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Realism, n. The art of depicting nature as it is seen
by toads. The charm suffusing a landscape painted by a mole, or a story
written by a measuring worm. (A. Bierce, "The Devil's
Dictionary", p. 107)
part iiiIl pleure dans mon coeur Paris is a wonderful lady, she too is greyish, but how different from her Southern cousins. Maybe the absence of a port, of which Marseille can be rightly very proud, or lack of a beach, glory of Cannes or Menton, maybe the Northern location and presence of large old motherly Seine, she makes no effort to remain an elegant old aristocrat. Paris, seductive whore lures you at every corner, attended by all her servants to trap you under her large, folded skirts. La Seine, much larger but equally placid than her half-brother Tiber, soothed me with green soft waters, laced with strolling couples. Le Bois de Boulogne opened up its infinite extensions to my aimless wanderings and many times I've found shelter by its lakes and les petits allees. Paris in the rain, Paris on a sunny day, Paris hectic business, Paris lazy sleepy, Paris on vacation, Paris party animal, Paris elegant, Paris violent, Paris cozy cafes and cafe-au-lait, Paris miser, Paris chauvinist, Paris magnate of the arts. Each face would remind me of places seen before, of people met and lost, of fallen hopes, and each face has given me unjustified hope of happiness. I conquered Paris' heart, and she conquered mine. I couldn't leave. My entrance into Parisian society was a dope. Paul managed to take me to one of Mme. Finale's elegant gatherings of decadent older people. I had mixed feelings about how I wanted to look, and had conflicting ideas as to what I should wear. Paul didn't, however, he had perfectly clear ideas of how I should look, sensuous and elegant with simplicity. In the end I opted for simple silk black dress given to me by my mother with red scarf to decor naked shoulders. There, in one of the old apartments in old, renewed Foubourg St. Germain, I felt I expected to repeat one of several Proustian experiences and was relatively ready to face same kind of people. Whole party was a gag. In spite of Paul's support, I was a stranger among his friends and I looked like one. Didn't feel like talking to anyone and most people ignored me no problem. All of them quite rich, well established individuals, hardly imparented with the old aristocratic wealth I expected, talking about things I didn't understand nor care about and in a fashion which was completely indifferent to me. I wanted to leave. Am approached by rather large and flabby businessman, wide mouth, gross goopy lips, with a speech disorder, and blatantly wealthy, which makes him very attractive. He tells me I have class and must be the reincarnation of an Egyptian queen (useless flattery, men always like to play for real even when it is granted to them). As we start making usual arrangements for later rendez-vous, Paul signals not to bother. Content myself with sitting and drinking and waiting for Paul. Drinks are good and I hide myself in glasses after glasses of champagne. Paul then comes to me, as I'm sitting in flowery couch, reflecting upon my martinis and starting to feel sickly drunk. "Here, let me introduce you to a very good friend of mine. Jacques this is Madeleine, my fiancee. Madeleine this is Jacques Laforęt, famous World Champion of Formula 1. Jacques, Madeleine is a big fan of yours." For that importune introduction, I should have hated Paul, who had accompanied his presentation with a malicious smile. I had much to object to what he had said: first of all, I didn't want him to say 'fiancee’; secondly, I was not a big fan of anyone, nor did I appreciate it being propagandized; and thirdly, at that point, I didn't want to be introduced to anyone at all. Not being a lady myself, I wasn't in the mood nor in the condition most appropriate for pointless arguing, making a fool of myself in front of such celebrated people. Gracefully, meekly shake hands with young hero, all dressed up and rather impressive looking. Paul leaves me alone in
order to pursue his own social interests, I have to face the situation,
like it or not. Rather banal conversation ensues, centering on more or
less automotive issues. He asks me what I am doing in general, which
bothers me, and vaguely reply that I do what I want, including drinking.
