Chapter 6: A Chinaman Looks at Paris

Jen went out at 5:00 o’clock. It was the first Sunday of the month. The sun wasn’t up yet, but this was The Big Day: he was to leave for Paris! Jen had heard people talking about the West all his life. He’d listened (you never know when you might pick up something), but he’d always felt perfectly happy with the East. Anyway, one day he entered this contest, and a month later, much to his surprise, he found he’d won himself a week’s vacation in Paris.

By 7:00 he was in the city. Air Orient had a direct flight that left at 8:00. Jen boarded without any reserva­tions (it was as simple as that). Leaving Beijing behind, he felt no regrets.

Mongolia! Tibet! The Black Sea! Jen looked down on the most amazing places. Eastern Europe! Over Venice he thought for a minute he saw Marco Polo’s caravan wending its way back from China (it was actually smoke from a factory chim­ney). Before long they were up over the Alps and entering France. Lyon! Dijon! (It made him think of Lyonnaise potatoes and Dijon mustard.) Before they knew it, the plane was approaching Paris, the Marne below with its estuaries flowing into the Seine. They were still high enough so you couldn’t tell whether the water was moving or not, though Jen assumed it was (he’d never seen a river in which it wasn’t).

Well, so this was Paris! They were almost ready to land. As they started coming down, life along the river banks seemed to grow up to meet them. Forming itself around the river, the great city spread out beneath him. Over his head arched the great heavens. It all made him feel great. This is the way it ought to be, thought Jen. He looked out his window at the clouds. In a big puffy one he thought he saw a face (it was actually his own reflection). Rubbing the surface of the glass, he heard a voice (could he be talking to himself?).

“Jen,” said the voice, “You are great!” (That’s what he’d always thought.) “If you’ve always thought so,” said the voice, “why haven’t you said so?” Jen laughed. Apparently the voice was waiting for an answer.

“Well,” said Jen, “I guess it would have seemed imperti­nent.”

“Impertinent?” the voice queried.

“Exactly,” said Jen.

“Exactly,” said the voice. “Had it seemed perti­nent, it wouldn’t have been true.” Jen wasn’t sure he understood. At least he felt great. “It’s not every day you feel great,” he said to himself.

“Right,” said the voice.

“Right?” said Jen.

“Right,” said the voice. “Feel great!” it continued. “What do you have to lose?”

“Beats me,” said Jen. He wondered what in the world was going on. It was all some new sort of con­sciousness. “Say, what is this all about?” said Jen. There seemed to be three of something floating around.

“Here,” said the voice, “these are my three treasures, keep them and cherish them. The first is mercy.” Jen raised his eyebrows. “The second is frugali­ty.” Jen patted his wallet. He was glad now that he’d saved up for the trip. “The third is never to take the lead over the whole world.”

“But,” Jen argued, “I thought you just said I was great.”

“Great, yes,” said the voice, “but not the greatest.”

“Who’s the greatest?” Jen inquired, naïvely. The plane bucked as it started descending.

“Ali,” the voice said. “Ali is the greatest.” Jen didn’t understand. “I was only joking,” said the voice. Jen figured it must be some sort of western humor. “Orly,” said another voice. It was the Captain speaking. “Orly is all jammed up,” he said. “We’ll have to circle the airport.” The plane started ascending.

“As I was saying,” said the other voice, “you have my three treasures: mercy, frugality, humility.” Jen looked down over Paris. The sky was overcast. He was getting nervous. “What about courage?” he asked.

“No problem,” said the voice. “If you have mercy, you don’t have to worry about courage. It follows natural­ly.”

“Oh,” said Jen. “And why frugality?” he added, rather absent-mindedly.

“That’s obvious,” the voice replied. “If you’re frugal, you’ll have all you need – when you need it.”

“And humility?” Jen asked, watching now as the plane started to descend again.

“If you’re humble,” said the voice, “people will give you the authority you deserve.” It all sounded sensible to Jen. He thought of asking again about mercy and courage, but the plane was on the ground. He was feeling queasy, as if he might have drunk too much, though all he’d had that day was water.

He lugged his suitcase to the door of the terminal, yielding it there to an enterprising chauffeur, who put it in the trunk of his limousine. Soon they’d reached the heart of town. Crossing the river, the car pulled up at the Hôtel Pierre Loti. Jen tipped the driver handsomely and was ushered into the lobby by the doorman. Shown his luxuri­ous suite, he immedi­ately fell into bed. A good night’s sleep and he’d be ready for Paris.

 

He awoke on the wings of the sweetest of dreams. The heavenly maiden of the fairy isles had turned her chariot in the clouds, pointing the way for Jen to blissful emptiness. “How,” she had whispered as he began to stir, “will ordinary people know that you have immortality in your bones?” The thought pleased Jen, but he quickly recalled what the voice had told him the day before. As he brushed his teeth, he heard it again: “He who knows glory but keeps to disgrace becomes the valley of the world.” It was speaking French this time. In the same courteous manner it began again: “Please allow me to introduce myself; my name is Pierre Loti.”

“Enchanté,” said Jen, “I’m pleased to meet you.”

“I’m a man of wealth and taste,” the voice contin­ued. Well, thought Jen, this is Paris. “I am here to be your guide. Please speak to me whenever you need assistance. I will be here by your side.” It all seemed natural to Jen. “On your bedside table you’ll find a key to Paris.”

Jen shaved and showered, returning to the bed­room. When he’d finished dressing in his long traditional robes, he found indeed A Key to Paris on his bedside table. Opening the book, he planned his visits for the week. Monday seemed a perfect day for culture. He ticked the pages for the Museum of Man, the Museum of French Monuments, and the Louvre. Since the last was close by, he set out on foot, looking for a café where he might get some breakfast.

