Monsieur Frumeau, Jean Seburg and Madame Frumeau's Wife
by
John Alexander McNulty
A Short Story (Kind of)
Paris, January 30th, 2009
When I first moved to Paris, I was completely broke and had
recently discovered I was going to be a father. So with the
fire inside me lit, I wasted no time in setting out on my
long public search for gainful employment. I needed some
immediate cash to tie me over. Some money to pay rent. Some
money to pay hospital bills. Some money to calm the circus of
uncertainty that was becoming my life. I also hoped that I
could get something that utilized my boundless propensity for
bull-shit. I had a talent for telling other people what's
wrong with their art and I would be damned if I was going to
let that go to waste. I took out an advertisement in a local
English language wanted ads and stated, matter of fact, that
I could help people write the movie of their dreams. I don't
mean to be cynical, but you're either working on the great
screenplay of the 21st century or you're not. In reality, I
don't think I can do much to help you out with this if you
don't have a brilliant idea to start with. And if you're
already that creative, you probably don't need me criticizing
the life out of your work. Obviously this sentiment was not
going to go into the ad. It had to sound jazzy. I put on my
best marketing cap and made up the best advertisement
possible in ten words or less. If you're expecting me to
remember how it went, you can forget about it. You're not
going to see it re-produced here because re-living this
marketing challenge a second time bores the hell out of me.
My girlfriend, Maria and I had secured a tiny apartment in an
excellent neighborhood on the last of our collective credit.
It was a last ditch effort on our part to say: this is where
we aspire to be and we don't care if our wallets say "no". It
was close to the Eiffel Tower and all the outward signs
indicated glamorous couple moving up in the world. This was
intentional. We couldn't afford to not be blindly optimistic.
We substituted realism for maniacal hope. To think any other
way was unthinkable. We had parties where we lied to friends
and told them we were close to signing movie deals and
meeting film stars in London. I was always talking about a
new record, a new film, a new screenplay. But if an observer
were to actually step in and scientifically account for what
we were actually doing during this period, the reality would
have read more like a drunkard's diary. I remember marveling
that wine was incredibly cheap in Paris. It was probably the
cheapest thing you could buy there besides bread, which gives
you an idea on what we spent the bulk of our dwindling
resources on. But I kept my phone close by, which I also
recharged every five days, as I was too cheap to buy a proper
plan. It took a week for the ad to be written up and a week
for the paper to hit the stands. Apparently this is standard
time for a bi - monthly publication.
When the ad finally did come out, I began to get a series of
bizarre calls, none of which had anything to do with me
getting paid. Damaged people began to call thinking that I
was some kind of super philanthropist, hell bent on listening
and curing all of the world's ills for free. I was everything
to them, except what I was actually advertising. I guess I
should have paid for more than ten words. I became a conduit
for French curiosity. People began to talk to me about the
Bush Junior administration and the state of America. They
asked me if I wanted to speak with them in cafes to improve
their English, talk about their love life, their sex life,
their hobbies. I began to suspect that the majority of Paris,
unlike New York or Los Angeles is not writing a screenplay.
They only want someone to talk to. This is an incredibly
refreshing fact if you are a would be screenwriter tired of
running into would be screenwriters but a real let down if
you are a screen writing consultant hoping to leech off the
aspirations of others. One thing was for sure: I was still
broke.
Imagine my elation when one morning I received a call from a
writer calling himself Roland Frumeau! It wasn't long into
our clipped conversation that I detected a heartfelt desire,
on his behalf, to work on a screenplay he was developing. I
inferred immediately that he wanted to use my services! He
still went on to explain, quite lucidly, that it was a piece
he had been developing for some time on the life of the film
star Jean Seburg.
Great, I thought to myself, breathing a huge sigh of relief.
Finally someone who is actually wanting to make use of my
talent for constructive criticism. This was obviously a
fellow screenwriter with some culture who had an interesting
project based on one of the world's most enigmatic and tragic
film goddesses. This sounded like something I could really
sink my teeth into. Of course I didn't tell him that I was at
the point where I was selling most of my books to second hand
stores to buy lunch. Here was a person who had actually
understood the concept of my ad. I was to meet him in a few
days.
I tried to get my hands on some films featuring Jean Seburg:
a beautiful, sad, beguiling mid western American actress who
seemed to have the same tragic spark in her eyes as a James
Dean or Marilyn Monroe. Jean Seburg is remembered here in
Paris for her work with the filmmakers, Otto Preminger and
Jean Luc Godard. I looked at “Breathless”, which I had not
seen since college and could only feel happy again that I was
living in the city of my dreams. If ever there was a film
that gave you a re fresher course in why it's great to live
in Paris, it is this movie. Jean was that rarest of rare
commodities, an American local in Paris. Like Hemingway or
Gertrude Stein. For those that don't know it, this is an
incredibly difficult status to obtain. Parisians never
consider Americans one of "them", until we have become a
monument. So whenever one of us passes over into the status
of local, there is need for celebration. It is also very hard
to master French to the point where someone doesn't have a
comment about how cute or ugly your accent is. Jean Seburg
was definitely considered a local at the time of her death.
Living in the Rue de Bac, she was the champion of social
causes and the toast of French high intellectual society. She
was even married to a French icon, Romain Gary, a staple of
French intellectualism and sixties bon vivant-ism. Every guy
with a creative heart always has a soft spot for that image
of Jean Seburg walking down the Champs Elysees carrying
copies of the Herald Tribune under her arm. By the time I was
scheduled to meet this Monsieur Frumeau, I was feeling pretty
excited about my pupil's choice of subject. This wasn't bad
for a first assignment. Not bad at all.
I met Monsieur Frumeau near the Porte de Versailles metro
station on a clear winter afternoon in February. I was under
dressed, as being freshly transported from California, I
assumed that I could just glide by the winter season without
buying appropriately warm clothes. I would buy those next
season. I would have my driver pick them up for me in my
Rolls Royce.
The first thing he said was that I made him feel cold just
looking at me. I suggested we move into a nearby cafe as
quickly as possible to avoid any further scrutiny. The first
thing I noticed about Roland was that although he looked to
be in his late sixties, he was quite a large man, rare for a
French man, especially among his generation. People during
the war were under fed and that tradition seems to continue
even to this day with most men never needing to buy extra
large shirt or pants sizes. This makes me an anomaly in
France for although I would not say I am fat, I did drink a
lot of milk when I was young. This necessitates me having to
squeeze into a lot of tight spaces in this city. Apartments
are small, cars are compact, showers are for leprechauns.
