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An American in Paris, 1929


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After their walk in the Tuileries gardens, Marthe and Isabelle sat themselves down at a café on the Rue de Rivoli to enjoy a lemonade and bask in the idle nonchalance that descended upon Paris in the month of August. Marthe was particularly fond of the Tuileries; she liked to say the gardens were ‘chic à la française’. “When you think about the history of those gardens, and what they’ve seen – it makes my head spin!” She thought about this every time she crossed the gardens from the Place de la Concorde towards the Louvre museum. Isabelle liked the plants. She knew the name of every flower and bush she saw, but the summer’s oppressive heat had yellowed the leaves of the garden’s elms and alders; the tulips were wilted, the hyacinths had dried out and the pansies stooped over.

“I need to swim, this heat is too much. Next time, let’s go to one of those places where you can swim in the river,” Marthe suggested.

“Oh yes! We can stay until the evening time, then go dancing at a guingette and drink wine in good company! I’ve been lonely since Jules left.” 

“That Jules was a nutcase!”

“But he was handsome,” sighed Isabelle.

“We’ll find you another beau who won’t spend all his time partying with dancers and hussies in Pigalle.”

“He was an artist! Artists need to let loose a bit, don’t they?”

“Artists are all beggars. What about those men behind us? They’re easy enough on the eye. Which one do you want?” Marthe said, only half-jokingly.

“The cute one with the hat. I like the cute ones. And he has blue eyes — they give me butterflies every time!”

“Well that’s settled, the other one has more class about him anyway. But they’re speaking English; must be Americans.”

 

Isabelle turned and batted her lashes at the blue-eyed dandy. He smiled at her. He had a strange breed of small dog with him; a kind she’d never seen in Paris. He must be rich if he was travelling with his pet!

“That’s a lovely hat!” Isabelle told him.

Jaxon and James!” answered the American in his new-world accent. “You must excuse me; my French is poor. This is my dog; he’s a Border Terrier.”

“What brings you to Paris? Are you a tourist?” Marthe asked him.

“I'm here on business with my associate Michael here.”

“Oh, so you’re here for work,” Isabelle said, with less enthusiasm in her voice.

“And other things,” he answered with a charming smile.

 

Marthe and Isabelle looked at one another knowingly. Marthe thought about it for a moment; she’d never been that enthused about America. It was so far away. She liked living in Paris, with its rich patchwork of history. But Americans in Paris...that was a different story. She’d heard they were generous and respectful lovers. Besides, Isabelle needed to stop seeing the same type of men all the time.

“That American can’t stop looking at you! I think he likes you,” she whispered to Isabelle.

“Darling, I'm not in the mood to start a transatlantic relationship. Though I suppose he is my type...”

“Even in New York?”

“I love New York. All those big buildings, ‘skyscrapers’ they call them. The whole place is jumping,” said Isabelle confidently.

“What makes you so sure? You’ve never set foot in the place!” Marthe laughed.

“I’ve heard things.”

“Everybody always thinks the grass is always greener. But it’s true, lots of French people have gone to New York and never come back.”

“To work in the arms companies?” Isabelle asked. 

“Dupont’s not just an arms factory these days — they make beauty products, perfumes, fashion, the whole lot.”

“I do love Coco Chanel! She’s a force of nature. She conquered the whole world. And she gave women freedom!”

“Did you hear about her affair with the Russian exile?”

“A Russian? What would she be doing with a Russian?”

“They say he’s fantastically wealthy and adores her. He financed her new perfume, Chanel N°5.”

“Oh, it’s wonderful too.”

 

Isabelle was standing in front of the Moulin Rouge, waiting for the American. She’d arrived there early and was thinking about Marthe’s advice. ‘You have to seem un gettable, proud and independent — don’t give yourself up too easily.’ Marthe may have had her own rather stiff ideas about how women should behave, but Isabelle just wanted to have fun. Who cared what people thought of her? Virtue wouldn’t be any use to her in the grave. She wondered what her American’s life was like, living in that vast country. At the entrance to the Moulin Rouge, the couples were all dolled up to the nines: on their heads they wore peaked caps, ostrich feathers and astrakhan bonnets. Fashion these days had no limits; for every new hat design there was a new dress to go with it. Some women were wearing veils to keep their eyes seductively shaded. Isabelle waited impatiently until she saw a hat weaving through the crowd. It was her American.

 

The cancan dancers wiggled their hips, whirling their long red dresses to the delight of the spectators. They swayed and twirled as they pitched back and forth across the stage. The American was entranced; he’d never seen anything like it. He applauded heartily while sneaking glances at Isabelle. There was something beautifully French about her. Isabelle, too, was enraptured by the spectacle. How free those women were! It was wonderful to see.

“Are you enjoying the show?” she asked him.

“Where I live, only the cowboys can shake the ground like that! There are horses galloping everywhere you look.”

“Cowboys? Do they still exist? I’ve heard a lot about America, but so far I like your way of looking at things. Are you from the Wild West?”

“From Texas, to be precise. I work in the oil business,” the American said with a note of disdain.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“It pays too much! I have too much money, which means I can spend a lot of time travelling in the Old World. I’ve been to all the most beautiful hotels in Europe. But I’ve never seen anywhere like Paris. I’ve been to the finest operas in Vienna and St Petersburg —

“But you’ve never found true happiness. Money doesn’t always make you happy. The more you have, the less you know what to do with it, believe me,” Isabelle said as she finished her champagne.

 

The evening had come to an end. The American had left. Isabelle couldn’t believe it; she thought the evening had gone well. He was courteous and polite, just like a gentleman should be. They’d drunk three bottles of champagne. Then he said goodbye, out of the blue. What had gotten into him? She didn’t even know what hotel he was staying in. She smoked a cigarette outside the Moulin Rouge. She was drunk and discombobulated and had no idea where her night should end. She went up to a street artist. He was painting a Russian couple’s portrait and working carefully to capture their faces. Each painting had to be a labour of love. With his canvas set on an easel and his brush in hand, the artist was mapping out his canvas, arranging the colours and shade of light between their foreheads and chins. He had a more or less precise idea of what he wanted the final result to be. He eyed the shadows cast by the Moulin Rouge. He frowned with thought, focusing to grasp his inspiration. On his wooden palette, he mixed the thick, inky colours together with his brush until they were just right.

 

The artist had finished his painting. The Russian couple were delighted, admiring the portrait painter’s work. The painter pocketed the modest sum of eight francs that would allow him to drink until daybreak. Isabelle looked at him tenderly. He raised his eyes to meet hers, before taking his pencil and signing: “Jules.” Sometimes happiness just finds its way to you.

 

Alan Alfredo Geday

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