Feeling empty, he ordered a croissant along with his café au lait. Pierre Loti, waiting until the waiter had served Jen, offered him his first words of advice: “Open your eyes and observe the life about you.” Jen blinked. Two Danish tourists, blond and twentyish, sat before the table next to him, apparently waiting for a third to return, whose full cup of coffee sat at an empty place. One of them had a full beard and silver glasses; the other wore a goatee and a dirty orange shirt. Their friend returned. He was wearing plastic glasses and had a faint mustache. All three glanced at Jen respectfully. A tall blond French woman in avocado slacks walked past the café, dark roots showing where she parted her hair. A truck stopped in front of a store next door: Pronuptia, the House of Happiness, the first O in the shape of a heart.

Jen entered the Louvre. He hardly knew where to begin there was so much to see. Monsieur Loti suggested the Room of Apollo, directing Jen’s attention to the paintings on the ceiling. The sequence began with “The Triumph of Earth,” continuing with “Winter,” “Spring,” “Summer,” and “Fall,” interspersed with “Night,” “Eve­ning,” “Apollo,” and “Castor.” Jen was especially pleased by two final panels: “Dawn” and “The Triumph of the Waters.” He was beginning to see eye to eye with the West. Pierre Loti seemed an excellent guide.

There was much astir in this precious room of crown jewels and artifacts. Jen delighted in everything: a fourteen-year-old French girl in a salmon-colored tricot; a throng of older German tourists, gathered about their guide. The girl’s hair was cut to form an arc as it fell against her back. The guide held his whole face in his hand, rubbing his mouth and leaning toward his audience. Arching his eyebrows and showing his teeth, he gestured toward the wall with an upward motion of his palm. In the dim light an elegantly decadent curator sat in a Japanese posture, a superfluity of pallor in her cheeks. Her glasses caught fine glints from the skies of the Seine, as hordes of people streamed in and out of the room.

In a time-honored gesture Pierre Loti suggested that he and Jen step to the window, from which they viewed the facade of the Square Courtyard. Jen had seen the inside as they entered the museum and thought it an unconscionable pastiche. Situated, however, in this contemporary perspective (and viewed from outside), it asserted its civilizing properties. Jen better under­stood the Revolution and yet appreciated too the remains of an earlier era. The elegance of the outer garden, with its rectangu­lar, pink-bordered grass, was marred only by the traces that a watering hose had left in the sand. From the window Jen observed a red-haired woman walk past in the chic of an off-white trench coat.

Together he and Pierre examined Egyptian antiqui­ties, Iranian reliefs, and pre-Hellenic sculpture, arriving at last at the Venus of Milo. Pierre suggested they seat themselves and observe the goddess through the eyes of others. A man in a dark blue sweater with swarthy Germanic features looked at her from behind, making furtive, successive glances as he passed through the room. A large, Greek-looking man in a beige suit and yellow shirt, stood in front of her, his wife taking a picture of the two of them together. A sixtyish English couple looked at the statue, she walking about, raising her eyebrows, he standing stoically, blinking a lot. An Indian man, pausing for a moment, quickly moved on, followed by his beauti­ful wife and son. A Japanese, accompanied by a beautiful Italian girl, discussed in English the problems of photo­graphing Venus. A raunchily beautiful, lithe French girl looked at the statue with her boyfriend, he with his arm about her neck.

Jen had enjoyed the museum, but he was still hungry for culture. Over a light lunch Pierre approved the afternoon’s itinerary, suggesting a stroll on the avenue Victor Hugo, and adding an evening at the French cinema. At the Palais de Chaillot, Jen could scarcely believe his eyes: “It depends on you,” the inscription read, “whether I be tomb or treasure. Do not enter without desire.” The Museum of Man was a dusty dreadful place. Pierre quickly escorted Jen across the plaza to the next one. Christ sat with his arms spread. Bright sunlight lit the stone face of a King of France. Portals of cathedrals rose above his head. Only when his eyes had adjusted did Jen see these things for what they were: immense monuments of plaster threatening to fall on the viewer. A guard rubbed an eye with one finger and looked at his watch. Jen began to look for the exit. In the Renaissance Christ was dead. Someone was raping someone else atop an enormous urn. Jen hurried past a full-scale model of Rude’s “master­piece,” its chopped-off head screaming on a separate pedestal. In tremendous relief Jen stepped out into the place du Trocadéro. On the side of a bus a woman was stroking her lover’s hair. Pierre suggested they head toward the Arc de Triomphe.

A leisurely stroll to the étoile offered Jen his first brush with France today. Cannon, an American private detective, acted out a drama in the window of a television rental store, as outside two meter maids in wine-colored stewardess uniforms stopped to give a ticket. Jen and Pierre walked on, past Ted Lapidus, past the École Bilingue, past Hugo Musique. They stopped in front of another store window. A dead, highly-colored, ring-necked pheasant sat on a rug next to a pair of nail scis­sors, designed to look like birds. The bills formed the blades of the scissors. Nearby a bird quill stood in a glass ink stand, four bright green cartridges surrounding its base. A long-haired salesman beside the display looked up as he placed his hand on a Chinese red phone.

By the time they had reached the Arc de Triomphe the skies had darkened. An unseasonable chill had set in. Jen read the inscriptions, finding it all very dreary. Could it be that he was wrong? Wondering, he turned in time to see Pierre heading for the Champs Élysées. Uncharacteris­tically, Jen hurried off to catch him. Pierre disappeared in the crowd. Regaining his hotel, all Jen recalled of the avenue was three marquees: “Black Moon,” “Deep Throat” and “Oh, America!” Meditating on everything he’d seen, he soon achieved his former serenity. Pierre, it appeared, had deserted him, however. After a modest dinner, tired by his full day, Jen spent the evening with a new novel in which the author dreamt of The United States. Falling asleep, Jen dreamt that he had met Jackie Kennedy. She was introducing herself at 6:00 o’clock in the place Charles de Gaulle.

