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Gazing at the typed pages, I fade not only
into the Paris I know, but all the way back to Hemingway's "moveable
feast" of the 1920's
Strolling along the Champs-Elysees of my
mind's eye, I see F. Scott Fitzgerald drinking at Foquet's. The
champagne has not yet kicked in, and he looks nervous.
My guess is that he's hoping James Joyce will
drop by. God knows Fitzgerald has tried to meet him for quite a while.
He practically worships the Irishman (despite the illegal status of
Joyce's novel "Ulysses" in America, the French edition is
almost an intellectual requirement for expats). Fitzgerald will eventually
meet Joyce at Sylvia Beach's bookshop Shakespeare and Company, but
by then, Fitzgerald's own novel, "The Great Gatsby" will
be as revered as "Ulysses."
Laughing, I continue my walk.
The Champs reeks of flowers, lamps, trees,
and history. Facing the Place de la Concorde, I admire the Egyptian
Obelisk before continuing across the square and into the Tuileries
Gardens. Like Faulkner, I enjoy watching the lively French children
and their fountain boats, as a gentle breeze sends ripples across
the small pond.
I assume that back beyond the Carrousel
Arch Fitzgerald has downed enough wine to go home to Zelda. Poor
guy.
Crossing the Seine, towards Montparnasse,
I must decide where to dine. My choices are unlimited and variable.
The artistic "Left Bank" is home to hundreds of small
restaurants and cafes.
I head to the Boulevard St-Germain where
I can contemplate my dining options. Atmosphere persuades me more
than food or drink; well, at least more than food.
Again I say, "poor Fitzgerald."
Approaching Aux Deux Magots, I see James Joyce at an inside table.
His empty glass is being filled from a carafe of legendary Swiss
wine. And it's one of Fitzgerald's own new friends doing the pouring!!
No one seems to know this bulky fellow well, but rumor has it that
he is devoted to becoming a serious writer -- I think Hemingway
is his name...Ernest Hemingway.
Lately, Hemingway's spent much of his time
babysitting Fitzgerald at the Dingo and Closerie des Lilas. Anyway,
Joyce seems to like the younger man. Paris will soon decide for
itself. As for me, I'll eat at the Cafe de Flore a bit further down
the boulevard. Seventeen year-old Simone de Beauvoir might be there;
Sinclair Lewis might not!
Finishing the Flore's shrimp, I continue
toward the Luxembourg Gardens. I'm sorely tempted to stop-in at
27 rue de Fleurus, where a very unique lady resides. Ms. Gertrude
Stein is considered literary royalty in these parts. She and Alice
B. Toklas hold court in their many-pictured salon. Young Hemingway
is a regular visitor. Decades later he will detail Gertrude's influences
in his memoir, "A Moveable Feast," but these days he cares
more about her vast collection of Picasso, Gris, Matisse, and Cezanne
paintings. She's entertained artists for decades. The Spaniard loves
to paint her, and Man Ray captures it all in clever photographs
for posterity.
Perhaps I should detour around the gardens
to the rue de L' Odeon. Here at number 12, Sylvia's bookshop and
lending library, Shakespeare and Company, is the pulse of intellectual
and expatriate Paris. Sherwood Anderson and other authors route
would-be visitors to Sylvia. She, in turn, introduces various writers
to each other. Ms. Beach is incredibly adept at understanding writers'
personalities and tastes. To her credit she also keeps many apart!!
Not everyone wants to be friends...
I'll pass on the Place de L' Odeon this
evening. Time is slipping and Montparnasse is beckoning loudly.
An imported sensation named Josephine Baker is performing at Le
Jockey Club. Tonight she's mine unless Hemingway's wife lets him
prowl. Josephine is partial to the guy, though she barely knows
him, or so I am told.
My ingenious idea thrives all of 40 minutes
The Boulevard Montparnasse and surrounding
streets drip in the history of the less-famous but more decadent
expatriates of the 1930's, which Henry Miller will begin to expose
in "Tropic Of Cancer." They are the street-wise survivors
of the Depression, accustomed to back alleys, bridges, and bordellos.