Space is at a premium. Someone like me is always cramming my
body into tight bathroom urinals, or ramming my legs under
some small table. It is not unusual to eat in a public place
no more than a few inches from your fellow diners, whether
you desire this or not. Sometimes I contemplate flying back
to the States just to stretch out for a few days.
The cafe had been chosen by Roland as it was close to where
he lived. We sat down at a table by the window.
"I live just over there,” he said as he pointed out the
window to a block of flats that were a far cry from the
Haussman facades I am usually so reverent of. It was a drab
block of flats, reminiscent of movies involving social
realism. I remember thinking that Roland may not have a lot
of extra dough to spend on screenplay consultation if he
lives in housing like that, but I kept that to myself. I
myself lived in one of the most elegant neighborhoods in
Paris but I was wearing a t shirt in February, so who was I
to judge financial priorities? He studied me closely and then
came out with his first all important question.
"Do you know anyone in Hollywood?"
"Well", I said, trying to remain casual. It would be wise to
shift his attention away from the subject of my industry
connections as I had none.
"Some people, I suppose. I went to film school in New York."
"My wife and I, we have been visiting to the United States
but only to Marshalltown."
I racked my brain. Marshalltown? Where the hell was
Marshalltown? I tried to remember my geography, sifting for
mental clues. Was this a major French tourist spot that I was
not aware of? Did all French retirees go to Marshalltown? If
so, why had I never heard of it?
"It's in Iowa. It was the birthplace of Jean Seburg. We
visited her school. They were very pleasant to us there. It
was so interesting."
"Was it?”
He nodded.
"That's great. So you have a nice view of Americans?"
"Oh yes. We love America!"
This guy really was serious about his research. Apparently,
he had drug his wife half way around the world to explore a
town who's biggest interest was probably the flag pole
outside the post office.
"Where else have you been in the States?", I asked, expecting
a more standard answer like New York -- or Disneyland.
"Marshalltown, that's it."
"You've only been to Marshalltown?"
"We visited her school and saw a small dedication to her. It
was very fascinating! They were very friendly. So good to us.
We loved it. So pleasant. So pleasant."
It must have been. He said it twice. Monsieur Frumeau
proceeded to pull out a photo album from his bag. In the book
were various photos documenting his encounters with various
strangers in Iowa. I saw photos of him with the inn keeper, a
photo of him having dinner at a local eatery. There was even
a local Jean Seburg enthusiast who kept up a small memorial
at a local shop who had taken the time to pose with him. It
seemed as if they had become best friends in five minutes. I
wondered what Monsieur Frumeau's wife thought about all of
this? Was she also enthused about going to Marshalltown?
Roland’s intensity was somewhat overwhelming. The assignment
was already starting to feel more and more like therapy and
less and less like a job where we would end up with a piece
of fiction at the end of it.
But hope was not entirely lost. During his explanations, I
noticed he was holding what seemed to be written pages. I
brightened up when he presented them to me. Surely this had
to be his story, an attempt at narrative. Let me be a critic.
For the love of God, let me be a critic. It was a false hope.
The documents he was holding were letters he had written to
the heads of all the major Hollywood studios asking them if
they would be interested in his Jean Seburg project. Some of
them had written him back. Or rather, their assistants had.
They had informed him that they weren't interested. I was
very curious to read the letters. It turns out industry types
in 1975 rejected writers far more eloquently than they did in
2003. I mentally compared these letters of rejection to my
own. There was one from the President of Production at
Twentieth Century Fox. I held it in my hand.
"When was this?"
"Oh this was years ago."
He wasn't kidding. The paper was withering.
"So, I don’t understand. You already have a script?"
I assumed this followed logically. If he was writing to major
Hollywood studios, surely he had something to offer them.
"A screenplay?"
"Yes, a script, a screenplay,” I clarified.
"No. I do not have a script. I have notes. Research. Facts.
They will write the script."
"Who?"
"The studio, the Hollywood studios."
"They will write the script?,” I asked. I was genuinely
interested in hearing this man's version of Hollywood.
"Yes, they have people. Writers. I am not a writer."
"You're not a writer?,” I clarified, now depressed.
"No. I am not. I have the idea to make a film about Jean
Seburg."
"But that's not enough".
"What do you mean? Not enough?"
"I mean it's not enough. They expect you to bring a script.
Having an idea for a film about somebody's life is not
enough. You have to dramatize it."
I found it remarkable that I could be sitting here in front
of him for this long without him considering this already.
"Well then this is perfect for the writer," he replied.
"Are you going to be the writer?"
"No, I am not the writer."
"I don't understand. What would you be offering them?"
"I am offering Jean Seburg."
"That's not possible. You are not offering Jean Seburg. Jean
Seburg is a personality. Jean Seburg's estate owns Jean
Seburg. You aren't offering the studios anything for their
money. You have to write it. As a script. I can help you with
that. We have to get the rights eventually, or they do, but
we can sell them a draft, a way to approach the movie."
Monsieur Frumeau was confused and now seemed more than twice
the age that I had encountered him to be at the metro steps
ten minutes earlier.
"If you want, I can be a co writer with you. We can work on
it together. We can sign a contract and then you can take the
script to Hollywood. If that's what you want to do. But quite
honestly, I think what you really want to do is write a book.
I think you should write a book. Then maybe you can sell the
book! The studios buy the rights to your book and then they
make the movie."
"I don't want to write a book. There are plenty of books
about Jean Seburg. I have read them. I would rather make the
movie. There has been no movie."
"Ok, that's fair enough. But the studio needs a script. Do
you want to write a script for this movie?"
Roland grimaced and let out a long steady stream of hot air
in the French fashion. People do this in France from birth.
It is not directed at anyone or anything in particular, and
it is not meant to be offensive. It is simply a way of
letting the world know that "it's not their fault" in a
general, existential sense.
"But I have so many notes. So much information," he
expressed, now with a distinct note of frustration. I
followed his train of thought.
"...And that's a good thing. We can use that. You can use
those notes. But you need to write a screenplay. There's no
getting around it."
"Getting around it? What does it mean?"
"It means you have to write a script."
"You want to look at my notes?"
Five minutes prior I would have been happy to see his notes,
but now, I saw only the whiling away of precious hours of my
youth with an obsessive compulsive. And I would not be
getting paid for it. We would become dead celebrity stalkers
together, a complicity I was far from comfortable with.