 

When he awoke, Jen meditated. When he’d finished sitting, he arose. He walked about his room, looking at the pictures of Paris on the walls: the place de la Concorde with its obelisk, the place Vendôme with its cannonade, the place de la Bastille, a figure of Mercury atop its enormous column. They all had something in common. Each was a little window onto the world outside. Over the bed hung a picture of the Eiffel Tower. A small man dressed in black stood in front of it. Jen sat on the bed studying the picture. Sure enough, before long, he heard a voice. It spoke in a thick Breton accent.

“Thus we can see the relationship between this monu­mental turn-of-the-century tower and the other spires of the city, yea the spires of France. For, let us recall, the towers of Notre Dame were never topped with their intended spires. May we not,” the voice concluded, “find therein a suitable explanation for the city’s desire to create a pinnacle worthy of her pride? Long since had the town of Chartres – to say nothing of Pisa and New York – ‘or Babylon,’ Jen interjected (he’d begun to enter into the spirit of this) . . .” But the voice had trailed off. Jen continued to stare at the picture. How silly, he thought. What am I doing here in my hotel, when I can walk out and see the thing itself?

It was a bright, clear morning. Like a Renaissance courtier, Jen swished through the lobby into the rue Castiglione, down the rue Rivoli and into the place de la Concorde. Recall­ing history, he stepped over the spot where Louis Seize had lost his head. It was peaceful in the square. The place names of Paris, he had to admit, were not without significance. The French set it up that way. He cut through the trees on the Champs Élysées and, reaching the Rond Point, took the avenue Montaigne. At the Plaza Athénée he passed a dark philosophical type emerging through the hotel door. At the place de l’Alma, a large German man, descending from the rue Goethe, asked him directions to the Eiffel Tower. “What a coinci­dence,” Jen said, “I was going that way myself.” As they turned into the avenue de New York, it towered into view. Together he and the German crossed the pont d’Iéna, connecting the right bank with the Champs de Mars. When his eye fell on the École Militaire, Jen thought of Napo­leon as a young lieutenant.

As they reached the tower, they found the entrance blocked by a large crowd of French tourists gathered about a guide who wore a Paris Vision hat. His name tag read “Ray­mond.” Having finished a Freudian analysis, he was about to explain the tower in historical terms. He seemed out of his mind. “Formerly,” he said, “the quay was known as the avenue de Tokio, but as the bomb went off over Nagasaki . . .” Two passing Japanese tourists turned their heads at the mention of the name. “. . . the name was changed. Now, as you see” – ­Fred had shifted to esthetic terms – “she sits astride the field of Mars, glori­ous, blue as a pictograph.” One of the tourists, taking his eye off the brown tower, gave Fred a funny look. “Every stage is a different stage” – Jen’s eyes followed the upward development of the tower – ­“acting out a perpetual drama, as the transitory trees along the river bend toward her.”

Several people glanced nervously at one another. The borders of the quay smacked with Nazi Germany, as Fred rehearsed later events.

“From the necessary through the true to the beautiful,” said the German.

“To the nut house,” muttered Jen. Fred overheard the last remark. He took a step forward.

“Look, Confucius,” he shouted, threatening Jen. But the German had stepped between them. “My dear man,” he said to Fred, “don’t be impatient when someone fails to see the force of your argument.” Fred, for the moment, seemed to be appeased. Taking Jen by the arm, the German murmured words of poetry and truth, as he led him away.

Jen had never been in a fight in his life. He wondered why Paris seemed to make him act so out of character. They sat down on a bench under the tower. “How marvelously light she is,” said the German in French, hesitating as he recalled the gender of tour. “Yes,” said Jen, who was still feeling distracted. “Lighter than one thought, and taller too. So pale in the cheeks.” She must use a “natural” blusher, he thought. He was looking now directly at her pink lips, brown eyes and rich, limpid hair. She had sat down next to them on the bench. As Jen studied her white stockings, he noticed her little breasts undulating underneath her velvet jacket. Involun­tarily, his hand reached out. “Monsieur!” cried the girl, as she slapped him and stood up. Bewildered, Jen looked at the German. What had he done? He had dropped his Key to Paris in her lap. When she stood up, it had fallen to the ground. Retrieving it, the German dusted it off and handed it back to Jen. “When a man,” he said, “is in society, he should take the key to his heart and put it in his pocket.” Jen had never felt so foolish in his life. What in the world had possessed him to do that?

Together he and the German strolled up the Champs de Mars to the École Militaire, in front of which a Frenchman, in green pants and a bright red shirt, was photographing a woman in a blue skirt, white blouse and red jacket. When they saw Jen and the German approach, they asked if one of them would mind taking a picture of them both. Since Jen had never used a camera, the German offered to do it. Continuing their stroll down the avenue de Tourville, Jen and his new friend talked of the Tower and of the City in general, until they’d reached the Hôtel des Invalides.

It was hard to tell what this one was all about. It wasn’t like any hotel Jen had ever seen. For one thing it had a moat around it. As they passed under a statue of Ludovicus Magnus, Jen laughed, remarking that it all looked rather pompous. “Men,” said the German, “reveal their character in nothing so much as what they find laughable. No,” he added with a chuckle, “I’m afraid this is all very serious. First of all, it’s not a hotel; it’s a museum. And that includes the church.” They entered the Musée de l'Armée. Wax figures had been tricked up to look like soldiers, though only the uniforms and the swords were real. They entered a room marked “1793-1804.” Every­thing bore the stamp of Napoleon, down to the rear end of a horse. Jen found it all faintly ridiculous, but, recalling the wise words of the German and noting the serious faces of French tourists, he kept his opinions to himself. Together they looked at Napoleon’s tent, at his deathbed, at a plaster mask that someone had made from his corpse. Jen thought this was the end, but according to the German there was more to come. “The Church of the Invalids,” he explained, “formerly the Church of Mars, and before that the Church of Saint Louis.” It all sounded sick to Jen; but, he thought, we may as well get to the heart of the matter.

