My first day in Paris is punctuated by the closing of L'Arsouille--a shaky old
bar, deified nightly by its grateful regulars. The jukebox in the corner stands
at constant attention as leagues of slow, bent men use its collection of french
standards to revive dead days. The bar buzzes with yellow light and offers its
patrons a series of unapologetic wooden tables. A core group of about 20 aging
painters stand together at the bar, as broken and French as revolution. They
are a blur of tattered jean and berets. I imagine traces of charcoal lining
their nail beds and shading their temples. At some undivinable moment they
break formation and disperse, spreading their wisdoms and follies with the
tentative periphery of students gathered to see the show. The "real
world" show. In honor of this institution's temporary closing, the owner
has arranged busy platters of charcuterie and cheese at every table. His
panting wife rushes to replace each party's dwindling baguette while the more
familiar clientele ensure the circulation of free pints. I am at a table surrounded by my boyfriend's friends, "Les Copins." It's the first time i've seen them in months so I don't have the courage to jump back into crooked, clunky French. There is a comfort in being surrounded by alien phrases. I can smile and nod and attempt to decipher words, if i'm feeling lively. I can also sit back and stare blankly into my beer or a mirror or the street and be completely justified in it. I can enjoy the lightness and optimism of drinking without interruption. I can drink alone, together. From the cover of foreigness, i can spy. Be a witness to the scene. See myself at the table, in the lipstick, next to the dancing.
I am here to be surprised. That's what I say. Truer than that might be that i'm here to inhabit a role I've been preparing for my whole life. A role in which I pout and drink wine with lunch and smoke cigarettes in bed and sleep with mustacheod men and am a feminist. A role loosely based on Jean Seberg's life. This is the French Dream. I was aware of these dark motivations every time I claimed, "I am going to learn the language," or "I am going to be independent." These acceptable answers are only dishonest in that they are side-effects or benefits of the ultimate French wisdoms: how to reconcile abandon and restraint in every gesture. How to admire excess but stay just shy of it. How to be earnest without being soft.
A cord of blue jollity binds us drinkers as we discuss where we will find
refuge from snow and sobriety once L'Arsouille's doors are finally shut. The
chorus to "La Boheme" is picked up and dropped along the room. A
certain hunched Spaniard with thick, fanned wrinkles, passes around business
cards to blushing girls. The cards read, "JE SUIS UN ETRE HUMAIN
QUI RESPECTE TOUT LE MONDE ET QUI NE JUGE PERSONNE." A brave young parisian takes the veteran
womanizer by the hand and leads him to the small dance floor. He capitalizes on
her casual flirtation and grips her firmly by the small of her back, pressing
his hard face against her soft one, and spinning her in the boxy circles of an
amateur tango.I get up and needle my way between two bodies exaggerated by winter-wear--getting across a bar is a feat due to the unshakeable popularity of puffy jackets. I am finally spit out, as through an ice chute, and ricochet off the bar.
"Trois pints s'il vous plait?" the order comes out a truncated question.
"Comment?" I am asked, understandably.
"Trois pints." The second time is always harder because my accent has usually caught at least one bystander's attention.
We go back and forth for a bit until I motion towards the tap, at which point my nemesis throws up her arms in surprise. Two men to my left are amused by my performance and decide to see how i do under pressure.
"ja vous blah jean cloc"...the first one seems to say. His big watery eyes blink once, firmly, in the sorry pause.
"Pardon?" I attempt, the heavy "R" sticking to the bottom of my throat.
"Where you from?" his friend asks.
"California."
"Oh Good." The men share a look and a laugh, "We thought maybe England."
"Really? You're happy that i'm American?."
"Bien sur!"
"But...why?"
"Because you didn't kill Jean D'Arc, manifestement!"
The lights are dimmed. We, Les Copins, move to the back of the room. Drunk enough to dance. The boys are shuffling and bobbing in arrhythms--occasional arm activity for flare. We morph into a loose circle. We disband when we remember the indignity of obvious affection. Glasses are broken and swept. We go.