I prefer the Carrefour Vavin, literary cafes, and the busy boulevards
of creative Paris. Montparnasse is writers' Paris. Virtually every
cafe stakes claim to several favorite sons and daughters. Myself,
I visit them all. I can work or socialize almost anywhere in this
part of town.
I quickly leave Le Jockey. Instead I'll
work the Dingo, Select, and the Dome without distraction. I know
exactly what the women there like. Money and wine are the ticket.
After providing the second I can fake the first. Then again, if
necessary I'll find a partner in crimes of the heart. Sly Brits
are everywhere. The English fellows can be an asset, given that
they won't accept "no" for an answer from anyone. They
are too prideful to fail.
If Fitzgerald made it back to his apartment
beside the Arch de Triomphe, he won't be out tonight. When Fitzgerald
makes his weekly visit to the Dingo the atmosphere changes; it tends
to die. We must be his caretakers and counselors. The problem is
obvious to everyone. Even strangers discern it: Z-E-L-D-A. Enough
said. The future will bear this out.
The Dingo is good for small talk and the
occasional woman looking for a man. The management is excellent.
At times I sprawl work over the zinc bar, unopposed and unhindered.
Tonight I seek other nocturnal activities. Scribbling is off limits;
but, the lovely brunette in the corner surely isn't. She's unescorted.
I plan my approach very carefully, even
questioning Felipe the bartender about her. Camille is a 28 year-old
library clerk at the Bibliotheque National. Regardless of her curvy
figure and impeccable face, she has never entered marriage. Her
heart is still heavy, longing for the love of her youth. The brave
young soldier, Andre, was killed near Verdun almost 9 years ago.
Her sense of loyalty outweighs even death and Camille has refused
all serious relationships, though she hates to be alone.
Slowly striding toward her table, I smile
very simply. Gently, she places her wine glass back upon the napkin
as I approach and waits for me to speak. I find this momentarily
difficult, as my line of sight has found her eyes -- such lovely
eyes. As my trance dissipates I immediately glance down at my feet.
Without talking I have already said a lot.
Looking up I ask, "Parlez-vous anglais,
mademoiselle?"
"Yes, yes I do monsieur," she
replied.
Somehow I knew that already, and am glad
for it. My French is rather poor.
"Are you expecting a companion, mademoiselle?"
I ask.
"No monsieur, I have come alone to
sit and read. My mama has been in Lyon for six weeks visiting a
sick friend; since her departure I have spent my weekends at the
cafe with my books. You may join."
"Thank you, I would like that very
much," I responded. "You seemed sad, you need not be."
"Felipe sometimes talks too much.
Perhaps he has misled you. I am a bright girl," she said. "Love
is not sad, nor does it depend upon the body. Love is a spirit,
Godly in nature. Mama is away, yet I love her. Andre is away in
death, and I love him. Do you understand?"
I consider Camille's statement. Her lover
is gone, dead, and she accepts this. There is no denial. Andre is
just a man leaving his fiancee for a trip; he simply has not and
will not return. The fact that he won't is certainly not his fault.
She has no reason to discontinue her feelings while he is away.
Good or bad, I think I honestly understand. I reply, "I think
so Camille, and by the way, my name is James."
Forget that I have just met her. Camille,
for this instant, is like the only real woman I have ever known.
Ironically, she is reading Scott's book, "This Side Of Paradise,"
which I have yet to complete myself.
We talk of Paris and America, and men and
women, and Andre does not resurface. We make plans to meet again
on Thursday.
If my luck holds out, Fitzgerald, Hemingway,
Joyce, Pound, and the others won't be around. Of course, its these
fellow expatriates who will change literary history forever, but
for the moment I am much more concerned with what will become of
Camille and I
The loud and persistent buzz of my doorbell
jolts me back from my trip in time, and I am saddened to no end.
Camille has, no doubt, been dead for decades, if she ever even existed...and
I am simply here in my own room again.
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