 

“What is the future, what is the past, who are we?” Jen had picked up one of the phones at the entrance to The Church. The voice had a Corsican flavor. “What is this magical fluid that flows about us, hiding those things from us which it most matters that we know?”

“I don’t know,” said Jen. “What’s the answer?” He hadn’t expected so many questions all at once. “Could we take them one at a time?” he added, somewhat raffishly. At first there was no response. Then, over the phone, Jen heard what sounded like that Breton again.

“Napoleon,” said the voice, “lies here in the midst of the French people whom he loved so well.” Well, thought Jen, I guess that explains who “we” are. “Of course Napoleon,” Fred continued, “couldn’t have known exactly what the people had in store for him.” He was speaking of “the future.”The voice had faded. It returned: “. . . tinned sheet-iron; mahogany; lead; another layer of lead; ebony; and oak.” Jen looked over the railing into the crypt. “The monument you see” – a dapper little man with a mustache was standing on the green granite base, his arm resting on the red stone shelf as though it might be part of a bookcase – “is made of porphyry. It was chosen because the Romans had used it for imperial burials.” So much for “the past,” thought Jen. He leaned over the railing. “What about the ‘magical fluid’?” Roussel, who had held up two fingers, was about to explain, when the murmur of Japanese tourists drowned out his voice. They had stepped up alongside Jen to admire the crypt. One of them, in Japanese, was counting the statues. Jen turned to look at him. When the man reached twelve, Roussel had vanished, leaving only Napoleon’s tomb.

Jen thought he’d better go and have a look for himself. As he descended, he passed a gold figure of Jesus nailed to a stone cross on the altar, a wall of glass separat­ing Christ and Napol­eon from the rest of the church. “The Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,” said Goethe, who had taken the left-hand staircase and met Jen at the bottom. They passed between two bronze figures, one bearing an orb, the other a scepter and a crown. Goethe paused to thumb through his copy of The Sorrows of the Young Werther, looking for a passage to clarify what he had in mind. Jen walked on halfway around the circle before Goethe could catch up. He’d been reading the words of Napoleon on the walls, but now he was looking at this thing they called the “cella,” where Napoleon’s sword, medals and hat were kept. Most important of all, it had a big statue of the man himself.

Jen did something he’d never done before. He walked straight up to the statue as if to shake hands. To Goethe’s utter amazement (to say nothing of the guard’s), Napoleon, who a moment ago had been holding his guts underneath his shirt, took out his hand, stepped forward, and offered it to Jen. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. Jen smiled. Napoleon, however, kept the same stony expres­sion. “The superior man,” he remarked, turning to Goethe, “is impassive.” Jen didn’t agree, but he was tactful enough to keep quiet. Napoleon shook hands with Goethe too and offered to take them on a brief tour of the Church. After they’d looked at each of the chapels, he pointed out the Kings of France, emphasizing that it was Louis XIV – he called him “the fourteenth” – and not himself who had built the church. He was about to show them the outside when Jen stopped.

“Listen,” he said, “why don’t we all go back to my hotel for a drink?” (It had been a big day for Jen.)

“Sounds great to me,” said Goethe, looking to see what Napoleon would say.

“I’m right up on the rue de Rivoli,” said Jen. Napoleon smiled.

“Why not?” he replied. Together they ambled out past the Musée Rodin and, strolling down the Esplanade des Invalides, talked of war and other subjects. “When a whole people is armed,” said Napoleon, “and wants to defend its liberty, it can’t be beaten. When you want something bad enough, you always get it,” he added. Famous last words, thought Goethe, who was still skepti­cal about all this. As they crossed the river, Raymond Roussel joined them. He’d been called away to the phone and had a long conversation with his father. Shaking hands with Jen, he introduced himself. He mentioned that for years he’d been planning a trip to the East. Napoleon, who had unpleasant memories on that score, didn’t like the turn the conversation had taken. He cheered up though as they passed through the place, where a distinguished-looking tourist joined them, scratching his mutton chop. “Unavoid­able wars,” said Napol­eon, interrupting Roussel and returning to the subject of earlier conversation, “unavoid­able wars are always just wars.” “They’re more than just wars,” said Carlyle with a twinkle in his eye. Napoleon didn’t seem to understand. “‘Courage,’” Carlyle began again, quoting the General, “‘is like Love: it needs Hope for nourishment.’” Napoleon smiled. He loved to hear himself quoted. Miffed at having been upstaged, Roussel looked the other way toward the Tuileries, moving to cut Napoleon off. The Corsican feinted toward Roussel. Goethe began to wonder if he’d have to step in again. “‘Courage,’" said Carlyle, looking pointedly in Roussel’s direction as he quoted Napoleon again, “‘is the one virtue that can’t be faked.’” Picking up the pace, Roussel walked on ahead. “‘The greatest art,’” said Carlyle, glancing at Goethe, “‘is to withdraw oneself and live in isolation.’” He was really giving Roussel the raspberries now. Even Goethe smiled. “Vain truly,” said Carlyle, speaking in his own fulsome voice, “is the hope of your swiftest runner to escape from his own shadow.” Roussel had broken into a trot but could still hear them. Why, he thought, are they all picking on me this way? Carlyle was relentless. “‘The cannon,’” he said, looking slyly at Napoleon, “‘was the death of feudalism.’” “Yes,” said the Emperor, “and ink will be the death of modern society.” Roussel was on the verge of slitting his wrists. Luckily they’d reached the Pierre Loti. Roussel had a brilliant idea. Entering the bar, he pulled out a thick roll of bills, turned to the waiter and said in a generous voice, “Absinthe all around!” As they seated them­selves, Jen looked about the table, hesitating to make a com­ment.

