Day 9: Letter to a friend
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Day 9: Letter to a friend

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Day 9: Letter to a friend

There were a host of reasons to sally forth in the direction of Shakespeare & Company after 12:00–so I went. I walked, because even an hour of yoga every day can not make up for the delicious food I encounter at every turn: chocolate, creme brûlée, chocolate, ripe apricots, cherries, sumptuous breads of all kinds, and have I mentioned the chocolate? It should be named “The city of chocolate” rather than “the city of lights.”

So I walk everywhere, which suits me anyway. No better way to let the city absorb me–like a corpuscle flowing into the river of life animating the body of this great, sultry, capricious, intense, evocative city–Paris is a grande lady, for sure. (I hope that circulatory metaphor appeals to your sensibility!) And did you know that Dickens was a great walker? Wonderful storyteller, creative genius, lousy husband–walked all through London at night. I always felt badly for his wife.

I googlemapped the way and arrived at 12:50, spent ten minutes browsing the Paris history section, to no avail. Nothing useful to my purposes. Worse yet, when I rose from my squat, I found a piece of paper in my hands.

“You’ve been followed. Be more careful.”

I walked out in front of store to see who could possibly have followed me. I trotted around on the street, saw no one suspicious, finally laid eyes on a slim man in a jean jacket disappearing into the crowds around Notre Dame.

Was that the follower? Or Francois? Was there even a follower? Or were Francois and Mme Durand playing with me? I was nettled–and still didn’t know about the Cezanne.

Since I was close to the Seine anyways, I wandered toward Pont D’Alma and the Museum of the Sewers. The sewers beneath the city are extensive and impressive. Victor Hugo wrote about them, and he’s liberally referred to on placards down there, in the depths of the earth. There’s probably a play on “bowels” but I’m too tired to make it. And it was the stinkiest tour I’ve ever taken!

Back at home, Jean-Sven and Angelique stopped by so I could congratulate Angelique on her brilliant performance at the Sunside Jazz Club. She does have a glorious alto! Which she used to great effect to comment on what she’d heard were my “delicious shoulders.” Asked me to uncover one so she could taste for herself. I laughed and took it all as a big joke. My sense of humor has gotten me out of more than one tight corner–especially when I can laugh at myself. I remember your sense of humor as quite fun–engaging–before you battened down the hatches and threw it away.

 

Day 8: Letter to a friend
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Day 8: Letter to a friend

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Day 8: Letter to a friend

Today I am most blue, missing my beloveds at home. I am following the wave of the feeling, watching it swell and spend and rise again: surfing. The thing about space alone is that it offers the opportunity for emptying out. This is not something you and I ever discussed, when you encouraged me toward this writing retreat.

There’s no good reason for such melancholy. If feelings need reasons–and you always claimed that feelings trump reason. I spent a sweet afternoon at the birthday brunch for my friend Lynn, enjoying her gourmet cooking and meeting her friends: Valerie, the documentary maker and her husband Bernard; Barbara, who will be my neighbor in August; Clara, the singer with the face of a Botticelli goddess; and Sheila, the osteopath, great-grand-daughter of a Hungarian count (the one, in fact, who saved wine!); a few others. Lovely folks, all, fun to connect with.

Naturally I made an email introduction between Sheila and our very own Wayward Austrian Countess. Consider it a nod to the Austro-Hungarian empire. They probably have cousins in common, a century ago. They probably have cousins in common now. The only people who interbreed as much as the old aristocracy are my cousins, the hill-billies. I did once tell you that there was a whole town in Arkansas where everyone is either my first cousin, second cousin, or third cousin, or all three at once, didn’t I?

When I returned, as I was unlocking my door, Mme Durand cracked hers and watched me enter my apartment. I waved but she said nothing. She was just closing her door when I stomped over and stuck my foot in.

“Madame Durand, I have to know. Is that a Cezanne?” I inquired. I wedged my shoulder in her door to open it enough so I could point.

She smiled. “Meet Francois tomorrow and he’ll tell you.” Then she shoved her door shut, pinching my arm to get me to retract it.