Hypocritically he laughs, because he thinks I made a joke and makes a
blatant effort to sound interested in my blabberings. I would have
preferred him to be honest, come to the real purpose of our encounter and
cut off embarrassing conversation. Instead, I have to keep up a dialogue
which resembles more and more a monologue in monotone. We talk about what
he does during the off-season, how he became a racer, the opposition of
his old aristocratic family and other things about him. Foggy dreams I express interest in being introduced to the most prestigious pilot present in the room, and more effective than Aladdin's lamp, this innocent wish takes on the vigor of a command and am instantly introduced to Jacques Laforet. Am not very impressed; in dreaming haze where my brain is floating now prevents me from realizing el tamano de la realidad, am therefore induced into thinking my interlocutor means nothing to me, like anyone else at this party; his drunken, casual appearance, the poverty of his clothes (strikingly opposed to party "theme") apparently suggest kinship to a sort of intelligentsia. Feel very sharp, very witty and with as great a command of the English language as I've ever had; for once I feel equal to my interlocutor. Forget it's not a dream, feel more daring in my speech than I have ever felt with a stranger; everything in our conversation is intense and simple at the same time; the way he talks, things we say, laughter we share, all seem so natural and familiar, as if I had known him for a long time. We both get so enwrapped in our private little talk I completely lose concept of time and we both show unwillingness to be interrupted by the few people left in the room where we have confined our talk and ourselves. Maybe the fatigue originated by the character of a party I am hardly familiar with, maybe unsuspected qualities of conversational skills, or maybe thanks to intimate nature of our conversation, whatever the reason, he seems really entranced and oblivious (as much as I am) of surrounding confusion and fun, and we decide to escape from crowd and refuge ourselves in a smaller room, soon to take off again. This time we walk outside, we begin wandering aimlessly. Orphan moonless night endlessly black. Sense of obscurity. The tone and the scope of our talk shifted as soon as we left the party. Rhythm slown down considerably, we both fall into musing silence. Feeling of comfort and familiarity with my companion strengthened by physical and spiritual closeness, gradually replaced by ulterior motives; we have grown even closer, since we have noticed a link in sensibility and interests. Our conversation and our steps take us to the beach, where tired legs and heavy thoughts demand we sit down and rest our minds as well as our bodies. Water is black and quiet, in rhythmically slow, relaxing motion. Behind us, sleepless city is being possessed by "bright lights" and "reckless activities". All socialites, jetsetters and whatnot are crammed in clubs, bars, cafes, or any possible party-like place. We are very much alone in our nonsocial little gathering by the sand. The night is so calm, only a little fresh breeze moves the thick air and refreshes our hot faces. We sit in silence. "What are you thinking about?" Giggle mildly. "Something funny?" "Yes, you." Men, always asking same questions. "This is quite pleasant, you know?" "Indeed." Silence again. "So, you live in the U.S. of A." "Yes. At least for the time being." He looks at me with questions on his mind. So I answer them, reluctantly. "My first marriage brought me over there, and then... It's a long story, you don't really want to hear it." "I've got time." "Usual stereotypical housewife middle-age crisis. Betty Friedman would love me. I went through a terrible period until I found Paul, who put me back together. So, I never left, I never thought of that." "Have you ever been to Switzerland?" "A couple of times, when I was a child. My father always loved to travel, but I was too young to appreciate it. Why?" "Have you ever been on Lake of Geneva?" "It's possible, I don't remember." "I live there, you know? It's very nice, secluded, you'd like it there. See, I like to travel too, but you have to have a home somewhere. Geneva is a place like any other, only more similar to my temperament than the rest." "Why not France? You are French, aren't you?" "Certainement, ma petite." What a joker! I'm not amused. "I don't like the Swiss." "Come on, now! What's wrong with the Swiss?" "I guess you haven't noticed. I think they're fascist, they don't let women vote, they are xenophobic and only care for money. Otherwise, they're clean, even too clean." "I understand. But if you live in the French part, it's quite different. It's not the same in every part of Switzerland, you know. So, I feel pretty secluded at Yens, nobody bothers me, and I don't bother them. I don't speak German. Politically speaking, I don't give a damn about what they do." To this I look at him reproachfully, so he adds: "I know, I should care, but look at my situation: how can I care? I hardly have time to spend with Jenny." Wife? Daughter? "I didn't know you were married. I'm sorry." "Sorry? What's there to be sorry about? Not for you, anyway. I'd rather not talk about it, it's a quite story, but not for publication, yet. All I care is racing. I love cars, I love to talk about cars, or get into the specifics of driving and engineering. Do you like to talk about cars? You're smart, I could talk with you about cars for hours, you understand. Not like those stupid assholes, all they care is autographs, right?" Right. Can't refrain
from blushing. Admittedly autograph pretty much on my Grand Prix shopping
list, but opportunity never came up. Unexpected statement reminder of
something now has little importance to me, I have the original now next to
me. Manage to confuse blushing action with overall darkness which
envelopes us and, naturally, avoid answering rhetorical questions. Warm,
filled silence ensues. Rather confused, weird, and am tempted to make a
move (bad idea for a woman in my situation to make first move, very bad!).