“Absinthe,” he finally said, mustering his nerve, “make the heart grow fonder.” Everyone looked at him with surprise. Then, all at once, they burst out laughing. They’d forgotten about Roussel.

 

“The Heart of Paris,” said the guidebook. It must be Wednesday, thought Jen. He was hoping for a day by himself. For one thing, he needed to do some shopping – a present for that older woman. Crossing the river he looked for a bargain along the quay and found a gold Eiffel Tower filled with yellow perfume. What would Confucius say! (“God is tested by fire, man by God” – or some such thing.) Jen put down a hundred francs and headed toward the Île de la Cité.

“The Elysian Fields,” the guidebooks said, “could offer nothing to a dead philosopher that a live Parisian can’t enjoy on the quays of the left bank.” As he crossed the Pont Neuf, Jen saw a monk, a harlot and a white horse. He rubbed his eyes and walked on, until he reached Notre Dame. In the square in front of the great cathedral he sat down on a bench. A mad Arab pranced about, snatching at women and tripping grown men as they passed. It all seemed harmless enough to Jen. The sun was out, and soon he was imagining life in the Middle Ages. An American girl in a red bandanna had taken a seat on his bench.

The next thing Jen knew the pervert had kissed the girl and was sitting on his knee. Disgusting! Jen stood up and took a half-hearted slap at the antic, who danced backwards to a chorus of laughs from the hippies and blacks lounging about the Parvis. “Pay no attention to fools,” said Jen, calming himself with traditional wisdom, as he sat back down. Getting up to enter the church, he noticed that his Eiffel Tower was missing.

Having seen the great works of art, Jen took the afternoon off to go see a film. The director had had the sense to call it Number Two, but the critics still referred to him as “the great Godard.” Waiting in line Jen noticed that the other people averted his gaze. As the movie began the director was leaning on a video monitor, which showed a picture of himself. The words were hard to follow, but the sex scenes were universal. When Godard showed a woman with her husband’s penis in her mouth, a man got up and left the theater. As the film ended, the director was still fiddling with the knobs of a television set.

Since he was already down in the intellectual part of town, Jen thought he might as well pick up a book too. On the basis of its title he bought a best-seller by the name of European China. The author, who had been on the barricades in 1968, was still in there pitching. Jen fell asleep over the portrait of a Sorbonne professor denying the existence of Mao’s China. It was all too real for Jen.

 

“Le Nôtre traced a central avenue and, for perspec­tive, continued its line far beyond the limits of the park, planting a double row of trees along a non-existent road leading to nowhere. Later this illusion came to be known as the Champs Élysées.” Jen studied the lines, vanishing as they met under the Arc de Triomphe. A woman sketched it with blue paint in a manner that suggested a quick sale in the place du Tertre. Ominous clouds ap­peared overhead, the traffic whirled around in the place de la Concorde. Suddenly a gust blew the easel over, flinging her canvas fifteen feet away, face down in the sandy soil of the terrace. “Catastrophe!” cried the woman. Jen was torn between giving her a hand and letting things lie. Luckily a sympathetic Japanese tourist helped her right the easel, recommending that she weigh it down with her purse. Soon she’d begun to daub again suggestively, incorporat­ing the sand into her color scheme.

“Life is not all solely intended for seeing, but also to remember having seen.” The voice was that of a witty, cultivat­ed man who frequently haunted the Tuileries. He’d been watching over Jen’s shoulder. In a gesture unusual in Paris, he put his arm in Jen’s and offered to introduce him to some friends seated about the circular pool. When they arrived, an older man, shading his eyes, was looking up the Champs Élysées and holding forth:

“The End men looked for cometh not,” he said in a tragic vein. “A path there is where no man expected it.” Jen thought him overly pessimistic, considering the beauty of the place.

“I think,” said a younger man, drawing attention to himself, “therefore . . .” But a man in black interrupted him. “The speaker of bon mots,” said the latter, gesturing toward the other for Jen’s benefit, “is a bad character.” Jen thought they both looked rather sharp. In view of Jen’s race and its reputa­tion for wisdom, they seemed to be showing off.

“All men are alike,” said the first man. “Don’t you agree?” He looked nervously at Jen.

“On the contrary,” said the man in black. “The more wit one has the more difference one finds between men.” He looked at Jen for his agreement.

“My idea of an agreeable person,” Jen said, “is a person who agrees with me.” The westerners were amazed at the ease of his argument. A wild-eyed youth, who had just arrived, stepped up.

“You must be crazy,” he yelled at Jen. He seemed to be looking for a fight. Luckily a suave older man had stopped to listen.

“He who lives without madness,” he remarked, “is not as wise as he thinks.” Jen, in his wisdom, accepted the compli­ment, thereby averting conflict. Things were going sensibly enough, until a moody type in a flowery shirt strolled by.

“Spring is come home with her world-wandering feet,” the man began to sing. The philosophers had been perfectly happy talking to themselves. They didn’t need any poetry. Turning a cold shoulder, they managed to keep him out, until a heavy-set friend of his arrived.

“The love of nature,” he insisted in a booming voice, “is the only love that never deceived human hopes.”

“When you find no calm in your own breast,” said the suave, witty man, “it’s useless to look elsewhere.” Having heard enough witty ideas, Jen inquired about the sources of happiness.

