I’ve seen french restaurants from London to Los Angeles and never gave them more than a passing glance. Somehow I’d never considered the possibility of an american restaurant in Paris. There’s a small pub called La Taverne de Cluny near my hotel where a large number of anglophones seem to congregate, but it’s still a french atmosphere. This was nothing like anything remotely resembling France. This was blatant unadulterated Americana in all its greased-back, tomato-fryin’, socks-n-sandals glory.
It was a large square room with dark walls and strategically placed mirrors to mark it seem even more spacious. We passed the bar en route to the waiter’s stand. It was a ‘57 Chevy Bel-Air convertible, split down its spine and turned so there was a waitron stand between the rear bumpers. At first we passed a girl who looked something like Olivia-Newton John in a tube top and spandex pants popping the tops off of one Jolt cola after another. Nearer to us was a huge box full of the small paper pixie stix.
The smell of hickory and mesquite thickened the air. There was an open barbeque under a large black hood (I think it was a ‘63 Cadillac) which seemed to float in the center of the room. Hamburgers and hot-dogs were stacked precariously next to a heaping mound of french fries.
I grabbed one of the pixie stix and took a huge mouthful. Oh yeah, that’s the stuff, I thought, green apple. Elvis and Jerry Lee crooned from somewhere, accented by neon and occasional bursts of that odd-sounding muffled continental laughter. I didn’t understand him and my eyes were puckering because I’d forgotten how tart the green apple is, but we followed James Dean after he grabbed some menus, spit some french at me and walked away. He led us to a table headed by a painting of a leather-clad Jim Morrison with an ornate candle holder extending from his crotch. I sat to Jim’s right, Xavier to his left.
Televisions stared from every nook and corner of the room, over the bars and under the tables, casting the light of all sorts of americana. I saw Staubach vs. Bradshaw and Kramer vs. Kramer. Bogie and Bacall chatted coyly over the kitchen door, and PeeWee Herman emerged to take our order.
He didn’t have a chance to say anything, as Xavier chased him away for a few minutes (as we were waiting for someone) and two Cokes. PeeWee made that indignant tugging the bottom of his vest move and zipped off toward the kitchen.
“Who are we meeting, X?” I asked. He was removing his coat. Somehow I wasn’t comfortable enough, so I kept the sweatshirt over my borrowed button-down. I was bright red, but I felt like I blended right in with the letter-jackets and cowboy- hats which clashed oddly across the room.
“Valaire said she would meet us here.” He found a cigarette pack in his breast pocket, shook one loose and offered it to me. I began to hold up my hand to say no thanks. “No?” he continued, “ah, oui. You and the petites cigars…. You said you saw her this evening?”
“Well, yes I did. But she didn’t even say hello….”
Something caused a little twitch in his brow, then he smiled. “Perhaps she knew she’d see you later.”
“Perhaps.” I said.
“Perhaps, indeed.” she said. She slid into the booth beside me, letting the cowl she was wearing draped around her shoulders drop behind her. She looked at me and said, “You knew I would be coming, didn’t you?”
“I did?” I asked. Shaking my head I said, “Oh no. I didn’t know I would be here. I don’t even know where here is.”
They both laughed quietly. “Of course, you wouldn’t,” Valaire said.
Xavier leaned up on the table. “You are in the Club American,” he said quietly, “and it is very exclusive.” He looked around as if to see if anyone were listening to him. “Please try to be impressed. There are many here who would be insulted to know there was someone here who did not know this.” He sat back in the booth. “But we are very pleased to have you here.”
“And why are you being so gracious,” I asked nervously, “not that I mind or anything, but I am a bit suspicious by nature.”
“Yes, and you are called to wander,” Valaire said, “You hear the calling you cannot answer.”
Man this chick is weird, I thought. “I’m not sure I follow you, Val,” I said.
“You are more than you might imagine,” she said, “You are a member of a very elite family.” She stopped when she saw PeeWee approaching with a tray full of glasses and more of those little coke bottles.
I recalled the comment she’d made about fifty-thousand nights for some reason. I wondered what sort of weirdness they were had in mind. She reminded me of a girl I’d met once when I spent some time as server in a gothic club in New York. The hours were late, but the tips were awesome.