Sure enough, another note lay folded on my floor. “Shakespeare & Co, 1:00 pm tomorrow. Francois.” I supposed it won’t hurt to check their history of Paris section anyway.

Jean-Sven and a boisterous crew trooped down just as I was getting ready to do yoga. At some point, I have enough of surfing and emptying out: Basta! I opt for a sweaty hour of yoga, which inevitably elevates me while also evening me into peacefulness. There’s nothing like surya namaskar, pigeon, and urdva dhanurasana to lift one’s spirits. There would be far less need for psychopharmaceuticals if more people practiced yoga on a daily basis.

I promised Jean-Sven to meet them at the club for the concert, which is not until late anyway. I would like to hear Angelique, and to support her. So, yoga and poulet roti finished–a fresh slick of lipstick and I’m on my way.

Til tomorrow, then, and as always, your devoted, warmly, etc.

 

Day 7: Letter to a friend
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Day 7: Letter to a friend

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Day 7: Letter to a friend
Some days stand out as highlights. Today was one such, thanks to a lovely dinner with M. Alain Le French Editor and his wife la belle dame Isabelle. Alain and Isabelle most graciously spoiled me with dinner at one of the famed Montparnasse eateries, with art on the walls (some of it rather nice), succulent lamb, and red wine full of sun. I would note that the baked chevre with tomate exceeded my expectations most delectably.

Even more delicious was the conversation. Cher M. Alain is a thoughtful, highly literate one, and his English is excellent. He had a lot of theories about the various social problems we chewed over, which included: the shifting generational financial profile; the next generation’s lack of understanding regarding sacrifice; racial and socioeconomic problems and the assimilation of immigrant cultures; the weight gain in the US and France (I blame high fructose corn syrup and the government spraying the civilian population with population control chemicals, he holds the disintegrating family unit responsible); and the waning of the American empire. There were, bien sûr, other topics as well.

Needless to say, it is a rich treat indeed to gorge on such intelligent discourse! And Alain and Isabelle shared some of their personal story, how they met and gently wound their way together. Of this, I shall only say: Alain is fortunate to have been given a second chance. But Isabelle didn’t fare too badly, either. Lovely men are special creatures, don’t you think? Wasn’t it you who said that men were a pitiful lot?

The rest of the day was quiet. A trip to the marché for cerise and apricots. Some reading, a load of laundry, yoga, note-taking. General holing-up and stewing-over-a-story stuff. I was not available for a trip to Notre Dame and decided to respect myself with greater truculence immediately–if not sooner. So I left a note outside on the floor, where anyone who wanted to slide paper into my apartment would have to look. The note inquired: “Why should I go to Notre Dame?”

While I was preparing a cheese plate for the arrival of my guests–Isabelle and Alain were coming by for an aperitif–Jean-Sven knocked on the front door. I kept silent. He would go away if he thought I wasn’t home.

“Traci, I know you’re in there,” Jean-Sven sang. “Traci, vite, maintenant!” He pounded.

I refused to answer.

“D’accord, be that way. But tomorrow is Angelique’s concert and we are all going, my friends and me. We will pick you up in the afternoon.”

I maintained radio silence.

“Why should you go to Notre Dame? Je pas, it’s a beautiful cathedral and that’s what all the tourists do!” he called. He waited. “You can’t hide forever. Tomorrow, then.”

I heard him tromp off, so I went to the door and peeked out the peephole. Mme Durand stood there, staring at my door as if mesmerized. Her door was open, her white hair fell out of its bun and draped down around her shoulders, and the beautiful Cezanne hung on the wall behind her, bathed in the aura of its beauty. I ran to get my cell phone to snap a pix but by the time I returned, her door was closed.

Perhaps you will see from today’s missive that your theories of thoughtful and considerate behavior apply not only to others, but to the self as well.

Day 7: Letter to a friend

Day 6: Letter to a friend
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Day 6: Letter to a friend

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Day 6: Letter to a friend
Today was spent largely in the company of Janet Flanner—that is, perusing her book “Paris Was Yesterday, 1925-1939.” That period interests me greatly for a second—yes second—WW2 novel that I am working on, concurrently with the first WW2 novel and with the third and final book in the After Trilogy.