“Happiness,” said a gross-looking man, “arrives too late.” They had now been joined by a sweet, rather decadent-looking woman.

“Pain and grief,” she argued, “are transitory things, no less than joys. And though they leave us not the man we were,” she continued, “yet they do leave us.” This provoked a general harrumphing on the part of the westerners. Jen alone nodded in approval.

“The greatness of man,” said the man in black, “derives from his recognition of his misery.” He was intent upon refuting her. “The tree there” – he pointed at a gorgeous chestnut about to burst into bloom – “does not recognize its own misery. It may be miserable to recog­nize one’s own misery, but it’s a sign of greatness.”

Finding the arguments rather inconclusive, Jen had retired from the group and was sitting on a bench in quiet conversation with an Arab. “And what do you think?” he asked.

“I think it’s good to know the truth,” the Arab said, “and to speak it. But it’s better to know the truth and to speak of chestnut trees.”

 

Having spent Thursday on the right bank, Jen thought he might spend Friday on the left. Having seen the west of Paris, he settled on the east, choosing the Jardin des Plantes and its menagerie for the day’s sortie. Bound­ing out of the hotel lobby, he headed for the Palais-Royal Métro station. As he slid into a seat on the train, he noticed a yellow sheet of graph paper fallen on the floor. “Month of April,” the heading said, “Week before Eas­ter”:

Monday: We already know each other, but only to look at.
Tuesday: We content ourselves with a “Good-day,” and that’s all.
Wednesday: We went together to carpet and paint the café.
Thursday: Today, under the scaffolding, we truly met for the first time.
Friday: This evening we are going out together.

The ink was scarcely dry. Were these notes for a novel or a page from life? Only a young person would know, thought Jen. Or care, he added. He himself had achieved harmony with nature. Still, that was yesterday. Shifting in the crowded subway seat, his knee caught between the legs of a beautiful woman. Looking up at him, she blinked. Frankly, it made him horny. At Jussieu, as the woman got up to leave, Jen thought of following but decided she was probably on her way to work. At the next stop he got off himself.

At the entrance to the garden he read an ad for the Cinéma Action-Christine, pasted on the side of a building. It showed Humphrey Bogart in Bas le masques. Bogie, in a black suit and blue bow tie, stood framed by two issues of The Day. Only one of his eyes was visible, the other covered with an inked-in eye patch. A new banner head­line filled the paper: “GRAND CRIME CHEZ LES PIRATES.” A small picture of Bogie with eye patch, mustache and goatee had appeared on the front page, along with the caption, “RECHERCHÉ” (wanted). Underneath, in blue ballpoint, a feminine hand had scrawled: “sexiste.”

As Jen entered the garden a strong scent of animals reached his nose. The guidebook mentioned a Cedar of Leba­non, brought all the way from Syria. Looking for the tree, Jen got lost in the Labyrinth. As he spiraled inward, he heard the giggling of school kids. When he’d reached the center, he saw what they were laughing at. Their two professors, a woman and a man, had taken off all their clothes. They were lounging on the grass, in the midst of a lecture on sex. “Thus it was,” said the man, who was covered with hair like a monkey, “that Adam and Eve . . .” “. . . lived without any clothes.” The woman had finished the sentence. “It was so hot,” she added, by way of explanation. It was a warm day, and what with all that hair and talk of love, some of the kids had got excited. Sneaking up behind the profs, one of them plucked their clothes from the grassy hummock, running off into the trees. Jen didn’t stay to watch the outcome but wandered over toward the zoo instead.

Near the entrance people were playing bridge around a slice of giant sequoia, which a California chapter of the American Legion had donated to the French. Two thousand years old, it was covered with historic events from the birth of Jesus Christ to World War I. Jen glanced at everything but focused on the modern period:

 

• American Revolution
• Declaration of Independence
• Lafayette brings the aid of France
• Storming the Bastille
• Proclamation of the French Republic
• Abolition of slavery

 

The moments were indicated by brass nails, driven into the rings after the tree had been chopped down and sliced.

In the reptile aquarium the alligators looked as though they might be stuffed. Anticipating the monkey house, Jen was disappointed. Chemicals masked the smell of excrement, and visitors, crowding toward the cages, smelled of wine. At the back of one, Suzy, a gorilla, had turned herself into a trapezoid by standing with her hind feet on her hands. She had chosen a position behind a bar that hid her eyes from Jen.

He took a seat outside in the botanical gardens. A man smoking a cigarette sat down next to him, coughed and threw the butt on the ground. A German entered the zoo, a Michelin guide sticking out of his beige jacket pocket. An inebriated man of forty staggered out through the exit. A green Citroën drove up. The attendant opened the gate, and the chauffeur drove the director, his face hidden in a newspaper, into the zoo. A bearded father left with his eight-year-old daughter. As she danced about, her skirt flipped up to show her panties. A pigeon followed them out, exiting through the grating of the gate.

Jen strolled through the flowers, leaving the garden and walking down the rue Buffon. Sighting a white minaret, he continued into the Square of the Hermit’s Well, where he took a seat on a bench, next to a piece of women’s underwear. A service had just ended. Black and Semitic Muslims were leaving the mosque. At the end of the narrow rectangular park a semi-circular space with an urn and a willow tree had been fenced off. Across the place on the side of a building someone had chalked a message. “LE BIEN ET LE MALE,” it said (GOOD AND MALE). The gate into the willow tree part of the park had been broken. Perhaps, thought Jen, the end of the world is near. More likely not.

