Destiny, n. A tyrant's authority for crime and a fool's excuse for failure. (A. Bierce, ibid, p. 31)
pours in Pyrex blue mug(unusualness)
Faubourg Haussmann dejá profferin' articulate embarrassing Harlequin proceed should dejá vu
"You look in distress, maiden." I nod. "I slept with a guy last night... and this morning too." "Hm. Nothing new on that front." "It was different this time. I don't know what happened. It didn't seem right." "Why, you're in love, by any chance?" "Oh god, no. He's such a jerk." "What did he do, beat you up?" "No, not really. I don't know, everything was so artificial. I feel very bad about it." "Should I remind you that this is not the first time? You always feel bad afterwards. I don't know why you keep sleeping with men who don't respect you." "I would like to know that myself. Oh, I couldn't say no, after all the provoking came from me. He's so different from all others. He's one of them, you know, the good people." "Aha! So you met him at that party? You want to tell me about it?" "No. Yes. No, better not." "Why?" "I want to forget about it. I'll never see him again, he makes me feel like an object. I don't mind feeling like a whore, I'm used to it. But he uses me, he used me this morning and he didn't care that I wasn't there. Read me one of your poems, please." Not a good idea; what he has written recently doesn't please him yet, the old stuff out of his mind. Instead, he puts on some fast gay tunes and poures me some coffee, in Pyrex blue cup.
"I'll have to meet someone in an hour or so. You can stay here, if you want, and wait until I come back. Or you can go to the Cafe, I can meet you there when I'm done." Yes, good idea. Tried to reach Paul on the phone, but no answer. Amuse myself at the thought of him in similar situation as mine, imagine him in bed with young, attractive blonde.... Fantasy stops being amusing. Leave flat with Marcel.Am ticked at finding bar deserted by most of our friends; only a few occasional customers spread around the empty tables. Fee uncomfortable about that and sit at the counter. Good old Georges, always rough with me, but today he perceives the insolity of my state.
"Drinks on the house." Am surprised, him, so unusual of our bartender, but then again, he must be used to serving drinks at credit without any hope of being paid back. I appreciate this offer and opt for red wine, which he knows I don't like. "How about some champagne?", he adds. Smile at him, look ironic. "Isn't it a bit expensive, Georges?" "It doesn't matter, as long as it can make my little girl happy, today it's a special day." And he pours some golden liquid in a large wine glass and leaves the bottle in front of me. "Oh yea, what day is it?", ask cynically. "It's cheer-up-the-depressed day." I gulp down glass after glass until champagne starts making itself felt. Great improvement over body and soul. I'm in love with the whole city once again. Friends start arriving, good timing, renewed optimism and am swallowed up by the gang. Recent events are totally forgotten. As soon as Marcel joins us, we all adjourn the party to his place, bringing in bottles and books. Pleasant afternoon follows, spent talking, drinking, playing tunes, laughing, ended with a relaxing, talkative night spent in Marcel's bed, which he has generously offered me. Funny feelings aroused, but repressed at the fetal stage and amicably converse with dear dear friend. He chivalrously sleeps in the couch at the entrance hall.
Next day, as I wander around the streets of fancy Foubourg, I'm reminded of my old promise (made in old days of young, successful school-life) that if I ever get the chance to visit Paris, it would be my duty as a human being to look for the places where Proust lived, ate, pissed, talked, vomited... So, first stop of my pilgrimage is Boulevard Hausmann, where my hero had lived for quite many years. I have some trouble finding the right number, as I am not sure whether the place is located east or west of the Galleries Lafayette. At last, thanks to a couple of kind passers-by and to a lightening of memory, I manage to find the right number. As I approach no. 102, something tells me that I've been here before, but think it just an illusion due to my willingness to believe I'm his reincarnation, and ask the porter to let me go up to the apartment. The little dark man gesticulates that ce n'est pas une chose facile, but he indicates the elevator and the number of the flat I want. The elevator is very large, an old, prime condition, cast-iron box, which also smells as if nobody had touched it since the times of Proust, and is furnished with comfortable cushioned seat and mirror, for the vain ladies of fin-de-siecle Paris.