"Ok,” I said taking the various old brown files he passed me
over the table. I avoided spilling my espresso. I had not
even touched it yet.
I inspected his photocopied pages, which were from several
prominent Jean Seburg biographies. I looked at the scribble
he had detailed in the margins and became a little awestruck
by it. I was astounded at just how dedicated this man was to
following her trail. There were even photos of her from
obscure French films I had never seen before. Full color
glossies showing her in her bikini. This was an amazingly
attractive woman. The eight by tens reminded me of the kind I
used to lust after in high school, when I was in love with
stars like Demi Moore and Olivia D'Abo. Roland was obviously
looking for some acknowledgement. I suppose he wanted me to
state that his research wasn’t in vain. That it was right to
keep all of this material and show it to me. That the studios
were dead wrong to reject him. This was a curious blend of a
personal and public obsession. What truth was he searching
for? Perhaps this was some deeper distraction, an attempt to
fill some hole in his life? Perhaps this wasn’t about Jean
Seburg at all. I was mildly curious to know the answers to
these questions, but I was also really poor. Wasting my time
with an old man in a cafe while my girlfriend sat freezing at
home with no heat and a bottle of corked Beajoulais didn't
seem fair. I couldn't afford to just fart around. I needed
money if I was going to continue my interaction with Monsieur
Frumeau. This was a business deal after all, was it not?
"Monsieur Frumeau,” I said plainly, straightening in my chair
to make myself appear more professional.
"Call me Roland. My name is Roland. You may be personal with
me."
"I would be happy to help you write a screenplay for this
project. You feel strongly about the subject and that is
always a good thing. But I want you to know that this is kind
of different than what I was proposing in my ad."
"What was your ad exactly?"
"You want to know what my ad said?”
"Yes"
"It said that I am a teacher."
"You are a teacher? I thought you were a writer."
I couldn’t argue with him there. I considered my reply
carefully.
"I am a writer too. I am both. I am a consultant."
"You want to teach me?
"If you want. If you want to learn how to write a screenplay,
I would be happy to teach you but I want you to know that my
price is 30 euros an hour."
"This was not in the ad."
"Well, I'm telling you now. You know, so you know and that
things are clear. I think it's a great idea but I think you
need a screenplay. And the only way you are going to get a
screenplay is if you work on it. Now if you want me to write
it -- if you want to pay me to write the thing -- well then
you would be a producer and that's like -- a whole different
thing. Then we'd have to talk about a flat fee. Say 11,000
euros, or something. And then I could write the screenplay
for you."
"11,000 euros?"
"For example."
"For a script?"
"Yes, but that's standard. In fact it's a little low. But
anyway, if we did that then that would mean you would be the
producer. Then you could theoretically go out with your
script -- and it would be your script because you bought it --
to Hollywood or wherever, and they could buy it. Or not. It
depends. But either way, it's a risk, so you know, you should
think about it. But again, I want to stress that I think this
is a good idea. Everyone loves films about tragic actresses."
Roland studied my face like I had just addressed him in an
ancient Chinese dialect.
"My wife and I saw your ad because we get the English paper
when we attend the service at the American church."
Roland was capable of understanding a word I said, or whether
this incomprehension was willful. I suspected the latter. It
was a good tactic. Like the old man who deliberately says he
can't hear in order not to have to pay attention to his wife
droning on about the dishes.
"Do many people hire you to do this?"
I leaned back in my chair.
"Not a lot of people, but I have a few clients. Students.
Writers," I corrected myself.
"A lot of people back in the States find this stuff very
helpful. It's very popular back there."
"I see. Well I cannot afford this."
I melted inside thinking of the seventy five euros I had
wasted on a portal to every nut job in Paris who wanted to
practice their English. I decided to go mute. I would say
nothing. I would leave it up to Roland to now figure out how
to end this conversation. Call me cynical but I was just
trying to make a living. It wasn't my fault that everyone
else saw me as some novelty act.
"You don't want to work with me? We could write the script
together, no?", Roland stated, innocently.
"Yes we could...but I'm very busy... and in order to work on
this, I need to be paid. I hope you understand."
"Yes, yes, yes, I understand. I wish I had the money."
"It's a great project, don't get me wrong."
"Yes, I know," he affirmed.
"I love Jean Seburg.”
I deemed this worth stating for the record.
"So do I", Roland added redundantly.
"Ok, ok. We can -- he suddenly corrected his thinking. We do
not have to collaborate."
I finally raised my tiny cup to my lips. I tasted my first
drop of espresso. It was cold.
"Do you live alone in Paris?", he finally asked, after more
than a few beats of silence.
I steadied myself. I wanted to be rude, but I couldn’t be. At
the very least the man had done his research, which was more
than I could say for some of my other callers, who just
breathed heavily at me down the phone.
"Um, no, I live with my girlfriend."
"You have a girlfriend?" Roland perked up, now acting as
though he had discovered the money to pay me in the answer to
my question.
"Yes."
"Where is she from? Is she French?"
"No. From Mexico."
"From where?"
For some reason Mexico is a very foreign place to French
people. This, despite the fact that for a few years in the
1800's, they sent some unemployed King to rule their country.
Mexico is like Mars to French people. They've never been
there and they don't know anyone who's ever gone there. The
islands of Guadaloupe and Martinique, the Ivory Coast,
Algeria, these are practically considered their backyards
even though they are thousands of miles away. But mention
Mexico and they get lost, especially with the older
generations of men like Monsieur Frumeau. They also hate
spicy food, which does not help. But for a Californian,
Mexico is the country we are the most familiar with, so
obviously, this eccentricity is curious to me.
"From Mexico, she's Mexican."
Roland grinned substantively for the first time in our
meeting together. I could guess what was coming next.
"Is she pretty?"
"Yes, very. She's very pretty."
"This is nice. It's nice to have a pretty girlfriend."
"Yes it is,” I acknowledged.
"Would you like to come to lunch? You and your girlfriend? My
wife and I, we would be happy to welcome you."
The invitation was not entirely out of the blue but it did
leave me in a pressured spot. I was not supposed to just be
out there in the world setting up lunch dates with strangers,
I was meant to be earning. Responsible fathers don't hang out
in cafes talking to crazy old man for the fun of it. They
slave away at banks, and ride trains to work. They calculate
their income tax. I often wondered why Maria put up with me.
Then again, she did have her problems. Sure she was cute, a
one woman party, but she drank like a fish and kept the
Phillip Morris company in business single handed.