I wish there were more hours in the day to write! Especially here, where there are so many delicious streets to walk down and absorb into every angstrom of my being. It’s optimistic to think I can get a lot of pages pounded out when I am saturating myself with this city. It’s a process of enchantment and permeation, it demands its due.

Flanner’s observations over this period were originally sent to the New Yorker. They are useful as a resource for the texture of life during this era. What were people thinking about, what was daily life like, what were the concerns? Flanner has a gift for skewering the newsworthy figures of the day, and she has a lively, often elegant, way with the language. I read her and I meet a sharp mind at play. Orwell, “Politics and the English Language”—this woman could really think.

I’ve picked up “The Hollow Years” by Eugen Weber, but I doubt I will enjoy it so much. I spent some time contemplating Zola’s aggressive distaste for Carpeaux, especially his rant about “La Danse,” which Zola criticized as an offense to common decency. But the sculpture is gorgeously vital and masterfully realized. Zola should have pulled the stick out of his butt and enjoyed its energy.

It’s interesting how art has shifted; how it has strained beyond the bounds of energy into chaos. What is most distressing is how art has lost its grounding in mastery, and we are all poorer for it. Somehow the task is to bring mastery back—while retaining the richness and fullness.

You will find no salacious regrets in today’s missive. No matter what advice I may have been given about opening to eros by the Most Beautiful and Wayward Countess—who, by the way, much enjoyed meeting you, and has made several comments about you that would surely embarrass you. Were you open to hearing them from me, or I able to speak them gracefully to you. I’m afraid such matters mute me around you. Eros, indeed.

For reasons of my own I took a bus all the way out to Neuilly, enjoying the splendid weather currently gracing the City of Lights. I did not go to Place des Vosges to meet Francois.

And, as of this moment, if I go to Notre Dame tomorrow, it will NOT be because of the note slid under my door after a dinner of poulet roti and salade tomates: “URGENT, Notre Dame, tomorrow at 2:00 pm. Francois.”

Til tomorrow, and as always, with my warmest thoughts.

Day 6: Letter to a Friend

Day 5: Letter to a friend
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Day 5: Letter to a friend

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Day 5: Letter to a friend

So, friend, how are you doing? Do you even note my absence from our mutual city? I’m not sure you ever noticed my presence in it, so how could there be a void when I am away?

This morning I did a solid hour of yoga to make up for my excesses last night. Food, drink, and… Jean-Sven. He behaved himself at the restaurant, a Michelin-starred food utopia of hitherto undreamt of delights. You know the expression, “melts in your mouth”? Now I understand it. Only manna from God and the fare of this heavenly eatery merit the phrase!

This afternoon, after yoga and a nap, I went to the Musee D’Orsay. In addition to nurturing my soul with great art, I got to think about the social context of art. You know, the legacy publishers have become a kind of “Jury of the Academy,” rejecting anything outside their narrow definition of salable. I ought to rename Parvati Press “Press of the Rejects” after the salon the Impressionists established when they struck out on their own.

When I returned, I sat at my desk and looked at the 20 emails that had accumulated in my inbox. I heard the snick of paper sliding under my door. A folded note had been slipped through. I raced to get it. “Tomorrow, noon, Place des Vosges, Francois.” I threw open my front door but no one was anywhere! I knocked on Mme Durand’s door to ask her, but no one answered. Even when I pressed my ear to her door, the apartment was still, as if only yellow sunlight and swirling dust moved through it.

Oh, yes, last night, and penance. Jean-Sven listened to my lecture on my marital state and the requirements thereof with an implacable and beatific Scandinavian smile. I was relieved. We seemed to be on the same page. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, and with at least half my blood exchanged for alcohol of various sorts, we returned to our building.

Jean-Sven stepped back in gentlemanly fashion to let me unlock my door. I felt relieved. I turned to say good-bye and thank you for the extraordinary treat—and he stood, warm and large and solid, just a few centimeters from me.

I stopped breathing.

