Almost French (31 page)

‘
ÇA Y EST!
’ At Mio’s joyous whoop I tear into the lounge again, where his giant frame is bending, peering into the hole.

‘What’s the view like? What do you see?’ He steps back, maintaining a triumphant silence. I line up my eye at the opening.

Light streams from the other side of the wall and for a second or two I am too bedazzled and blinded to see anything. Then, sky! Clouds! These ordinary things suddenly seem miraculous. Better still, straight in front of me I see St-Eustache church, like a massive full-stop at the end of Rue Montorgueil. Hundreds—no probably thousands—of orange chimney pots. Relief mixes with elation. Not only is the opening a respectable one metre above the convent roof, but we now have a view! Later, I will recall something magical about this moment, the first piercing of what was, until a few seconds ago, an entirely sealed wall; the anticipation of seeing what lay beyond it, as though this little opening on another world will somehow change our lives.

Significantly, the window comes at a time when I am increasingly preoccupied with light and space: two elements which have acquired new meaning during my four years in
France and particularly since our move to the inner city. This is brought home to me one Saturday morning in May on the sort of sunny spring day that radiates promise. While Mio works on our window, Frédéric and I escape to Palais Royal which is the closest thing to a park within walking distance from our apartment. Desperate to be outdoors after a long, wet winter, lately we’ve been coming here a lot. In the last few days the tulips have surged and bloomed, making the gardens sing in a chorus of contrasting colour. Sultry purples and reds are juxtaposed with luminous patches of white and canary yellow. The place buzzes with energy: toddlers busily topple and rebuild castles in the sand pit; a handful of joggers—a rare sight in Paris—trip gamely around the quadrangle; scatty swallows dive on the tulips in search of seeds. By eleven in the morning the chairs around the central pond are configured in an east-facing arc, jackets slung over the seat-backs as sleeves are rolled and skirts hitched thighward.

But although the gardens look gorgeous, on this morning I become reflective. Maddie, undaunted by the No Dogs sign on the gilt-tipped iron fence and overcome with excitement at being let off the lead, is racing in deranged circles. I feel like doing the same. Perhaps we have both gone stir-crazy with confinement. I gaze at the picture-perfect setting.

‘I miss space,’ I tell Frédéric as we search for a couple of green chairs to squeeze between those already positioned around the pond. ‘I mean, the sort of space where trees don’t grow in rows and nature isn’t organised into perfect, manicured gardens.’

The things I miss about home make an eclectic list of obvious and obscure items. Spicy Asian food that’s hot enough to make you sweat. The surf, or to be exact, the feeling of renewal after diving under a wave and emerging in
a bubble bath of brine. Good television current affairs programs, because investigative journalism is practically non-existent in France, where news analysis is conducted through round-table discussions by journalists friendly with the politicians they’re interviewing. Most of all, people, of course, because there’s no cure for those sudden desires to be at the family breakfast table or out drinking with old friends.

And yes, I realise now, I miss space too.

Living in Australia I took it for granted. Now, though, when I return to Sydney I’m struck by the size of the parks, the vast swaths of bush land rimming parts of the coastline, the abundance of places where you can jog or picnic or kick a football. The way nature is in your backyard, you don’t have to drive for kilometres to find it. With the harbour its focal point, it seems to me Sydney is all liquid and light and spaciousness.

The charm of Paris, on the other hand, lies in its concentration of beautiful buildings. Although thrilled with our
quartier
, although I have absolutely no desire to return to Levallois (definitely not), the experience of living in a densely populated, stone-and-mortar landscape is new to me. It has enabled me to discover new pastimes and pleasures. In Sydney, weekends were spent on the beach or sometimes sailing or bush walking in the Blue Mountains. In Paris we spend a lot of time simply wandering through ancient streets, strolling to bustling Rue des Rosiers for falafel from one of the Jewish takeaways or across the river for a browse through the art galleries along Rue de Seine and a glass of chilled Brouilly at La Palette.

In winter, life is relentlessly interior. Let’s go to a museum or an exhibition, I often say now—as much to my own surprise as Frédéric’s. Mostly we stick to small collections in city manors which have been converted into museums. A few
months ago though, we’d finally managed to see Claude Monet’s painting of Rue Montorgueil at the Musée d’Orsay. The last time we went it had been out on loan to a foreign museum. I’d lingered in front of it for ages, drawing near then pulling back, marvelling how at close range the painting looks totally abstract, incoherent even, yet at a distance the seemingly random brushstrokes magically conspire to form a picture. It is unmistakably our street, aflutter with flags to celebrate the International Exhibition of 30 June 1878. Our lively street rendered with so much intensity and vigour that it seems Monet was thrilled by the flurry of life, just as I now am.

Whatever we decide to do on weekends, we nearly always walk there. Part of the appeal of Paris is its small size—travelling from one side of the city to the other is a mere thirty-minute metro ride. From our apartment, almost everything you could want is within walking distance: restaurants, museums, cinemas, theatres, doctors, vets, supermarkets. This quaint scale makes the city seem less intimidating—more humane somehow—than some other big capitals. It isn’t grandeur nor the many monuments that makes Paris so special, I realise now. It is
intimacy
.