Of course, it was evident that the most crucial reason for
accepting Roland’s lunch invitation was to finally see what
kind of woman could put up with such a man. I wanted to meet
Monsieur Frumeau’s wife. And I had a hunch that once I
explained this mission to Maria, she would be just as eager
to participate. I accepted Roland's invitation.
"Whenever you want. You just let us know. Weekend, or Week
night. Whatever you want. It would be our pleasure. And you
would be able to savor the pleasure of my wife's cooking.”
There was a lot of "pleasure" mentioned in his phrasing, It
couldn't be all that bad.
By the time we were able to return to Roland's apartment for
lunch, it was the Spring and some time had passed. I was now
a part time teacher at a local film school and my girlfriend
was taking French classes once a week. When I got home the
night of the meeting, the invite had completely slipped my
mind and I did not bother to mention the proposition to
Maria. The wine we drank that night did not help. Soon after
my meeting with Roland our social life drastically improved
as a result of me actually having money to go out. Also
contributing to our sense of ease was the recently discovered
knowledge that my girlfriend was not pregnant after all: it
had been a question of delayed hormones or something. The
money I was making even part time was enough to sustain us in
our deliberately modest lifestyles.
But then, three months later, in early May, I answered the
phone in my underwear.
"Hello?"
"John?"
The voice did not ring any immediate bells. I grow fearful at
times like these, as a strange French man at the other end of
the line either means the tax man or someone I have ticked
off unwittingly.
"Yes", I responded, timidly.
"It's Roland Frumeau here."
"Who?"
"Monsieur Frumeau. We were hoping to collaborate on Jean
Seburg."
"We were?", I was lost.
"The script lesson."
"Ah the script lesson." I felt slightly bitter in saying it.
There had been no script lesson. If there had been I would
have remembered him.
"Yes, hello, how are you?"
"I'm fine John, I'm fine."
There was now a pause that lasted far too long.
"I was wondering if you would still like to come to lunch?"
It was all flooding back to me now. I recalled the fact that
I had already said yes to a meal invitation. It was a social
contract set in blood. Even if I did not want to go, I would
now be known as a cheat if I declined.
"Yes, I would love to -- We would love to", I corrected
myself. I was such a damn coward.
My girlfriend now came out of the bedroom, puzzled, squinting
at me. I gave her the phone "look". The phone “look” is what
you think it means. It’s a shared glance that tells Maria to
stop hassling me until I hang up with the person on the other
end of the line. At which case I will proceed to re cap
everything for her benefit. For once, she accepted the phone
“look” and collapsed on a nearby sofa.
"My wife will prepare oysters. Do you eat shell fish?,” he
queried passionately. His voice echoed through the receiver.
"Yes I do! My girlfriend enjoys them as well."
Maria looked up at me from her magazine, ancy to know what I
was roping her into. I was not lying. I did love oysters. I
was crazy about them. This was a good thing too. Living in
Paris at Christmas time, one has no choice but to eat
oysters. They are everywhere. Oysters on every restaurant
menu. Oysters on ice for sale on every city block. If you
don't like oysters, you're screwed. But the custom was
seasonal. Had these Oysters been on ice since February?
"When would be good for you to have this meal?"
I tried to conjure up my agenda. It was no use. I had no
recall. I would have to consult.
"Roland, can you excuse me for a moment, I'm going to ask my
girlfriend."
"But of course you will ask her. Ask her!"
Learning that I was in such close proximity with someone
female was exciting to him, apparently.
I cupped the receiver to my palm and walked across to Maria,
still seated on the couch. In a low whisper, I began to catch
her up on the last five months. She understood next to
nothing.
"...You know. He's the guy I was talking about."
"What guy?"
"The guy who I was going to help write his screenplay. Give
lessons to,” I hurriedly corrected.
"But you didn't write any screenplay! Or give any lessons",
she reminded me.
"I know. He wants to have lunch with us. He and his wife.", I
hoped that my mentioning the wife would make it more
appealing. This was not a business thing. There would be
other people for her to talk to. One other person to be
exact. I could see Maria submitting.
"When did you want to do this?"
“We have not set a time yet.”
“You go when you want. It's up to you."
"Why's it up to me? He invited you as well," I reminded her.
"Okay, but how do I know what you have planned?”
She was lying. She knew exactly what I had planned. Nothing.
"I have no plans."
"You sure?"
This was a game we often played. I hated it.
"It's fine. Just make it for Sunday. It's better", she said
with an authority mustered out of the blue. I un-cupped the
phone.
"How about Sunday?"
Roland was fine with it, even commending the choice. After
the call was over, Maria seemed strangely excited to meet
this elderly couple.
"It's a chance to meet real French people", she stated, now
bizarrely enthused.
She was right. It was a chance to meet real French people. We
didn't do this enough. Parisians travel in clicks and so do
ex patriates. They think we're tourists and we think they're
snobs. Sometimes, if you're not careful, never the twain
shall meet.
Sunday morning we made our way to the Frumeau household
holding a bottle of convenience store bought wine. The
weather was drizzling, already testing our patience. The
entrance to the block of flats had a little garden gate that
came complete with a tricky latch. I tried to open it while
Maria just stood there wondering why everything was so damn
hard. We had not brought an umbrella. May in Paris is a
meteorological free for all.
"I thought you'd been here before?"
I didn't feel like getting into that again. And I had the
feeling this was just something to say, rather than a
question she really wanted the answer to.
We headed for the intercom at the entrance. I took out my
folded piece of paper with the couple's door code written on
it. The overhang provided some protection from the rain. I
could relax a little. She was sheltered. I entered the code
and we passed the first doors with some success. The intercom
was just to the left and I began scanning the different
names, trying to find “Frumeau” on the panel. It turns out
Maria was doing the same thing. Apparently, we were playing a
game. She sunk her thumb on the buzzer, playfully. She let it
ring out nice and obnoxious.
"Don't buzz too much.”
"I'm not buzzing too much. It could be a bad connection."
Roland's voice came on the airways a few moments later. The
elderly man's voice was a little timid which didn’t help us
understanding him very well though the static.
"Hello?"
"It's John!" I replied, reassuring him.
"And Maria", she added bitterly.
"We are on the third floor. You can take the elevator."
Maria lead the way into the courtyard and to the winding
white stone staircase.
