Desolation in Multitudes at St Germain des Pres
Masked Paris Dancer à les Deux Magot. (c) Tim Carey 2011, all rights reserved
He had been out all day, getting an early start with a few hours at the Louvre. Another hour spent wandering the 6th Arrondissement, searching for artwork in the quirky little galleries that line the rue de Seine. A couple of hours pretending to read the International Herald Tribune at a prominent cafe while secretly watching the most fashionable people in Paris getting drenched in a summer shower.
The Louvre had lived up to expectations. The formerly controversial pyramid entrance was surprisingly efficient at funneling the thousands of visitors into the three great pavilions: Richelieu, Sully, and Denton. Once in the pavilions, though, the crowds were truly crushing. It was hard to have a few private moments with Aphrodite when surrounded by couple of hundred other people. The camera flashes were a major distraction. He moved toward the Etruscan and Roman exhibits hoping to avoid the crowds and was suddenly face to face with an impressive marble sculpture of the Emperor Trajan. A nice experience with only one other patron, even if that patron was brandishing the ubiquitous, obligatory, cell phone camera. He had a similar good experience viewing Giampietrino’s The Death of Cleopatra, a work apparently not very high on the priority list of the visiting throngs. He peeked into the gallery that housed the Mona Lisa, after deciding that he couldn’t have visited the Louvre without at least taking a look. It was impossible to see anything. The crowds were too dense to allow a close approach. Her bullet proof enclosure obscured all but the barest outlines of the painting.
The skies were threatening when he departed the Louvre, crossing over the Pont du Carrousel to the left bank. It was easy to linger at the book sellers stalls that line the river. He was of a mind to pick a French copy of Voltaire’s Zadig, not that his French was good enough to actually read it. It would disappear into his library as part of his ever increasing unfinished list of things to do: in this case to become fluent enough in French to read Voltaire in the original. He slowly wound his way along the river bank and found a copy of Voltaire, although not a very good edition. Still at E 4.50, it would suffice.
The galleries along the rue de Seine were disappointing, overpriced and trendy. It was easy to admire the technical artistry and construction techniques, and the bold use of color, especially of the ceramic pieces. But in the end they seemed to be presented and marketed as mere accessories to owners of fashionable apartments rather than as serious statements by artists looking to connect with serious collectors. He gave up and hurried to Les Deux Magot, across the street from the church. The cafe exactly matched his memories of twenty years ago. The first few rain drops were starting to fall as he managed to secure the last available table under the awning.
He ordered a light lunch of salad and pate, and a glass of wine. He perused the paper, but his attention was really on his fellow patrons. Next to him were two Islamic girls, in head scarves, he was careful not to make eye contact. There was a boisterous party of middle-aged men and thirty-something women. At another table a group of waif thin sixty year old women. As the rain increased, crowds of shoppers bearing their designer shopping bags headed for the shelter of the awning in increasing numbers. They were uniformly soaked, clothes and hair plastered to them. He stole surreptitious glances at the people around him. They were mostly women, consistent with being in the shopping district. But there were also families, and tourists, and groups of men. Dozens.
Eventually, he abandoned even the pretense of reading the paper. It was striking to realize that he was completely surrounded by people, being jostled every few seconds by someone, being dripped on by someone else’s closing umbrella, being dangerously close to the young girls in the next seats. He was completely surrounded by people and yet, curiously, he also realized that he was completely and utterly alone, as alone as he would have been on the face of the moon in spite of the pressing crowds.
[I thought and thought and thought about sending her a text message, I had been thinking about it for hours, days.]
He looked out at the plaza and ordered another glass of wine, a surprisingly good Sancerre Blanc. The Islamic girls had departed; the rain was letting up. The overflow crowd was resuming their activities, in a few minutes he was alone physically as well as spiritually. The sun broke through the clouds, a surprise. A saxophone player arrived, accompanied by a masked dancer. The music was ethereal, the dancing surreal. He was captivated, enchanted. He dropped twenty Euros into the hat, an absurdly high amount.
Suddenly decisive, he quickly finished his wine, paid the check, and departed. Crossing the street to the taxi stand, he gave the address to his hotel. This was an extravagance, it would have been only a fifteen minute walk instead of a fifteen Euro taxi ride, but suddenly he wanted nothing more than to get to the hotel, to get away from all of this. The taxi crossed the Seine at the Pont de Concorde and with a few quick turns and in a few quick moments arrived at his hotel. He greeted the hotel desk clerk, who rose to return the greeting, ever proper. He impatiently waited for the slow ancient elevator to arrive, pushing the call button insistently.
[I left the café quickly and caught a cab back to my hotel. The driver was a little upset that the trip was so short and wanted to impose a surcharge. I paid his extravagant fare and got out of the cab. I gave a quick hello to the desk clerk and waited forever for the elevator. At that point all I wanted was a nap.]
Once inside his suite, he locked the door and pushed the ne pas déranger button, to keep the housekeeping staff from disturbing him. He undressed completely and quickly slipped into bed. The afternoon sun streamed through the curtains. Suddenly he was restless and couldn’t sleep. He fiddled with his phone, finally figuring out how to set it to emit an audible signal if she texted. This didn’t stop him from lying awake checking the phone every few minutes. Eventually sleep came to him.
[I fell asleep listening to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. I have to call her, or text, or something…]
(c) Combat Press, 2014, all rights reserved
wtimothycarey 