made of cardboard. He would pick out someone walking along the boulevard and, following very closely behind, mimic the way his selected victim walked. He was brilliantly inventive and hysterically funny. If the person he was mimicking stopped and turned around, perhaps beginning to wonder why everyone at the tables along the street was laughing, the clown could drop his pose in an instant and appear natural. There was nothing his victim could do but walk away, bewildered. That was even funnier.

 
We were deliriously happy during the days that followed. Every time we sat down in a restaurant, it was an adventure. Every street we walked down was exciting, unknown territory. Every store we entered contained treasures we could never have imagined. We visited E. Dehillerin, a store that has been selling cooking utensils in Les Halles since 1820. It has plank floors, and ancient wooden shelves stained a dark brown that display an apparently infinite variety of knives, pots, whisks, strainers, and oddly shaped objects whose purpose neither Tracy nor I could imagine. We stayed for more than an hour, while Tracy practically caressed the pots and bowls and spatulas and all the rest. There was even a mold in the shape of a lamb.

  Just across the rue des Rennes from Le Drugstore was a small dress shop run by an impossibly pretty young woman with short blond hair. Tracy was instinctively drawn into the store. As she tried on clothes, I stood near the entrance, listening, without understanding, as the proprietress talked to her “maman” on the phone. These conversations were long and animated. When Tracy emerged from the dressing room, the young proprietress would put down the telephone and adjust the dress Tracy was trying on, nod approvingly, and then pick up the phone and continue talking to maman. We visited several times, but Tracy hesitated to buy anything. Finally, she bought a very light wool coat. It was bright red and had black buttons from the hem up to the neck. The coat was probably a copy of a Givenchy, since it looked like something Audrey Hepburn might have worn in Charade. It was perfect for Tracy. She looked so glamorous—une Parisienne!—walking along the Boulevard Saint-Germain in her red coat and round sunglasses with black frames, her wavy black hair radiant in the sunlight. She had found just the right costume for the role she wanted to play, a role that suited both her and me. We held hands as we walked along the boulevard. “Je t’aime,” she whispered in my ear.