Now, most Parisian apartment complexes, especially modern
ones like the one we found ourselves in, come equipped with
elevators. But my qualms with these devices are many, for the
Parisian elevator is at best, a mixed blessing. While it does
indeed exist, it's impossible for me to share an elevator
with someone without knowing exactly how hard their knees
are. And while I had used this excuse in the past to get to
know someone a little better, I was already pretty damn
familiar with Maria. I bounded the steps ahead of her and was
soon on the third floor watching the shaky contraption
descend and reascend with its scowling cargo.
I heard the door unbolt. I was forced to now accept the fact
that perhaps Madame Frumeau's first image of me would be of a
young man who was either wildly enthusiastic about lunch, or
worse, a heartless bastard who abandoned his gal in an
elevator. To my relief, I found Roland Frumeau standing in
the entryway instead.
"Hello! Welcome.."
"Thank you!", Maria exclaimed, springing into the
conversation. She had bound out of the elevator like she had
been trapped there for days.
Monsieur Frumeau gave her a warm Latin smile.
"What is your name?"
"I'm Maria", she stated, her eye half cocked at me, dismayed
that I had not already mentioned her enough for the old man
to already know this.
"I'm Roland. You are Mexican, yes?"
"Yes."
After Maria congratulated Frumeau on his geographical
precision, they began to perform the standard kiss on both
cheeks. Maria cleared the way for me to make my own greetings
with the old man. I could tell she was watching me closely.
She always took great pleasure in my American puritanism when
it came to kissing men. She wanted to see how I would act.
How close we had become. I extended my hand warmly for the
Monsieur to shake it, smartly cutting him off at the pass,
before Roland could place his lips anywhere my cheeks for I
have a rule about kissing men in France. If I'm meeting men
for the first time I avoid the standard "bisous" by extending
my hand for a nice firm shake. It usually avoids any
unnecessary social awkwardness. If we ever become drinking
buddies or I make him Godfather of my kid, then we can kiss,
but not before. It's just a little rule I have. He took my
hand enthusiastically and returned my grip.
Roland lead us proudly into his main parlor and to the large
dining room table in the center of the room. I had still seen
no signs of the Madame of the house. Looking down at the
settings, I noticed four plates laid out with accompanying
silverware. She had to be somewhere.
I took off my coat and tried to hand it off to Roland but my
hand just dangled there. Roland was already occupied, helping
Maria with her slow succession of dead furry animal products.
For some reason I seem to be attracted to women who wear fur.
I had already considered this subject enough to come to the
conclusion that Maria didn't even like these furs and fuzzy
hand warmers for the fashion, but instead relished the
opportunity to rattle some self righteous prick. I guess this
is one way to never be ignored. Roland encouraged us to take
our places at the table as he disappeared into an adjacent
room with our clothing.
We sat there in anticipation, and shared glances, as we heard
some shuffling of feet in the kitchen. Then slowly as if by
divine coordination, Roland stepped out of the bedroom just
as another shadowy silhouette emerged from the kitchen.
Finally! Madame Frumeau was in front of us. Stepping into the
light, she appeared carrying a tray of toast. Their
coordination could not have been more perfect, but her
introduction also made me feel like I was meeting the hired
help.
Valerie Frumeau was a woman of medium height in her mid to
late sixties. Unfortunately, her looks were rather un -
remarkable. I am ashamed at my cruelty but in the interests
of giving an impression I will say that they were akin to
someone knocked down in life. Picture a long suffering
teacher or a meter maid. Her stance seemed a little unsure
but I couldn't tell if this was because she was still holding
the heavy plate of foie gras or because this was her natural
body language. She was crumpled, like an accordion. She wore
well worn but neat, unadorned clothes. The Parisian brown,
black and gray. She blended in. She looked up at us shyly,
her eyes askance.
"Salut", she said, practically in a whisper.
“I am Valerie.”
She placed the tarnished silver plate on the table and
approached us cordially. When she leaned in, for me to
formally brand her cheeks with my lips, I smelled the traces
of a freshly applied perfume. She then proceeded to
faithfully greeting Maria in the same way. When she opened
her mouth to greet Maria, I knew instantly, that we were in
for some difficulty. My girlfriend did not speak enough
French to tackle a conversation of any long term interest and
Valerie seemed to speak no English at all. Rather gallantly,
she then proposed the two of them would speak Spanish. Her
husband admitted that he did not speak a word. So here we
were, already drowning in a sea of cultural difference, the
table would now sound like a session at the U.N.
We sat down. Maria and I sharing one side of the table,
closest to the window. Roland and his wife were seated with a
unobstructed path to the kitchen. I broke the ice by
snatching some foie gras on my knife and applying it publicly
to my old piece of old toast. Maria and our hosts soon
followed suit. Roland asked me if I had consulted with any
other "customers" since our last rendezvous. Maria asked me
to repeat his question in English. This was going to be a
long afternoon.
"A few.”
I was hungry and small talk like this, I was eager to avoid.
The truth was that I considered my foray into private
screenplay consultation a failure and was not keen to dwell
in my defeats. The foie gras was melting. It seemed that we
were eating it just in time. I began to shift the attention
to Roland, asking him questions about his origins. We covered
the usual ground. I learned he had been a "functionaire" of
some sort, a civil servant, although the details of what he
was actually a “functionaire” of, remained sketchy. Finally I
got to something more personal.
"Are you Parisian?"
"Yes I am. I was born here and so was Valerie."
Roland pointed to his wife who was now busily engaged in
clearing the table for the next round. When she left the
room, we were stumped for words. We waited now for her to
return as theatre go-ers awaiting the lights to go up on the
next act.
Valerie, slightly uncomfortable with now being the centre of
attention, brought out a meagre plate of oysters and laid
them out before us like a proud mother. They had been
arranged on ice. I waited for Valerie to serve Maria, and
then leaned back as the woman placed a few shells on my
plate. I began to apply the necessary accoutrements as I once
again soaked up the silence. I began to long for some wine.
Most hosts in France are usually quite forthcoming with
offering alcohol at every opportunity. At most youthful get
togethers, I am on my second glass of red before I sit down.
Perhaps I was being impatient, or a vicious drunk, but I
could not see any wine anywhere in sight. Not even our token
of good will: the bottle of red we had bought at the
convenience store was visible. I focused my attention to
Maria's plate. She had not touched a thing. I listened in,
trying to discern what subject Valerie was currently speaking
to her about. As far as I could understand, Madame Frumeau
was talking to her in Spanish about learning to speak
Spanish.
Turning to Roland, I thought it was best if I now made a
comment about being thirsty.