Jean-Sven didn’t say anything. His pupils were huge and black. He put his fingers delicately on the thin strap of my dress, the one running over my left shoulder. His large hand was warm and trembling. Then, ever so slowly, he pushed the strap down, onto my arm.

I could have, should have, stopped him.

He lowered his mouth to my shoulder and pressed his mouth into my flesh.

I still wasn’t breathing.

Jean-Sven ran his mouth up and over to the hollow of my neck.

At that point, I bolted inside.

Now one wonders how much one must confess to one’s spouse? Nothing happened, really. Nothing. And I’ve spend the day repenting for the nothing that happened.

In fact, I’ve been so sternly abstemious that I am having a pastry and wine for dinner. Would you approve? Doubtful, since you already disapproved of me quite thoroughly before I left.

Day 5: Letter to a Friend

Day 4: Letter to a friend
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Day 4: Letter to a friend

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Day 4: Letter to a friend
The light at this time of year stretches seductively far into the evening—even at 9:30 or 10, a honeyed lucence falls on everything—it leaves me drunk with wakefulness, my nerve endings silkily keyed up, and wrestling around on the bed, unable to sleep. Then I wake too late in the morning and scold myself for getting to work haphazardly. Unrepentant I.

Today I went to the Musee Jean Moulin, where I learned anew how important propaganda was during WW2. Now we have pedestrian advertising, but then both sides, Allies and Axis, sought to gain entrance into hearts and minds. And did you realize how many French were conscripted to work in Germany, to feed the industrial war machine?

When I returned home, Mme Durand waited at my door. Had she been inside my apartment? Weirdest feeling, like octopus tentacles writhing, that she had! Her stern face gave away nothing. She said, “I have too much pain today with my hip.”

“I used to be a healer, shall I try to help you?” I asked, holding up my hands, palms out.

She muttered something in French which I translated into a directive ordering me to keep my *!@# * hands to myself. She thrust a brown-paper-wrapped package at me. “You will take this to the Gare du Nord and deliver it to Francois at 4:00. Do not be late.” Then she bustled into her apartment and slammed the door before I could query her further. Who is Francois, and how will I find him?

I took the package inside and examined it without opening it. Darned if it wasn’t the package given to Mme Durand by the argumentative couple. To my inquisitive fingertips, it felt like a painting in an elaborately carved frame. I must confess—I took the painting to the window and checked out the tape that sealed the edges—Wanted to know if I’d be able to unwrap and rewrap. Curiosity etc. But the tape was firmly applied. I couldn’t get inside undetected, and the coy light through the paper revealed only the indistinct ridges of a frame.

Jean-Sven heard me leaving at 3:30 and rushed down to inform me that he was taking me to dinner. Angelique has a gig and she’s rehearsing today. “Wear something sexy,” he said, his blue eyes smiling.

“By sexy, you mean clean?” I clarified. I’ve been writing a lot, so I’m usually in stinky yoga togs, and throw on whatever’s at hand to go out. This is my writing space; personal grooming is, while not exactly optional, certainly pared down to a minimum.

Jean-Sven gave me a look of pure exasperation. You’d have to be half French and half Swede to look that disgusted. “A dress, one that is superbe,” he commanded. So I am glad that the Wayward Countess advised me to pack the long red silk sheath. “One never knows,” she said. Indeed.

I arrived at the Gare du Nord promptly at 4:00—you remarked once that I was extraordinarily punctual, it’s an old, bad habit of mine—I wasn’t there for two minutes when a man bumped into me. He murmured something in Hebrew and took the package. He winked and vanished into the crowd. I was left standing with my mouth agape. I hope that was Francois!

On the way home I wandered into the Luxembourg Gardens, and an exquisite, soul-ravishing Chagall show. His works were burned by Nazis and shown in their “Degenerate art” show.

Now I’m sitting at my little desk, gussied up enough to please even the most exacting Franco-Swede. I’m posting my latest missive and waiting for Jean-Sven, whom I shall remind about my marital status. You are probably entirely unaware of these notes, which come to you so fondly and so gratefully for your part in this. If you even care; you are so very well defended, and have forgotten that we are not all that way. Some of us are open. Well, til tomorrow, with my warmest thoughts.