Xavier thanked PeeWee and shooed him away after dropping a bill with a bunch of zeros on his tray. Pee Wee thanked him politely and darted into the crowd. I turned to Valaire who was removing her cowl completely to hang it on the coat-rack which stood on the end of the booth.
“You were saying something about family, I believe,” I said.
“Yes,” Xavier interjected, “And yours is anxious for your return.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Please, do tell me more.” I wasn’t really sure about wanting to hear any of it, but what the hell.
“Long ago when people first began settling and farming there were those who found it impossible to stay in one place.” Xavier said. “They were not simply restless, they were called to roam, to wander the world. They would leave their families and friends behind to search for the calling. Often they were warriors, but sometimes they were simple cobblers. They were often called to help the oppressed. The wanderers found they could travel freely, easily avoiding danger and conflict. Escape was never necessary, fate always plays on the wanderer’s side.
“For many years the wanderers were viewed as helpers, assisting the needy traveler. A chance meeting with a stranger on a journey was a welcome event, for a wanderer brought good fortune to travelers and their endeavors.” He paused and smiled. “The wanderers became legend.
“But eventually the wanderers began to disappear. It was like nature herself didn’t care. Their numbers dwindled as the world grew smaller. Children of wanderers were average and young ones often went undiscovered, born to no particular circumstance. Some had tried to settle down, but found it contrary to their nature. Many became bitter and felt like people thought they were- I don’t know… leprechauns or something, to be exploited for their blessings. In the dark years they were hunted into extinction, or nearly so, by hysteric mobs who believed the wanderers were in league with evil. The legend of the wanderer slipped away.”
Valaire spoke up, “There are those who never forgot the wanderers. They wait for them and help them to discover who they are.”
“I suppose that would be you then,” I said.
“We have been waiting,” she said, “But we knew you’d be coming.” She smiled and leaned her arm on my shoulder. “If not you then someone else,” she mused.
That sounded familiar, I thought.
Xavier spoke up. “The last traveler we found was during World War II. She was alone, like you, but she was involved with le resistance and slipped away before learning of her true self.”
“You mean her magical mystical wandering ways?”
“You should not take this so lightly.” He looked terribly serious. “You have a special gift, mon amie.” Xavier took the last quick drag off the stub of his cigarette and crushed it in the miniature-truck tire ashtray. “And it will serve you well if you let it.”
“Alright, X. Let’s suppose you’re right and I am the über-gypsy.” I set the coke I was drinking down on my fork. I felt it begin to spill and fumbled to stop it from spilling. It clattered and fizzed as I righted it on the table. I looked up meekly, “See?” I sat back in the booth and asked, “So, what can I do for you?”
“First,” Xavier said, “let me tell you what we can do for you. Yours is a terrific journey. We are simply here to help.”
“Sure,” I said, “like the red cross, right?”
“You do not have to worry about us,” Valaire said, “You will help us when you are ready. We have done well for a very long time.”
“Fifty-thousand nights?”
“Yes,” she said, “and many more…” she was watching the band of musicians who were coming in the door which Svente was holding for them. “But you will know this yourself,” she said as she turned her eyes back to me. They were dark eyes, with a hint of yellow I’d not noticed before. Her face set a squarish frame about them and her strong lips were always a little puckered, not like a lemon pucker but more like a fresh orange, with just a hint of a smile even if she’d didn’t seem especially happy. She looked as if she recognized someone in the group she was watching.
“Xavier,” she said, “Isn’t that your friend Richard, from Detroit?”
He turned and looked back over his shoulder at them making their way toward the stage, which was set up facing away from the bar, but between it and most of the seating. The bar and stage was a few feet above the tables, and the bar and it’s patrons made for an interesting backdrop.
The musicians were unfamiliar though common looking, except for the shorter asian-looking carrying the guitar.
Xavier moved to get up. “I believe it is him,” he said, “Excuse me, please. I must speak with him.” He nodded politely and strolled over toward the group.
So much for what they could do for me, I thought. I couldn’t help wondering what Valaire’s part in this charade was. I decided to prod the coals.