"Oh, would you like some wine?"
He told Valerie that he had left a bottle of Sancerre in the
fridge and offered his excuses. He had forgot all about it. I
failed to understand how that was possible. We could have
used a little of this stuff from the very beginning. As
Monsieur Frumeau went to do his duty, I looked around the
room at the various artefacts that littered the apartment.
There was several book shelves, common in most apartments.
Most Parisians of a certain age, love to be surrounded by
books, a trait that I share. I scanned the shelves for
titles: there were a lot on city planning. Loads of
periodicals stacked on the top shelf on the subject of
amateur photography.
I heard Maria and Valerie jump starting another conversation.
They sounded like an old motor that had been left in the cold
too long. Sputtering at first, they were soon off and
running. The Spanish was broken, as Maria repeated certain
phrases over and over again, but Valerie courageously hung in
there, sometimes bringing up entirely new topics unwittingly.
It sounded a little like pre school. Still, I was glad they
were trying.
Roland came back with the wine and dutifully opened the
bottle with some difficulty. When every glass had been
delicately poured, I was the first to taste. Roland had
selected well, but I had to admit that at this point in the
afternoon, I would have been just as comfortable with white
wine spritzers. Roland sat down again and felt compelled to
talk. Maria and Madame Frumeau were already out classing us
in the bounty of their own conversation.
"Where are you from in United States? I never asked you."
For some reason, we had now switched to broken English.
Monsieur Frumeau's accent was strong. I had not heard it
before. Perhaps this was for Maria's sake. It did allow her a
gateway into our conversation together. Madame Frumeau
however, was completely lost, only able to pick up key words
that had some Latin affiliation.
"My father is from California", I replied.
"Ah California. We would like to go. We would love to go", he
corrected.
"It's nice," I replied.
"Sunny. Not like Iowa.”
I couldn't resist getting in one more dig at the couple's odd
preference for visiting the mid-west and nothing else.
"Yes,” Roland answered, not quite getting it.
"What does your father do?"
"He's retired now. But he did a lot of things.”
This was true. My father did have many careers. In the
sixties he was a merchant sailor and then a solider. He
fought a tour of duty as an enlisted man in the Vietnam war.
Roland immediately perked up when I mentioned Vietnam, as did
his wife. I had obviously tapped into an enticing subject.
It seems the French love talking about Vietnam. The fact that
they had already fought a long bloody war in Indochina and
lost, and then we came in and repeated the feat always gives
them a kind of quiet, perverted pleasure. It is perhaps the
historical equivalent of a parent telling a child not to put
his hand on the oven but then he goes and does it anyway.
"He fought in the Vietnam?", Roland re-iterated.
"Yes."
"What year?"
"67, I think.”
I wasn't sure.
"That must have been a terrible year"
"I'm sure it was."
"Was he infantry?"
"Yes, infantry,” I affirmed.
I enjoyed the way he pronounced the word "infantry" with his
heavy French accent.
"My husband fought in the Algerie, you know the Algerie? We
fought a war there. La France for the pied noirs", Valerie
interjected, her voice had an urgency to it, as if I had the
only lifeboat and she drowning in the open sea.
"Yes, I do,”
I felt like bringing up that Algeria wasn't exactly a war to
be proud of either, but this seemed an expedient point, as
the wine had now tranquilized away my normal cares.
I listened as Valerie now began a quiet but feisty campaign
to convince Roland to go into the back bedroom and retrieve
his war medals. Maria and I shared a glance. We wondered why
Valerie seemed to keen for her husband to comply. This was
now her own private obsession. Her way of stamping this
event. This would be a perfect seg-way: from one shameful
meaningless conflict to another.
I didn't know how I felt about seeing this man's war medals
but I did suspect that visual aids were going to be a
positive thing, if only so that Maria could understand what
the hell we were talking about. Despite Valerie’s coaxing and
prodding, Roland still seemed hesitant.
"I want to show you his medals", she addressed Maria in
Spanish, directly.
"They are not interested" Roland fired back at his wife in
French.
"I would like to see them", Maria added in English.
"Yeah, me too", I stated. I gulped down the rest of my glass.
'Very well," he surrendered, getting up.
Perhaps this was false modesty. Perhaps this whole song and
dance was part of the charm. The man was proud of his war
history and only went though the whole humble bit for the
sake of decorum.
In any case, he was soon back carrying a small fabric bag
with a drawstring. He sat down next to me again while his
wife scooted her chair in closer. Roland and his medals were
now on display as he opened up the drawstring satchel,
removed his medal and carelessly placed it in the palm of his
hand. He then began staring at the ceiling as we now felt the
need to close in and admire it.
"What kind of medal is it?" I asked, becoming aware only
after I had said it that this was being forward.
"It's for his service," she explained, in French. Then she
repeated herself in Spanish for Maria.
"Is it like a purple heart?", I asked, wanting some reference
point for French awards.
"What is a purple heart?" Valerie questioned, wrapping her
tongue awkwardly around the words purple and heart, which she
had no choice but to pronounce in English.
"A purple heart is our medal for bravery."
"For bravery yes,” she repeated quite confidently.
"This is for bravery then?", I asked, pointing with my pinky
at the medal still in Roland's hand.
"Yes."
Was Roland no longer in this conversation? It appeared so. He
was still looking away, as if waiting for us to finish our
business. When we finally ceased talking about the medals he
held in his hand, he clenched the prize once more and quickly
shoved it back in the pouch.
"There", he stated, glad that the episode was now over.
He had done it for his wife’s satisfaction alone. He placed
the fabric sack behind him and faced us again a little
weary. This was a chore. It was also obvious that a great
deal of silent communication had gone on between Roland and
his wife during this episode. There was something to this we
didn’t understand. Something between them that they were
having out. I observed Valerie, sitting upright and more
present at the table than she had appeared before. She looked
rejuvenated. Her face was fresher, content. It was apparent
that Valerie had craved this. Something personal, something
to shift this lunch into the domain of the private and the
personal.
"I must show you a movie. A Jean Seburg movie. You watch with
me,” Roland blurted out in English. He was speaking to me. I
watched Valerie deflate a little. Was this a tactic? Another
lob in their tennis match?