After lunch, with the sun shining brightly, Jen decided to walk back by way of a semi-circle of boule­vards. The street felt as though it were a large river. Jen floated with the current, his curiosity reaching out to everything. A brightly colored parrot looked at him through a shop window, as its owner locked the door. He walked on, gazing into the sun, blinded as he saw a pretty girl in an orange tee shirt. Mothers were bringing their children back from school. An electric turntable full of fresh fruit rotated slowly at the entrance to a restaurant. A man behind bar-like louvered blinds sat working, the glass of the bank tinted black. A girl eating a chocolate-covered vanilla glace emerged from a métro station. Jen looked down over the railing into the rue Pascal, where a poster proclaimed repression in Spain. A woman on her way home picked pieces of bread from the end of a baguette.

Jen stopped to watch as a demolitionist smashed a yellow wall with a huge steel ball, three school kids, a foreman and a two-meter-tall Frenchman also watching. The brick had an inlay of robin’s-egg blue and magenta tiles. From deep within the construction site two T-shaped building cranes rose, one yellow, the other orange. A red traffic helicopter flew overhead. With a turning motion one of the school kids waved his hand to explain what he meant to his copains.

By the time Jen had reached the boulevard du Montpar­nasse the sun had finally set behind the tops of the apartment build­ings. As the traffic thinned out, the cafés thickened. At one a waiter, preparing to serve two beers, held a tray over his head. He wore a black-and-white-striped jacket, white pants and a black, oversized velvet bow tie. At another café a sallow girl, smartly dressed in a leather jacket, talked to a friend who was dressed almost identically. Face down on the table lay a book, whose spine read Histoire d’O. Jen turned into the boulevard des Invalides and headed toward the river.

 

When he woke up Saturday morning he was still feeling horny, but now he was also depressed. Against his better judgment he had spent an evening at the movies. Histoire d’Adèle H., billed as a French love story, had ended up in a graveyard. It was all too much like history for Jen. The author had kept the poet offstage and offered up his daughter instead, who had gone off to American in search of her loved-one. Her problem seemed to be that she didn’t know how to stop writing.

Jen had got out of bed and, in his silk pajamas, stood looking out the window. Yesterday the skies were blue; today they were filled with clouds. But what clouds! Mounds of brilliant white cumulus scudded across the sky, showing their gently shaded flint-colored underbellies. Lighter configurations filled the lower heavens, darkening toward the West, where minor charcoal continents brooded on the horizon. Jen pulled back the high curtains and looked up toward the zenith. Again a voice, this time very dignified, seemed to fill the room: “That which Heaven bestows,” it began, “is called man’s nature; the fulfillment of this nature is called the Way.” As he gazed out the window, Jen noticed he could also see his own reflection in the glass. “The proper cultivation of the Way,” the voice continued, “is called culture, or instruction in the truth.” Jen couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from. The message, however, was clear. It was time for another museum. He’d be leaving Paris soon.

Jen dressed and, skipping breakfast, headed for the Grand Palais, where the first Millet retrospective since 1887 had been assembled. The paintings had come from everywhere, but Americans owned a surprising number. Though the show seemed out of place, as he walked back and forth, up and down, Jen began to get the drift. French art in the nineteenth century had been a machine. The painter produced the works. All these tough characters dressed in the French flag! They weren’t intended to make you any happier. “Life is hard,” that was the message. “Art is even harder,” said Jen.

He was glad to be outside again. Where history takes place, he thought. Wondering which way to go, he settled on the grands boulevards. He passed the Madeleine (church, bank, railroad station), then the Opéra; soon he found himself in the boulevard Montmartre. Haussmann had really turned things upside down. Still, you knew where you were going. Jen looked up. The clouds hurried eastward. He heard the voice again. “The Way,” it said, “is something that may not be departed from, even for one instant. If it could be departed from, it wouldn’t be the Way. Hence the gentleman stands cautious and in awe of things unseen and unheard.” Jen had entered the Musée Grévin and stood watching in the lobby, as Jean-Paul Belmondo took a shot at P. Larousse, who, hand on his forehead, was seeking inspiration for his large dictionary. “There is nothing more manifest than what is minute,” the voice concluded. Monsieur Grévin himself was writing in a notebook, his marble pencil poking through the wax pages.

So this was history! Jen quickly saw that you started with the present and worked backwards. In the first display Gerald Ford, ignoring Giscard d’Estaing, was also overlook­ing Mao. Edgar Bergen had re­turned to talk with Charlie McCarthy. Robespierre –­ now they were getting somewhere – studied­­ the pockmarks on the bridge of Danton’s nose, as Charlotte Corday mean­while swooned, two British soldiers threatening to rape her. The scene was taking place outdoors. A lot was also happening inside. The Lamp­lighter Gin man listened at a window as Mozart sat down to play a concerto, only to find himself at an eighteenth-century desk. The further back one went, the crazier things seemed. Louis XIV stood in front of an Air France poster of Versailles, pointing out details to a group of Indian tourists. The past included homely touches, lacking in the present. Falstaff, for instance, leaned out a heavily-leaded window and looked around for the morning paper. Apparently it hadn’t yet arrived. Michelangelo smashed his thumbnail, as he was putting the finishing touches on a masterpiece. Henry VIII was portrayed in the act of giving fresh hamburger meat to one of his hungry hunting dogs, and so on. Jen could see why so many tourists came. History was fun!

Still, he was feeing awfully horny, and there wasn’t a lot of poon-tang (he called it) hanging out at the Musée Grévin. Once outside, he hit the pavement again, setting off toward the place de la République. “Love and Death,” said a marquee. General­ly, however, there seemed to be more violence than sex. The Le Hollywood Boulevard theater, for example, was showing three Bruce Lee movies at once. Jen stopped at an arcade long enough to play Midway’s Haunted House. On his way out he noticed two Japanese girls as they leaned over Gottlieb’s Two-Player Wild Life.

