Absurdity, n. A statement of belief manifestly inconsistent with one's own opinion. (A. Bierce,ibid, p.9)
Gauloises renowned Barraultard about their aspirations flakyst, I'm not in danger, I like camaraderiere invigorating screeching portrayals unnecessary exuberant
The Cafe du sport was everything but a cave of sports fans. Tens of young poets and artists hung around there, sipping coffee and wine, chewing on hard boiled eggs, burning away stinking Gaulouises, gesticulating and flinging wide meaningful words in the air. Some of them would never find success and probably never pursued it. Others, not any more promising than the formers, very much more pushy and ambitious would certainly find fame one day. Among them I found a comfortable home. Conservatory singer Pierre, the "professor", Jeanne, curlied mad poet in black, Philippe, talented young actor, Rose, satirical political cartoonist, Gerard, Chopinist pianist, and Francoise, the dreamy-eyed poet, formed a tight group of friends, "la troupe," to which there were added other not recognized members, among whom ranked first place Marie, friendly dark-eyed, silencieuse waitress, and Georges, the fat, loud-mouthed bartender and owner.
Marcel was a young, very talented poet. This his pale round face. Black nocturnal waves his hair combed behind. Large the ragged clothes hanging on his bony structure. Pink small black-moustached lips softly ejaculating words in whining falsetto. Deep deep maroon eyes, black rings sign of pain, the chronic asthma consuming a precociously dying body. Shy and yet such an ingenious entertainer, slow waters under a bridge of good manners. The fire burning inside with desire bleeding through the light of his glances, hypersensitive to the pleasures of the flesh. Physical dexterity and strength sublimated in a feverish mind and soul. Funny clown at the dinner table, at Julien's or up in his smoky attic, little large room taped all over with insulting posters, performance announcements, theater programs, typed sheets scattered all around the floor, empty dirty cups, overflowing ashtrays, incenses half-burned, heavy air occasionally broken by violent drafts, the little electric stove and the electric heater near the never-done bed, hills of pillow and heaps of music scores, dry flowers, the picture of sweet sweet mother, the black piano in a corner, cause of several arguments with the old lady downstairs, and then, pens, pencils, clips, staples, envelopes naturally emanating from typewriter and desk.
Insistently begged, Marcel, obedient like a well trained police dog, would proceed into one of his renouned, delightful imitations, biting mockeries of people well known to us, impassive face, almost funny in spite of himself, become the character in question, we would burst into hysterical laughter. Jean-Louis, they used to call him, strong resemblance in our hearts to sweet sad Pierrot, Berrault himself. Cheerful at times, more often brooding, silently ruminating mysterious thoughts, shellfish in a sea of friends. A passionate lover, demanding jealous nature betrayed him many a time, fits and explosions inevitable surprise to all of his friends. Always forgiven, insignificant price to pay for all the joys and love he generously gave plenty of. Money he would give much but to give he had little.
We hit it off the moment we met. It was late, dinner time, after a long nauseating, existential day, refuge I found in this simple, crowded "cafe." Sitting at a small table in a corner, I opened my notebook and started writing impressions on my day, and on the lively bunch of friends, next-table neighbors, animated discussions, laughter, some making fools of themselves, one standing, squeaking like a beheaded rat, so loud, so happy, utterly intolerable. Drink my beer, write, smoke a cigarette or two.
Observe people coming and going. A young man, the squeaking rat from the bunch of friends, approaches me. His deep eyes strike me. Asks me what am I doing here all alone? and sees my notebook. He's drunk, and smells like it. He observes that Hemingway, too, used to sit in bars and write. Am not pleased with the comparison. He invites me to join his group. He's really nice and so free. I accept with reservations. He, Marcel, introduces me to his friends, they are very friendly also. Am intensely involved into interesting conversation on Kerouac, Corso and Brel with a tiny brunette, Jeanne, and a green-eyed doll, Simone. Drink mucho mucho, too mucho. Involuntary glances toward the gentleman who introduced me, talk to Pierre and Gá‚árard about their haspirations to a life of symphony, pleasantly notice that Gá‚árard is quite attractive, but kind of flakey.