Finally lift to second floor, which is sending me more and more painfully familiar hints, too strong a sensation for a simple deja vu, ring door-bell a couple of times. Some noises and voices come through the door, which makes me feel very guilty for disturbing decent people at dinner time. As I'm about to forget the whole business, the door opens and the figure appearing in front of me is even more than just a familiar face, it's Jacques. Ridiculous figure in silly silk kimono, sandals and ruffled hair. What the hell! My surprise is nothing compared to his and his mouth has opened into a wide gaping motion. "Oh, well... you... hi..." He fails to profer any more than just inarticulated sounds. "Well, hi to you. Sorry to bother you, I didn't realize you lived here. See you later." "Wait. Did you come to see me?" "No, I came to see Proust. Don't look at me like that, it's true. I was curious to see the apartment where he lived, but never mind. I think I'll leave it to my imagination." Etiquette would suggest he should invite me in, but I can see very well he doesn't really want me in, and I certainly don't want to either. He finally comes to his senses and suggests, in some ambiguous way, that we should meet later on, at Tortoni's, and maybe we can talk. I'm sure in his dictionary, under the word "talk" I would find "entangling your body with that of a person of the opposite sex". Instinctively mutter that it's not important after all, and close the cast iron door on his idiotic face.
Given this embarassing shift of direction in my search for the lost Proust, I decide to call it a quit for the day and take myself for a healthy walk in the Bois de Boulogne. On a nice cheerful sunny day like this, most children are playing and running around composing heavenly choruses of white voices. Mothers sitting on the side benches chatting and knitting or reading the French equivalent of the Harloquin Romances or some good Pagnol or Simenon. La Grande Cascade is very tempting. The large moustached ice-cream vendor with white and red striped apron hands me a 10F cone with a 32 teethed smile. I sit on a bench myself, enjoying my glob of glasse and start reading ”Les plaisirs et les jours”. Just as I'm about to find out what happens to Violante, a masculine voice wakes me up from Proustian stupor.
"There you are! I've been searching all over Paris for you." I turn and see Paul's face smiling, blissfully forgetful of human sorrow. "Oh hallo. I'm so sorry, I didn't come to the hotel this morning." "Yes, I noticed. So you had a good time these past couple of days?" "Well, it's a long story. Are you mad?" Question certainly devoid of all meaning, as I can see very well his mood bears no traces of anger. "Eh? no, not at all. I imagined you were in good hands with Jacques. What a guy, ha?" He sure is a guy, that Jacques. "So, he made you forget all about me, didn't he? That's just beautiful!" "Oh, Paul," says I, failing to get the irony, "I didn't forget you, but if you knew what happened." "But you were supposed to forget me. You didn't mess it up, did you?" "No, you don't understand. I didn't have a good time. If only you had stopped it... oh, it's all so fucked!" Paul sits very close to me and pours his gentle arm around my shoulders. "You want to talk about it?" "How can you be his friend? How well do you know him?" "I know him, but that's not any of your business. He didn't hurt you, did he?" "No. Well, yes, he did." Paul doesn't comment on this, but his face has darkened considerably. Usually it takes a lot to make him mad, and I realize now how much I mean to him. I'm having an attack of guilt, again. I proceede to narrate the whole story, trying not to exaggerate and share the blame of the events, after all I understood what kind of a person he was right from the start. I try to minimize pain, but my grammar can tell more than my acting; broken sentences, mixture of tenses, plurals for singulars and singulars for plurals. Paul is getting mad. As soon as I finish my story, he looks away, grumbling, alternating grumbling action with various colorful expressions, addressed at Jacques I imagine. Or is it me?Actualize doubt in some words and answer comes to the effect that I was wrong both times; it's about himself.
"What an idiot!" "Paul, calm down. It's not all that bad, you know. I'm not used to it, that's all." "I told him to be gentle, that you're different from the others; I know I shouldn't have trusted him." A new feeling is rising from my stomach to my lungs and is pushing upward through my throat. I perceive it's my turn to change mood. "What? You are not saying...? What are you saying, Paul?" He turns toward me. "Getting tough with me, cat? Look, I'm sorry, you should not have been hurt. You know how much I care, I just meant good.", says he, accompanying apology with patronizing petting. "Good? And you knew he's violent? Why didn't you tell me? Why did you let him go through with it?" "If I had told you, you'd have been scared and you would not have been cooperative. He's a good person to have on our side, remember that. Besides it should have turned out differently. I'm sorry it turned out this way. But he'll have to pay extra for this." "I don't care about him. He's a scoundrel and I'll never see him again." "Wait a minute, just a minute. You seem to have forgotten something. Who took you out of the drain? Didn't we make a pact, my little cat?" "...and I was supposed to be cooperative." "That's right. A promise is a promise." "Even though he did what he did?" "That's different, that's between me and him. But you have to be nice, at least do it for me. Now, if you're done with your pastoral meditations, we could return home, alright?" "Yes, Paul." Afternoon event emerges as a potential story to tell, but why bother. It would only get me into more trouble for having refused myself. Get up and start walking toward the Ritz.