Repress it, remain absent, motionless, and thoughtless for an imprecise
length of time. Am awakened from this sort of sleep by his taking my hand
and kissing it. Renewed blushing, once again disguised thanks to moonless
night. "You in love?" Painted Faubourg (related) embarrassing vigor interlocutor enwrapped begin wandering aimlessly. Plagiarize, v. To take the thought or style of another writer whom one has never, never read. (A. Bierce, ibid, p. 100) [Martin, as you can see, I haven't devised a title yet, do you have any suggestions? I'd like something musical, although I understand there is nothing musical about this story, even hardly harmonic, but I like to pretend I'm an intellectual. Or else, I would like some subtle reference to the work of M.P.: "In search for men past"? Kind of presumptuous... maybe "Men and days"? I give up! You figure it out, I'm tired. Augusta] [A., no title is fine really, there is always time for it later. Don't worry about this. Actually, I kind of like the musical theme myself, something on theme... variations on a theme? M.] Men: Variations on a Theme [Like this?] [Sure. Anything you say...] part i"Would you like to go on a honeymoon, dear?" "Paul, honeymoons are for married people, you should know that." "True true. Let's do it anyway. Let's move somewhere Nice, how about it, then?" This time the idea was to go to Southern France and stay there for a month or two, for the end of spring and beginning of summer; daytimely lay on the beach or tour around the inland, attend to corridas, visit Provencal cathedrals; nightly parties, meet interesting people, becoming acquainted with celebrities, writers on vacation, artists residing in Southern France, getting introduced to famous actors or actresses he once knew or still did. He didn't have to convince me, little did it matter, after all, we shared spirit of adventure, anything risky, I'm in love with the project. Southern France? Oh, yes, I remember: Arles, Marseille, hot humid summers, refreshing waters of Pont-du-Gard... "Let's go. When are we leaving?" And now we're off to France. What? [Is this some obscure reference? I don't see the point of this line at all. M.] [Martin, I think watching some nightly TV could actually improve your education. I'm sorry, though, I can't take it out just because you fail to recognize it, too bad. A.] We are both very good at handling money: we've got it, and we have to spend it all, until we've got more. It's not so much out of materialism that we splurge all the money in elegant or sophisticated clothes, jewelry, fancy cars, expensive hotels, cruises, and attend elegant social events. Beautiful objects with which we surround ourselves help making us happy, or rather, provide us with pleasure their beauty can offer. Pleasure is our trade, our life. Cruise is loads of fun, even though Paul keeps criticizing people on the ship for superficiality and/or lack of taste and brain, which frankly gets on my nerves and repeatedly tell him to shut up, only to resume commentary myself competitive nagging about attractive young women, and this gets on Paul's nerves. Other than that, we both love to sit on the deck and look at waters leaving a trail of garbage and seagulls. Here we are, at last, in sunny Cote Azure, settled down in our lovely hotel in Nice, devoting all of our time to visiting and having a big ball: we travel throughout Provencal countryside, paying visits to the Cathedral of Avignon, to the arena of Arles, to the old medieval buildings of Aix-en-Provence, and at night, frantic frenzy cool out at the Casino. I am working on a really nice bronzy tan by showing up in the sun only for frequent, but very short periods of time, spending the rest of the morning in the bars of the beach, fraternizing with local hunks, or, occasionally, swimming. Every day is spent in extremely intense frenzy, even when we go on strike as tourists and just sit like lumps on reclining chairs of hotel gardens. All this mumbo-jumbo to say that we both enjoy ourselves a great deal and I am very satisfied with the vacation overall. Fanatic lover of car racing, Paul would not miss Grand Prix of Montecarlo, for which he's got advance tickets. I know, when the moment arrives, he will use his connections to charm me introduced to some of these gods of speed. In order to experience this unprecedented adventure completely we will attend qualifying tests, friday and saturday preceding the race. For the sake of the race, I go out and splurge on a red tee-shirt with a large black horse in front, a red cap, a token white-and-black checker flag and tight black silk pants (which Paul thinks look very good on me, but is it worth extravagant expense?). Ferrari has always been the "team of my heart", I should say "of my weeping heart" thanks to a long history of failures. But this year they are doing very well, thanks especially to a new acquisition: the much idolized Jacques Laforet, whose driving talent I had already much appreciated ever since his debut in Formula One, at a time when anyone else was routing for more popular veterans. Even now, the most celebrated idol of all French women does not end up in Pole Position, but not to worry, per usual his ability will gain him the leadership once engaged in the heat of the race. The big day has arrived. Seated in the best stand of the whole track, facing starting-point. Rockets and aces are all set to start, in their smashing colors, roaring lions in crowded arena. The general attention is focused on the red light, on the Monegascan flag. Suspence! Green! [A., I find passage below to be rather immaturely frivolous. Can't we get rid of it? God only knows how much has already been done on GP races...] [M., if you like I can delete vroom vroom, but I don't see any reason why, simply because other movies have been made in the 60's, we should avoid shots of the race. We don't have to make it melodramatic. Its purpose is to introduce the driving genius of Jacques to the reader, that is why he should win. However, I don't want him to be overly sympathetic character, he's still a human being and actually I'd kind of go for a second or third place finish; or maybe retired from race, without any injury? What do you suggest? A.] {Vroom vroom,} one of the Lotuses has aggressively taken lead, followed by two Williams-Honda, then two smashing Ferrari's, and the rest of the group. The Ferrari no. 27 (Laforet) diligently, patiently follows the leaders with mathematical lucidity, with cold-blooded cruelty he soon passes the slower cars and the final duel is set up between him and the black Lotus. It's heart-breaking, it's nerve-wrecking, it's exciting. The track is very narrow and rarely allows my hero to pass big-egoed Senna. But, at the last gicane, with a rapid movement, accelerating before much-feared 90 degree curve before the end of the course, Jacques Laforet brutally passes his antagonist, forcing him to go astray. He's won! sour g-rapes - part i |