Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [52]
Rereading my father’s missive, I take up a pencil and correct his grammar and punctuation. I also note, typically, that in all of its seven pages there is no inquiry as to my state of mind. Not an iota of interest in my work-in-progress.
Inevitably, this filial summons brings on a migraine. Working proves impossible. I stroll through the Jardin du Luxembourg, emerging on the rue Vavin, then on to Montparnasse. This was foolish of me, for all that exercise whets my appetite, and I have no money for lunch. Passing the Dôme, I espy P——, conspiring with the hustler now said to be one of his intimates. He is a rue des Rosiers money-changer.
A wasted day, fallow, not a word written.
Paris, Oct. 20, 1951. UNESCO cheque, long overdue, has still not arrived. Story returned from The New Yorker with a printed rejection slip. Irwin Shaw’s effusions are more to their taste. I should have known better.
S —— is always beautifully dressed by Dior or Chanel. I could survive for months on the cost of just one of those outfits. That pearl necklace with the diamond clasp. Those rings. The Patek Philippe wristwatch. Her husband is a Crédit Lyonnais executive. He hasn’t made love to her for more than a year. She has decided he is a tante, but that he can, sans brio, go “à voile et à vapeur,” as she once said.
S —— has been shopping on the rue du Faubourg St. Honoré again. On my return from the market on the rue de Seine, the concierge presents me with a small package, tied with a ribbon, that has been delivered by hand. It is from Roger et Gallet. A bottle of scent for men. Three bars of perfumed soap. Oh, the arrogance of the rich.
Then, just as I have settled in at my table, she arrives out of breath, unaccustomed as she is to climbing five flights of stairs. “I only have an hour,” she says, her kiss reeking of her garlicky lunch.
“But I’m in the middle of work.”
She has brought a chilled bottle of Roederer Crystal, and is already undressing. “Hurry,” she says.
300 words today. That’s all.
Paris. Oct. 22, 1951. The patronizing P —— invited me to lunch today in that cheap restaurant on the rue de Dragon, and of course he expects gratitude in return. He has come into some money, he says, as a consequence of a dubious deal with his money-changer accomplice. Oozing concern, he offers to lend me some. My need is exigent, but I turn him down as he is not the sort I wish to be indebted to. P —— is only ostensibly caring. He is blatantly insecure and tenders favours in the hope of binding his betters to him.
Later we stroll as far as Jeu de Paume together, where he is much taken by the Seurats.
“Seurat is credited with invention, a new style,” I say, “but he, as well as some of the Impressionists, were probably short-sighted and painted things as they actually saw them.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he says.
Paris. Oct. 29, 1951. The clatch gathered at a table in the Mabillon. Leo Bishinsky, Cedric Richardson, a couple whose names I can’t remember, a girl new to me with glistening hairy armpits, and of course P——, accompanied by both his Svengali and his Clara. Responding to their faux-friendly greetings, I stop briefly at their table, refusing to be provoked by Boogie’s taunts. They are all high on hashish, which renders them even more boring than usual.
For my own jollification, I have tried to come up with a cognomation that would be appropriate for that bunch. The Yahoos? The Sluggards? I finally settle on The Motley Crew.
They have come over not to absorb French culture but to meet each other. Not one of them has bothered to read Butor, Sarraute, or Simon. On an evening when I can afford to take in the latest Ionesco, or a Louis Jouvet performance, they can be found cheering Sidney Bechet at the Vieux Colombier. Gathered at their table at one café or another, they will argue endlessly