Almost French (4 page)

But my indifference for the magnificent Louvre is not a laughing matter, it seems. Incomprehension is etched on Frédéric’s face. Chatting on the lovely terrace, our different attitudes to the Louvre reveal a wider culture gap.

‘I’ve been going to museums since I was four,’ he states. ‘They were the highlight of family holidays. Whenever we arrived in a new town the first thing my parents did was take us to an art gallery or museum.’

‘Weren’t you bored?’

‘Oh no, I loved it,’ Frédéric enthuses. ‘I found it interesting.’

‘Kids in France must be a lot different from kids in Australia.’ And I describe our family holidays when my parents took my brother and sister and me camping—not in camp grounds but usually in the bush, near lakes, rivers or beaches. The action-packed days waterskiing and swimming, the myriad, mindless ways we would amuse ourselves in water for hours on end. I describe how we’d cook over campfires, how we’d carefully shake our T-shirts or shoes—anything that had been lying on the ground—before putting them on. He is captivated, and I realise with surprise that to him my holidays sound exotic, dangerous even. He asks lots of questions about sharks, snakes and spiders. And why do I say ‘the’ bush if there are many bushes? I smile at his mental picture of a dry, barren continent inhabited by a valiant, solitary shrub. Overlooking the spectacular glass pyramid, we laugh at the sharp contrast between our childhood holidays: that while one of us was trailing maturely through museums the other was in serious sibling competition to see who could keep their balance longest standing on a floating Lilo. And so our disagreement over the Louvre is swept aside by the flow of conversation. But that moment of mutual incomprehension had allowed us to get to know each other a little better and I don’t think either of us had forgotten it.

On previous visits to the French capital I’d rocketed up the Eiffel Tower and climbed the Arc de Triomphe and the stairs to Sacré Cœur. But with Frédéric as my guide, we mostly avoid the main monuments, spinning around them on the motorbike so that they seem merely a stunning backdrop to our adventures. Instead we revel in details. He takes me to the Marais, pointing out the dark, sculpted doorways and
quaint, crooked shop fronts. He indicates the engraved plaques on façades announcing that Colette lived in the apartment above, or that on this spot in August 1944 three members of the French Resistance were shot by German soldiers. I soak up these fragments of history.

Simple discoveries seem extraordinary. Like the lovely private courtyards sealed from the street by thick wooden doors. Although at night you need the door codes to go in, during work hours you can enter by simply pressing the shiny silver buttons which are usually to the right of the entrance. One day during a stroll around the Left Bank we pass a particularly imposing, ornate entry. Although it looks resolutely closed and inaccessible, when Frédéric pushes the button the door unlocks with a soft clicking sound. It’s so massive we have to lean on it with all our body weight before it creaks open and we step into a leafy courtyard: an oasis of cool calm after the street noise and heat. Virginia creeper tumbles down the walls. These apartments were for nobles, Frédéric explains, pointing to the towering arched entranceway we came through which was built big enough for carriages. He indicates the mansard roof, the tall windows whose many square panes are artisanal and dimpled and so different from modern glass with its glossy sheen. Looking through them we can see high moulded ceilings. It all seems so refined. ‘
L’ élégance française
,’ Frédéric says, explaining that the essence of French elegance lies in the balance of romance and restraint.

It is August and every self-respecting Parisian has already fled to a crowded coastline. The city is full of tour groups and coaches. Seeing them only makes me more grateful for my personal guide: a Frenchman letting me in on the secrets. Who cares if his motorbike is an unglamorous old Honda? Certainly not me. Now every outing promises adventure. To
Frédéric, obeying road rules is only for the uncreative and we hurtle onto pavements, tackle one-way streets the wrong way, weaving wildly among traffic, alert and alive. Most thrilling of all is riding at night when millions of winking lights wake the city’s monuments. The Eiffel Tower loses its metallic flatness and glows a lovely amber. Illuminated from within, the glass pyramid at the Louvre looks like a giant Scotch on ice.

I guess the circumstances are perfect for falling in love. Every skidding stop on the motorbike, each intimate garden, every candlelit café terrace conspires to spark romance. But is it the scene, the city or the man I’m succumbing to? A combination of all three? These questions don’t even enter my mind. Who cares when it’s all so much fun. Yes, I admit, I’m carried away on a kaleidoscope of clichés straight out of a trashy romance novel. It is magic.

One evening we go for a stroll along the Pont des Arts, whose looping iron arches connect the Louvre with the gleaming gilt domes of the Institut de France. A
bateau-mouche
steams towards us on the river below, its deck crowded with waving tourists. The colours and light are Monetesque—smudged golden-pink skies and soft violet shadows. Now I see why artists and writers have compared Paris light to champagne. The evening air does have an effervescent quality. On the
quai
below, couples fall into each other’s arms. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a meltingly romantic setting.

But Frédéric’s thoughts are not on romance. He is beginning to wheeze, a signal he’s about to say something he finds hysterically funny. ‘I would really love one day to stand here and peess on the boats,’ he cackles, pretending to wave his willy at the unsuspecting families enjoying their river cruise. ‘Imagine, all those poor tourists, nowhere to run or hide!’ He
turns to see whether I’ve got the joke. ‘It would be so funny, no?’

