Paris Trance. Geoff Dyer
‘What do you do for money though?’
‘Translating and other things. Like everyone in Paris. And you? Why did you come here?’
‘To become a different person. Or at least more of a person.’
‘What were you before?’
‘An Englishman living in England.’
‘Who were you before?’
‘Someone I’d lost interest in.’
‘And now you’re an Englishman living in Paris?’
‘Put like that it sounds even less interesting.’
‘How would you make it more interesting?’
‘I’m here because the bars stay open late.’
‘Are you learning French?’
‘A little.’
‘You have to. To become someone else that is essential. When I was little girl my father was very insistent that I learned other languages. He said, “The more languages you speak, the more people you can become.”’
‘I’m speechless.’
‘What is the work you do here?’
‘I work at a warehouse. Near passage Thiéré.’
‘And do you always play football?’
‘Yes, although I didn’t study it. I play every day. Rain or shine. As long as it’s not raining.’
‘My brother plays football.’
‘You have a brother? I mean how old is he, your brother?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Ah, a fine age for a brother,’ said Luke, pleased, for some reason, to hear himself say this. ‘You have just the one brother?’
‘Yes. And a sister.’
‘Did you have pets?’
‘A lovely golden retriever.’
‘You had a brother, a sister, and a golden retriever?’
‘And two cats. What about you? Do you have brothers and sisters?’
‘No.’
‘Nor pets?’
‘No. In fact I’ve just realized something crucial about myself. I was an only child. No brothers or sisters. And I had no pets. No cats or dogs. So although I had my parents’ love focused on me I had nothing to love. I loved them, of course, as little children do, but parents don’t count really. My whole experience of love was being on the receiving end of it. A present that was always being given to me. It never occurred to me that I might love something. Except my toys. I loved my toys.’
‘So, not to beat around the hedge—’
‘Bush: beat around the bush.’
‘Ah thank you. You must correct my English when I make mistakes,’ said Nicole, but Luke was already wishing he had not done so. A hedge was a much better thing to beat around than a bush.
‘So,’ Nicole went on, ‘not to beat around the bush, you are very selfish. What is the word? Spoiled?’
‘Yes, but not just spoiled. Ruined.’
‘Ruined? What is that word? What does it mean?’
‘Ruined. As in ruins. Ruination. It means to fall into disrepair. Through neglect perhaps. But that’s only half the story. It’s also something to be aspired to, worked towards. Buildings do not just fall into ruin. Something in them wants to achieve the condition of ruination. Any truly great building will achieve its destiny only as a ruin—’
‘You are trying to be clever.’
‘Yes, I am. It’s true. It’s a weakness. It will be my ruin.’
‘There is a good thing about only children though,’ said Nicole.
‘What is that?’
‘If you have brothers and sisters you learn to lie. If you don’t have them then you don’t know how to lie.’
‘Except to yourself.’
‘Yes, but that’s not much fun is it?’
She had finished sipping her apricot juice.
‘Shall we go?’
‘Yes.’ Nicole pulled out her spectacle-case.
‘I didn’t know you wore glasses.’
She opened the case which was full of banknotes and coins. ‘Is my purse,’ she said.
‘I’ll get this,’ said Luke. She watched him stand up to pay. He wore no jewellery. No rings, no bracelets or chains, no watch. He didn’t even carry a wallet: he kept his money screwed up in his pockets. He didn’t wear after-shave. He didn’t drum with his fingers on tables, didn’t whistle or doodle on napkins, didn’t chew gum or his finger nails. She noticed the things he didn’t do.
They came to the river again: a different bridge. A man and a woman passed. They were walking with their arms around each other. Across the river were the broken walls of old houses that were being torn down. They crossed over into the Marais, passed the corner shop where the old hand-painted sign – ‘Boulangerie’ – had been preserved even though it was now an expensive clothes shop called Le Garage. Their shoulders bumped when they walked, sometimes. A Dalmatian padded up to them while they stood looking in a shop window. Nicole patted its head and when they walked on it followed them as if it were their dog. She slipped her arm through Luke’s. Her arms were bare. There was only his shirt sleeve between their skin.
At the Bastille the streets were gridlocked with pedes trians. The Dalmatian disappeared, which was a shame.
‘Perhaps we’ll find him again.’
‘I hope so.’
‘I felt he was our dog,’ said Luke.
‘He is our dog,’ said Nicole. They had both said ‘our’. They turned into rue Duval and, in moments, were away from the crush of people. They went to the Café Saigon.
‘What would you like?’ Luke asked.
‘You choose.’
Luke ordered, in faltering French, but she liked the way he spoke to the waitress, his smile. He had nice manners.
They shared a portion of satay, followed by plates of vegetables, stir-fried. Nicole ate slowly – a slice of carrot at a time – and drank little wine.
‘You eat,’ Luke said, ‘at the speed of your hair.’
‘What does that mean?’ said Nicole.
It took an effort of will not to say, ‘It means I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to be with you when you are old, when your hair is grey . . .’ What he actually said was: ‘I don’t know. It just seems true.’ His plate was empty. He watched her eat, looked at her hair. He is in love with me, Nicole said to herself. She looked up again. Their eyes met. It felt as if they were kissing. Luke poured another glass of wine for himself.
‘Gulp,’ she said, touching his hand. ‘Gulp.’
They walked back to his apartment, holding hands. Their hands grew moist. Luke made coffee, lit a candle. Asked if she was warm enough. She studied the photograph of the demonstration.
‘Is this of Belgrade?’ she said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I think it is. Do you know when it was taken?’
‘I don’t, I’m afraid.’
Neon