He passed the Porte St. Denis, celebrating the victories of Louis XIV. The boulevard St. Martin led into the place de la République and the boulevard du Temple led out. Without slowing down Jen headed for the place de la Bastille. At the beginning of the boulevard de Beaumar­chais he was passed by a large-breasted, braless and theatrical middle-aged woman who had bright red lipstick smeared on her mouth. He was getting warmer. The column in the place had come into view.

As he was approaching the square, however, Jen remem­bered the place des Vosges which, the guidebook said, provided such “an enchanting return to the past.” Turning right into the rue du Pas de la Mule, he entered “the oldest square in Paris.” Passing up the house of Victor Hugo, he took a seat on a bench to admire the beauties of the place which, in 1800, had been named after the first department to pay all its taxes. As he pondered its four regular facades Jen noticed a man entering the square in a white coat, his arms, chest and back covered with blood; in his right hand, about to make a delivery, he carried a lamb by its hind legs. On the other side of the garden a man in a bright red shirt sud­denly got up from a bench. Holding a dirty pail in his left hand, he began to scoop up human refuse and toss it in. “Anarchiste!” cried a twelve-year-old boy in a red shirt. He was pointing a finger at a younger friend, dressed in a royal blue Levi suit. The younger boy had a red sweater on underneath the jacket. Entering the place, a solid-looking French tourist took a seat to Jen’s right. On the sleeves of his deep blue jacket he wore tiny arm bands of red, white and blue.

Jen looked again at the beautiful sky. Light fleecy clouds were serenely floating by. “When the passions, such as pleasure and anger, sorrow and joy, have not awakened, the state is called that of centrality.” Jen looked around. He noticed he was sitting at the center of the square. “When the passions awaken,” the voice continued, “and each and all attain due measure and degree, it’s called the state of harmony.” A girl, dressed in jeans and a pea jacket, had seated herself next to him on the bench.

“Hi,” she said, “my name’s Mary.” She spoke with a New York Jewish accent.

“Hello,” said Jen, relishing a chance to try his English with a native speaker. The girl had dirty long blond hair and smelled sort of musty.

“Where do you come from?” she asked, as she looked Jen over.

“Beijing,” he replied.

“Far out!” she exclaimed. She was very attractive and wore a red turtle neck sweater under the jacket, from the pocket of which the top of a little red book was visible. “I’d really like to go there some day,” she said.

“Where’s that?” asked Jen, studying her face.

“Red China,” she answered, wrinkling her brow. “You’re a follower of Mao Tse-tung, aren’t you?” she said, a tone of mild disbelief creeping into her voice.

“Well, yes and no,” said Jen. “It’s true I live in China, but for the moment I’m in Paris.” That much was obvious.

“Listen, cut the shit!” said Mary. Quickly the conversa­tion had taken a serious turn. “Do you believe in the teachings of Mao or not?”

“No,” said Jen. He could be serious too.

“You mean you’re not going back?” said Mary.

“It doesn’t seem so, does it?” he said with a smile.

“Man, are you putting me on, or what?” Mary demand­ed.

“Well, that all depends,” he said. Jen was as horny as ever. He had never had a taste of one of these radical broads. Mary got up to leave. So did Jen. Walking alongside her, he offered his arm.

“Oh man, fuck off,” she said, pushing him away.

“Listen, Mary, my name’s Jen,” he said.

“I don’t give a goddam what your name is,” she said, “It may as well be I Ching, for all I care.” Jen continued to walk beside her, leaving the place des Vosges behind. As they entered the rue St. Antoine, he began again. “Mary?” He pronounced the name quietly to see if she were still listening.

“Yeah, what?” she said. They were passing a statue of Beaumarchais. A red Datsun had just pulled up and parked in front of it. As they reached the corner, a red pedestrian sign flashed “Attendez.” Mary stepped off the curb. An enormous blue truck swerved around the corner. “Wait!” said Jen, grabbing her by the arm. As the truck rushed past, honking its horn, they could feel the wind.

“Whew! Thanks,” said Mary, smiling at Jen, though still looking at him with suspicion.

“Thanks for what?” said Jen.

“For saving my life, for Chrissake!” This character she couldn’t figure out. “Look,” she said, as they crossed on a green light, “are you some kind of nut or some­thing?” Jen looked at her and smiled. He thought he might be falling in love.

A crowd of workers at the center of the square was raising a voice in protest. Red banners floated here and there. Blue-clad figures streamed out of the subway, jostling Jen and Mary as they passed. Together they joined the mass of people, moving out of the place and into the boulevard Henri IV. The demon­stration was heading in the direction of the Palais-Bourbon. Mary seemed to be willing for Jen to come along. At any rate she didn’t have much choice. A worker had linked his arm with Jen’s. Looking at Mary, Jen put his arm thorough hers. This was too much.

“Stop!” said Mary, turning to Jen.

“Stop what?” said Jen.

“The bullshit,” said Mary. She looked him in the eye. “Listen,” she said, “I’ve still got a couple of ques­tions.”

“Yes?” said Jen.

“Yes,” said Mary. “Number 1, how can you live in China and not believe in Mao? Number 2, what do you want from me?”

“Number 1,” Jen replied, “is easy. I was born and raised before the Revolution.” He smiled, gazing at Mary. Her eyes were still hard. “As for you,” he said, “I thought maybe you could teach me a thing or two.”

“Not likely,” Mary fired back. “Besides, I’ve heard that line before.”

“Well, why not give it a try?” said Jen. Again, she looked at him with suspicion. When she saw that he was still smiling, some of the hardness fell from her eyes.

“Maybe so,” she said. She was half smiling herself. They’d reached the National Assembly.

 

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