Well yes, I mean I guess. Sort of. I smile vaguely. Evidently the Gallic powers of seduction are somewhat unpredictable. Unpredictable is good, of course—up to a point. But his joke takes me by surprise. Its bawdiness seems at odds with the refined appearance of the man who cracked it. Just as those comics weirdly contrasted with his shelves of highbrow books, it is hard now to reconcile the two images. Is this typically French, I wonder, this mix of culture and schoolboy coarseness? The romantic moment ricochets into the night.

By the time Sue arrives at the end of the week, I’ve forgotten all about needing a chaperone. My early fears about the French ‘maniac’ now seem neurotic. Frédéric had laughed when I confessed my panic a few days ago. He thought it was hysterical that Sue was supposed to be my lifeline in case he turned out to be psycho. The situation seemed to appeal to his imagination: he sensed comic potential. ‘Let’s play a practical joke on her,’ he’d urged. ‘I’ll pretend I’ve taken you prisoner, that I am
maniac
after all. Let’s tie you up in the cellar so that when she arrives …’

By now I’m getting familiar with his warped sense of humour. The way it pops up when you’re least expecting it. This idea had to be quickly and firmly squashed.

‘No.’

Sue and I have been friends from the age of thirteen, when we started high school together in baggy green tunics and brown stockings. She is the sort of person who can make you laugh with her sharp wit or just by clowning around and pulling stupid faces. In the past, boyfriends have occasionally
felt uncomfortable about our closeness, not sure how much one has told the other (everything), not always liking their place in the general scheme of things when the two of us are together. She’ll be gagging with curiosity about the Frenchman. Maybe she’s worried I’ve lost my head. Maybe I have.

I’m a bit nervous as we sit down to our first dinner together as a trio. It’s important to me that Sue likes him. Frédéric is relaxed, apparently delighted to meet my closest friend. He is affectionate and attentive towards me, leaning over every so often to brush my cheek or hand. Then, to my horror, he starts telling Sue about his planned joke.

‘I proposed to tie Sarah in the cellar,’ he begins. ‘Like a prisoner. Naked, yes, naked.’ He is chortling and embellishing as he goes along. ‘Imagine your face when you saw her! All your worries come true. You would have thought I was so weird!’ He pronounces this ‘weed’. ‘Yes, the Weed Frenchie!’

I am mortified. What will she make of him? After all, they’ve only just met and now here he is swinging through the civilised scene with all the subtlety of Tarzan, telling one of his bizarre jokes. Uncharacteristically, Sue seems lost for words. After a moment, she smiles uncertainly and says, ‘I think I would have found that a bit upsetting.’ There’s a pause in the conversation. I feel awkward, wondering what Sue must be thinking. But Frédéric appears entirely oblivious to my embarrassment over his little joke, perfectly at ease with the momentary silence and soon he starts chatting about something else.

By the next day, though, she is won over. Figuring it would be fun for us to have some time on our own, Frédéric has tactfully arranged to leave for the weekend. He is going to northern France to see his father, who has lived alone since the death of Frédéric’s mother four years ago. The plan suits
Sue and me perfectly: the truth is I’m dying to have some time alone with her, to tell her about the fantastic past five days. Gallantly, he waves goodbye, leaving us the keys to his apartment, his car, and his wine cellar. We are like pigs in a puddle—our own Paris pad to play in! We splash some syrupy cassis into the bottom of glasses then fill them with white wine from the refrigerator. For the next few hours, we don’t move from the sun-soaked lounge.

After farewelling Sue, my first week in Paris draws to an end. It seems to have passed in a flash. When Frédéric returns from northern France the subject of my departure is not broached. A hot spell hits the city, sending temperatures into the low thirties. Cafés cram even more tables and chairs onto pavements creating configurations so serried they would cause an outcry in many other countries. Customers are sandwiched in like sardines, elbows sticking into neighbours’ ribs, cigarettes practically taking out eyes as they’re waved through the air. No-one complains; obviously they’re used to it. The atmosphere in Paris is surprisingly Mediterranean. Nobody seems to be working—not even the few remaining Parisians who’ve heroically stayed behind to keep the country running. The days are incredibly long and night doesn’t fall until almost eleven. Only then do we stop meandering or vacate our bench in a pocket-sized park to look for somewhere outside to eat. Miraculously my stomach clock has adjusted: in Sydney if I didn’t have dinner by about eight I’d be starving.

Amid the close clamour of café terraces, we discover more about each other and the places we come from. Statements that seem matter-of-fact to one of us can seem absolutely extraordinary to the other. Like the evening I happened to
mention the words ‘school’ and ‘fun’ in the same sentence. Frédéric pounced on this absurd impossibility straightaway.

‘You mean you had fun at school?’

I thought about it. The secondary school I went to was a privileged private one in tree-lined Canberra. Although it was not all games and gaiety, the image that immediately sprang to mind was of sitting on the grass in the sunshine with our lunch sandwiches. ‘Yeah, we did have fun, I guess. I mean not every day. But I have lots of good memories.’ As I described the green playing fields, the sports carnivals, drama and music classes and the well-equipped art room, his disbelief grew. It took some explaining for him to grasp the concept of Friday afternoon ‘Extra Activities’, when lessons would stop for students to pursue the activity of their choice—anything from car maintenance and bush walking to life drawing.