But the downside of this compactness is that there’s no room for sprawling central parks of the kind you see in London, Sydney or New York; nowhere to kick off your shoes in summer and lie on the grass. Of course, in other cities you don’t have the luxury of strolling through places like Palais Royal or the Luxembourg gardens. But ironically it’s precisely this state of poetic perfection—so appealing to visitors—that can become oppressive when you live here. Every sprig of lavender, every blade of grass is there by design; nothing has been left to chance. Immaculately trimmed lawns are stabbed by signs warning
Pelouse interdite
.
Uniformed, whistle-blowing guardians vigilantly protect the gardens from anything which might disrupt the harmony of the scene such as picnics or footballs. (Real life, in other words.) At times it’s like living in a gorgeous museum. Even the people don’t look quite real—those perfect-looking parents with perfect children in spotless navy coats. I dream of pushing them into puddles.

After a while Paris can seem claustrophobic. Sooner or later you long to break out of this beautiful confinement.

And I guess that’s why the window is so significant: this small opening is a way of breaking out. It takes Mio one week to turn the tunnel into a full-blown rectangular cavity and only then can we appreciate its full impact. I’m not saying it’s a substitute for being outdoors, certainly not. Soon we’ll begin a ritual of heading off on the motorbike into the countryside around Paris and these daytrips will help fulfil the longing to sit on grass and breathe fresh air. But somehow the window makes us feel less hemmed in. Sunbeams pour through its pane making the apartment a lot brighter than before. It gives us a view over Paris and the fact that this view is unobstructed by other apartment blocks increases our sense of space. Now we can stand at the window and gaze far into the distance instead of staring straight at the building façade across the courtyard.

It’s like a painting, Frédéric says of our view when it is finally framed and sealed. It is too. From this level, there is a delightful randomness to Paris that you don’t see from the street or higher vantage points with their pancake perspectives. The tangerine chimney pots look as though they’ve sprouted from carelessly scattered seeds; the tilting roofs and crooked
windows make a medieval tangle of odd angles and asymmetrical shapes which belong in a cubist painting. At night, the rose window of St-Eustache lights from within, its flying buttresses stretch like golden wings. Rising behind it is the sixty-storey Montparnasse tower, an eyesore on the Paris skyline. Standing on tiptoes, we can see Notre Dame cathedral, craning our necks to the right the Eiffel Tower. It is not the most amazing view in town—far from it—but to us it will always seem extraordinary.

The window looks as though it’s been there forever. The only telltale evidence of its short life is the pyramid of rubble and stones in our lounge, waiting to be hauled downstairs. We all admire their handsome size and biscuity colour. Wouldn’t it be lovely if the whole wall was in stone, says Mio, adding that he could do it for us if we wanted. But chipping off the plasterboard and concrete is a big job, you have to chisel carefully, so as not to damage what lies beneath. Not now, we tell Mio. We don’t have the money at the moment.

‘
Oof.
’ Mio purses his lips in a dismissive pout, which indicates this is no obstacle. ‘
On va s’arranger
.’

Nothing more is said. The promise of a future deal is left lingering in the space between us, taking seed in my imagination. How? I’m dying to ask. How does he want us to pay if not with money? Perhaps with one of our paintings? Immediately I look at the dreary Flemish cows which Frédéric so adores. I’d trade that any day and for a lot less than a stone wall. But for the moment the subject seems closed, the conversation has switched to something else and because I know Mio won’t discuss business with me, I keep quiet. He packs his tools, promising to drop by when he’s next in the
quartier
.

For the next few weeks, we enjoy our window. Summer is almost upon us now and Paris erupts in Latin jubilation.
A contagion of craziness sweeps the
quartier
. Café terraces fill with chirrupping crowds, windows are thrown wide open, music is turned up loud. Our gay neighbours across the courtyard throw a party and late in the night we’re woken by a barely clad bloke standing at their window, screaming, ‘EVERYBODY NAKED!’. From our new window, we watch an illegal terrace being constructed next to the school. It stands on short, hopefully solid little pegs welded to the roof. Plants appear, an umbrella and a table. The sound of glasses chinking in a chorus of ‘chin-chins!’ tinkles through our window throughout summer.

Then one morning Mio returns, stopping off on his way to another job. Just enough time for one of his sugar-stoked espressos and a chat. By the time he leaves, a deal has been struck. Despite my most enthusiastic efforts as an art dealer (Flemish paintings are going up in value, think of it as an investment), we’re stuck with the cows. Mio wants our car, not the painting. Frédéric can hardly hand over the keys quickly enough. We’ve been talking about selling it ever since we moved into the inner city. We hardly ever use it now—and when we do need it, invariably it won’t start. Curiously, Mio doesn’t seem to care about its condition, he doesn’t even want to see it first.

Two weeks later, all the plaster has been chipped off and our wall with a view is now entirely in stone. Our car has to be towed away to some garage belonging to one of Mio’s mates who apparently manages to repair it. Only later do we think to ask what became of it after that.

‘It’s in Montenegro,’ says Mio, matter-of-fact.

We stare at him, not comprehending. ‘Montenegro?’

It seems our car had emigrated. It now belongs to some fellow in Montenegro, who Mio had employed to renovate
the farm he owns there, somewhere in the mountains. The car was a form of payment; Mio delivered it personally. My eyes widen: our old Volkswagen Golf actually made it across Europe! Somehow, this seems a fitting end to the illegal window story.
On va s’arranger.
Well, indeed we had, and the merry chain now stretched across the continent. Most importantly, everyone seems satisfied—we with our stone wall, Mio with having found a non-cash form of payment for his friend, which also provided an excuse to visit his homeland. As for the bloke in Montenegro who ended up with our car, we have never heard from him.