"All right", I acquiesced. What choice did I have? Monsieur
Frumeau was already up and away, wrangling his old video
recorder and TV within range of the table. We sat and
endured. He used his remote like a magic wand. I watched
images fly by as he tried to get to the section he was
interested in. The film was some obscure sixties caper movie,
typical for the era. This was when depictions of sea, sun and
sex was enough to fill the public's cinematic appetite. It
was not really my cup of tea but I could see how someone
could get into movies like this. It was a lifestyle. A
depiction of a kind of carefree sixties mentality. Perhaps it
reminded Monsieur Frumeau of the old days. Positivity. His
youth. The plot told the tale of some heist in a hot country.
There were scenes depicting men with sideburns smoking thick
cigars. Jean Seburg frolicking in her bikini. A lot of
frolicking. A lot of smoking. Monsieur Frumeau was hypnotized
by these images, while the women waited patiently for the
sequence to end. I could tell by the expression on her face
that this was no doubt the thousandth time poor Valerie had
seen it. And while I had to admit, that Jean Seburg did have
the tightest of abdominal muscles (not something I was
expecting from a sixties film star), I had to wonder what
Frumeau thought we would get out of all this. It was more
than a little twisted. What was the logic? The expectation?
What did he expect us all to say? Yes Roland, Jean Seburg
does have beautiful breasts. You are absolutely justified in
bringing this to our attention. Thank God for your research.
God bless America and God bless France.
Roland pressed pause and sat waiting for my reaction, Maria’s
reaction, anyone’s reaction. Valerie began clearing the
plates solemnly. I felt compelled to speak if only to break
up the silence.
"It's good," I said, eager to please while Valerie left the
room.
"She's very beautiful," I added.
"Yes. Very," Roland added, letting the thought just hang
there.
Valerie returned with an old, faded biscuit tin. It was some
supermarket bought Scottish short bread and she laid it on
the table, signalling the end of the video entertainment.
“Coffee? Desert?” Valerie asked in Spanish, addressing Maria
directly.
Maria informed her that she would have both. I could tell
that both women were happy it was over. The ball was back in
Valerie’s court, so to speak.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" Maria asked.
From the silent interlude that followed, I could tell it
wasn't, but Monsieur Frumeau now put up a brave front.
"Of course you can smoke. Well I have cigars if you would
like? Would you like a cigar?"
"No thanks", Maria answered.
I could tell Maria was thrown by this. She wondered how her
wanting a cigarette could have instigated the cigar
proposition. Most women hate cigars like they hate stomach
ulcers.
"But they have not had their dessert yet!", Madame Frumeau
finally spoke up, saying her peace.
"I mean after the dessert" Roland corrected himself.
Maria could now sense that opening up her pack of Marlboro
reds was going to be a controversial act.
"It's okay. I'll wait".
"No my dear, Fumar, fumar. Bien, bien."
Madame Frumeau waved her on. She was like someone cheering on
a marathon runner. I guess she was ashamed that the guest she
had grown so attached to over the last half an hour now felt
uncomfortable. Maria was itching to smoke. I could feel it.
“Please, it’s fine! I will put the coffee on. Cafe, coffee?,”
she repeated in both languages.
Now that she had the lady of the house’s permission, Maria
took out her packet and lit up. Her face was grateful. She
began talking, a geyser of Spanish now shot out from her lips
as Valerie prepared the coffee. Maria was primed. With a
cigarette in one hand and some alcohol in her system, I knew
it was now just a matter of time before she got personal.
Valerie disappeared briefly to brew the coffee, but was soon
hovering in the doorway, soon listening intently to what
Maria had to say. I could tell by the look on her face, that
she was in a kind of rapture. Probably Maria was telling her
something private about our lives, letting her in on our
fears, our insecurities. When Maria opened up like this, it
was because she enjoyed it. It was more out of boredom than
any real need at airing her laundry. Plus, I could tell it
was a tactic: open up to Valerie and there would be
complicity there. Valerie might be compelled to reciprocate.
Valerie sat down and poured the coffee haphazardly, letting
the men get their own milk and sugar if they wanted it. We
now settled in to our respective conversations.
Roland addressed me on some other intricacies of Jean
Seburg's life. I kept my mouth shut and listened, chiming in
occasionally to give comments about the narrative value of
all the details he was mentioning. I was giving him what was
essentially a discounted consultation. In my right ear, I
heard the din of Madame Frumeau and Maria's chit chat rising
to a new crescendo. Whatever it was they were discussing,
they had now managed to overcome their language difficulties
entirely. I looked up and noticed Valerie leaning in, eyes
locked with my girlfriend’s: two accomplices in tight knit
solidarity.
I looked back at Roland. He was in the middle of enlightening
me about Jean Seburg’s political work with the black
panthers, when he started to eye his wife warily. I looked
over at Valerie. Everything about her was on the verge. Her
face flushed from enthusiasm, rage, sadness. I could tell by
the expression on his face that Roland knew an earth quake
was coming.
Madame Frumeau faced her husband boldly. She was a picture of
high wire tension; every fibre of her ready to implode under
some, as yet, unknown weight.
"I want to tell them", she stated in a volume we had not
heard all afternoon. Roland seemed intent on convincing us
that the information that was about to be revealed was not
worth our whiles, but we knew otherwise. It was too public
now, too inevitable.
"Please, don't bother them with this,” he pleaded. I wondered
if the Frumeau still were aware that they were speaking out
loud or had years of being isolated in their tiny apartment
made them lose their sense of self awareness.
"She wants to know!"
"She doesn't."
"She does! She told me she wants to know.”
Oh Maria, what had you done? I gave a her a quick glance but
there was no discreet communication between us now. Her eyes
were fixed on Valerie. The look on her face was one of
satisfaction. She had orchestrated this. Maria was a minor of
human drama; an emotional vortex that everything and everyone
was sucked in to. Madame Frumeau had never stood a chance.
The poor woman’s tears flowed freely and Roland surrendered.
"Tell them, if you want, tell them. I don’t care. But they
did not come here to hear about that. They’re young. It will
spoil things.”
I wondered what being young had to do with it.
“I think they deserve to know,” Valerie confided, in French.
“Well they're waiting now."
"I hope you can understand me. Our daughter...,” correcting
herself. “We had a daughter but she passed a long time
ago..."
Maria moved in to try and complete her thoughts for her.
"How old?," Maria coaxed gently.
"Nineteen. She was nineteen."
Roland shook his head solemnly. Hearing enough, he decided to
busy himself by rummaging through a stack of files by his
feet. Perhaps he hoped to present me with a Jean Seburg fact
that would distract me from the storm? A futile gesture in
the light of Madame Frumeau’s passionate confession.