Talk to Marcel, starting from shared political views on private property, through Artaud and Brecht, Corot and Braque, to suicide and oppressive parents. Enjoy the warm excitement of talking about such personal problems with absolute stranger felt brother, surrounded by friendly foreigners. He tells me about his sweet mother and I tell him about my understanding father. He regrets not having a brother (whom he would have named Paul, which bothers me), and I complain about Anne (whom I would have named Crudelia, and that amuses him). It's late and I must go home. Marcel drives me in his pale blue Ami 8 and affectionately kisses me on the cheek. I feel safe, he's honest, I'm not in danger, I like comradery in men, we part with an exchange of numbers. I went back to the Cafe many times and many more. I had to tell him what was bad about me, I had to show him my "darkest side" because I knew it was his own. The duplicity of my Parisian life, scandalous escapades balanced by penitent confessions to Marcel and reinvigorating cleansing in good company. Business of love provides us with a decent roof and elegant meals skreaching beer and wursteln on a marble table. Nausea and art. Either at the cafe or upstairs in his room, he was always available, his flat ultimate refuge after erratic excursions.
Even though too busy to talk to me, he wouldn't tell me, but I could understand absent mute expression prompt me to leave. At times, he would look for me, just to show me or play for me a new song. Some of his poems were political, most of them were images, sensations which he skillfully transplanted into the page, others were witty sketches of "intellectuals," meticulous, ridiculous caricatures of well known stereotypes. Glimpses of conversations ferocious protrayals. An enemy of meaningless sentimentality, he wrote himself occasional love songs whose
source was a mysterious Therese, obvious pseudo for God knows which of us. No revelation confirmed our suspicions. O Marcel, dear dear Marcel, very good friend. I really loved him dear. Precious his suggestions, soothing his words, sincere his tears, never an angry word for me. Maybe, maybe it wasn't all that platonic between us, maybe something about those white cheeks, or those hanging moustaches, or about his voice touched my guts.
Maybe we should have tried. We didn't, or we came close but stopped in time. Something incestuous in the thought of sleeping with Marcel yet provocative. Unexpressed mutual feelings left unending uncertainty about the mutuality of unexpressed feelings. Less confusing than it sounds, our friendship, although vorticous and passionate, was of the simplicity of the egg. Malicious, tender glances across the table, unecessary, pleasant touching, poems why should I like poems only Therese should enjoy?
And while we were playing a silent sexual game, my physical sexuality found satisfaction by the side of men whom I did not care for, an ornament on their business menu. Wish it had been you, too late, I came too late, what seemed platonic interest too late revealed one-way friendship. Crushes for shallow nomads kept my heart throbbing for nothing and blind to a clear, now even too obvious, perspective.He could have been one of those high paying clients, but for the rebellion against his family and the need to lead an irregular life, made it impossible for him to remain in the high society, let alone with his family. Brelian conscience, few regrets he still reserved to that voluntary exile of pride. Bridges far from being completely broken, though, several visits and letters were almost daily exchanged with his mother. Possessive, dear mother, he tried to run away from, but back he always came; whether for money, or advice, or help getting addictive medicines. And she would warn him against irresponsible use of adrenaline or trional. He hated his father, strict, severe, neuro-physician, absent from the life of his only child. Marcel was utterly afraid of him, of his sarcastic judgments on his "bohemian" life, on the types he frequented, on the things he did. "Get a real job! We don't need another clown in the family." The "other clown" was uncle Adolphe, who had left wife and children to follow a circus (today one of children's favorite acrobatic clowns). His father was right, he was not making a living out of his poetry, but private piano lessons compensated sufficiently secret motherly allowances. And even if he had ever thought of getting a regular office job, or a prestigious position, more to his father liking, those remarks, those bitter criticisms set him off to the opposite direction. His mother, sweet and patient, and yet more strict than her husband, diplomatic mediator between her two men.
Marcel had some reservations about my exhuberant, frivolous lifestyle, although never once he reproached me for "immoral" behavior, nor did he criticize frequenting vain, pretty people, but a hint of envy in his words, a tone of irritation in his voice transpired through recountings of happy adolescence spent in the best neighborhood of Paris. Among his new friends he had found art and pleasure, which his older friends could not give, only influential connections they could provide. All this often ended into oral daydreaming with me of being one day rich and famous living in a happy commune (concept which I failed to grasp, but happily accepted since coming from his mouth).