“She was so beautiful. You can see in the picture. I will get
you a picture.
“Don’t take the picture. They don’t want to see a picture.”
“....So pretty. And so smart. She was such a very clever
girl...” She kept seated.
"This was years ago,” Roland’s voice echoing in a muffled
coda, betraying the tone of someone used to this sentiment
being expressed, a man worn down by the routine.
"This is depressing. This is not professional. John and I
have business to discuss."
"She wants to hear this. She told me. Let me speak. Let me
tell them about Marion for God’s sake!"
"Our daughter,” Valerie continued.
“Marion. She was killed on the metro.”
Roland now clutching his channel changer, studied our puzzled
faces.
"She jumped in front of the car," he added, completing his
wife’s admission for her.
We both stayed silent. At first I wanted to check if I
understood him correctly. I had. Maria’s face was ghostly
white.
"You want to see a picture. I will get you a picture.”
Valerie sprung from the table, leaving us alone with Roland.
The defeated old man crossed his legs awkwardly. He placed
the channel changer on the table. Clearly, his hope had been
that this would be a brief interruption. That very soon, we
could go back to what we had really come here for: the Jean
Seburg film retrospective. It was a false hope.
She returned a few breaths later, as if the photo of her late
daughter had been resting within immediate reach in case of
emergency. Like a rescue flare.
"She's gone," she reiterated, sitting down and calmly holding
up the picture of her daughter. I only had to look up at it
to make an instant comparison. The young lady in the
photograph, with her blonde hair cut short in a sixties
style, her round eyes, delicate skin and pale pallor was
clearly being modelled after someone. Although Valerie and
Roland’s daughter Marion did not resemble Jean Seburg, she
clearly had been squeezed into a mould. She had a cold look
in her eyes, like her mother’s. It was as if she was
modelling for an advertisement involuntarily, or stepped into
someone else's life.
"She was very unhappy. We tried to get her help. She got
help. A psychiatrist. But she was very sick, and in the
end...."
"There was nothing we could do about it. She wanted to do it
and she did it. And I guess there's nothing more to say about
that."
Time collapsed a little. I could feel myself transported to
that day. I felt a cold surge. I pictured the blue metro car
colliding with that young body. A girl desperate enough to
throw her own body against the terrifying mass. I began
looking for tactile reminders. Help me picture it, piece it
together. Had she been raised here? In this home? Was it here
on the dining table that she had done her homework? Had
Valerie served her meals where I was sitting? I saw her on
the platform again. Perhaps coming home from school. From a
boy’s house. From an empty day of wandering? Her will, her
life balled up in her throat as the adrenaline surged. After
years of feeling she had none, she had made a choice. A shot
of volition, will to motion and then it was over. The public
shocked out of their reading of news papers and their
concerns about being late. The commuters would gawk,
unprepared for the aftermath.
Valerie opened the biscuit tin and started to help herself.
This time, locked into her sorrows, she did not bother about
playing the good host. Roland was at her mercy now, no longer
having Jean Seburg to fall back on, the atmosphere turned
into a nervous state of mourning. We were already gone.
“It’s sometimes like that, the life, yes?”, Valerie said,
letting the shortbread in her mouth crumble, and fall in dust
to the table. She would eventually have to clean it up. But
it could wait. It could all wait for now.
We gave our excuses, telling them we had to get home. There
was no argument. No resistance. No polite insistence to say
and see the afternoon out. Roland looked like a man who had
sworn off good byes. A man without a cause, drained of his
authority in an instant. Certain of the night he would face
ahead, reliving old painful memories. They would dwell in the
things they could not change. We talked of things we had to
prepare for the week ahead. Errands I had to run. We kept it
as light as we could. I reminded Roland to keep writing, keep
researching. It was all I could say to keep things positive,
to leave on a note that didn’t seem like we were all heading
to the gallows. It was the usual talk of responsibility when
a social occasion had run it course.
When we got up, Roland dutifully fetched our coats while
Valerie silently held vigil in the corner. The photo of her
daughter still lay on the table, her attention glued to it.
She was quiet again, the figure we had seen at the beginning
of the lunch, retreating into a post haze,a messenger that
had done her duty.
Maria was eager to come forward and embrace her. She looked
up and formed a smile, her dried tears and flushed face, a
reminder of the catharsis that had taken place only minutes
before. As I leaned forward to plant my kisses, I felt her
reaching out to embrace me, her hold was tight. Then she let
go. The push and pull of her desire for comfort and her
insistence on decorum, tearing at her. I felt it in her grip,
loosening it reluctantly. Roland came with the coats and
handed them to us.
“You know the way?,” he inquired, barely able to pronounce
the words in English now.
“Yes, thanks,” I stammered, betraying my discomfort.
Roland proceeded to make sure I knew the directions anyway.
We headed for the front door. Roland opened it, still playing
the part of the gracious host. Valerie continued to linger in
the background in a trance.
“Do you cook?,” Roland suddenly asked, his eyes falling on
Maria. He seemed to be deliberately cornering her.
“Sometimes.”
“Well then you must cook for us. We will be waiting for your
invitation.”
Maria did not answer him. Instead she made a point of moving
her head to try and make eye contact with Valerie. It was no
use. Valerie was by the kitchen entryway, holding another
biscuit to her mouth. Her soul somewhere else. As we
descended the steps together, Maria and I both took one final
look over our shoulders and found Roland still at the door.
He appeared a childlike figure. His wife still nowhere to be
seen. I knew that in his heart he would have followed us
home. Spent the rest of his life in our living room. We
rounded the landing, disappearing from his watch.
We passed the gate that I had made such a fuss over earlier.
If someone were to have taken our picture we would have
looked like a couple walking away from a bad auto accident.
Stumbling forward, I put my arm around Maria’s shoulders
motioning her body closer to mine. It was one of those
impulses devoid of strategy: something a lover thinks to do
when the ability to form words fails him. I was trying to get
back something. I was reclaiming us. Studying Maria, I could
see Valerie. I wanted Maria back.
"I think he abused her,” she said.
I knew exactly what she meant. I felt pathetic as we sank
together putting together all these pieces. Marion’s eyes
looking out at us from that photograph. That teenager on the
metro platform ready to jump. Jean Seburg. Valerie standing
there paralyzed, holding a biscuit to her mouth. If it was
true, we had left them there in a half state. We had dined
with ghosts. And here we were trying to make ourselves feel
better by telling ourselves there was nothing we could do to
bring them back to life.
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