“Valaire,” I began, “please explain to me about the fifty thousand nights. I’m not picking up on the joke.”
“There is no joke,” she said, “In fact it is something you must learn. Wanderers are not as short lived as most people. I have heard of some who lived ten generations.”
“Okay, but why you? Are you a wanderer or just some kind of vampire or what?”
“Yes, I am a vampire, if you must know. And I am not ashamed of it. Do you have some sort of prejudice toward vampires? I had hoped you were more enlightened than that. Usually the travelers I have known cherish the variety of life.”
It wasn’t actually the response I’d expected.
“Uh, vampire?”
“Yes. And so is Xavier.”
“Xavier too, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “So you guys like, kill people and suck their blood, right?”
“Not as a matter of practice. People usually deserve their fates though.”
“What does that mean?”
“I suppose it means you must open your mind. Your time is at hand.”
Xavier returned with Richard before Valaire imparted anymore wisdom into our conversation.
“You know the beautiful Valaire,” Xavier said.
“Enchantè, ” she said.
“Mais oui, toujours, mademoiselle, ” he replied, kissing the hand she offered.
“Et faîtes la connaisance ma nouvelle amie – ” Xavier began.
“We’ve met, although I forget the circumstances.” I hadn’t meant to interrupt, but I was feeling tense. “How are you,” I paused, “Richard?”
“I’m fine,” he replied. “It has been a… your trip was uneventful I trust?”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m not dead yet.” I laughed quietly and lifted my glass. “To all of us who are not dead yet,” I toasted.
They all looked at each other, and Richard shrugged his shoulders and said, “Aux vivants,” and raised his glass, and they followed. It was a much more lively toast than Xavier and I had before.
The glasses gathered on the table and we sat in our seats again. Richard grabbed a chair from the table behind him. He was watching me out of the corner of his eye as the conversation resumed, and I could tell he had more to say to me. There was casual small talk, and a general uneasiness sat with us.
An announcer took the stage, and declared the dance contest was about to begin. The format would be divided into an oldies section, during which couples would perform ballroom and big-band steps, then the band would take the stage for the disco event, after which the judges would tally their scores and announce the winners of the grand prize, an all-expenses-paid trip to the United States.
The stereo began blasting Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood”, and the dance floor in front of the stage filled with swirling couples in a rapid fashion. It reminded me of those dance-a-thons held way back when, with the couples wearing big numbers on their backs and judges scribbling notes from a long table near the Icee machine in the corner. I waved as Valaire and Xavier swept past us wearing broad smiles that seemed to say they were truly enjoying themselves. My glance shot back toward the judges table and I found myself possessed with the urge for a slushy ‘suicide-Icee’- cherry and cola and orange and Mountain Dew all mixed together.
“I’ll buy,” Richard said, “et vous, mon amie?”
“Sure,” I replied.
We made our way to the counter where we ordered our refreshments from a frenchman wearing dark make-up and a name-tag with a little red label marked “Apu”. There was no orange so I opted for the Dew, and Richard asked for an extra- large cola. He paid the man and left a generous tip, and we headed toward the veranda.
“I take it you’ll be leaving for the States soon?” he asked.
“Yes, tomorrow evening actually,” I said, “I have an appointment with a hockey team in L.A..”
“Interesting,” he said, “An unusual mule for someone like you, isn’t it?”
“No,” I said. I was watching light flicker from the street through the trees at the edge of the yard. I hadn’t really noticed but we were in a house. Such a large yard, I thought. I looked back to Richard and said, “No, actually I’ve never tried this one. I met their trainer in an airport bar in Newark, and I promised him I’d do some work on his computer. I expect he’ll have some sort of problem with it again right after he gets into Montreal though.”
“You’re certainly inventive. I have to grant you that.”
“Well that’s what I’m being paid for. That and not having a record.”
“I suppose,” he replied between slurps.
“That didn’t look like ‘Der Phunk’ I saw you walking in with,” I said.
I was staring vaguely in the direction of the Eiffel, although I wasn’t as impressed with it as I was with the general beauty of Paris at night. It’s buildings rose majestically through the trees, and the streetlights shot beams of copper and amber into the light haze of what had become a steamy spring night. I wondered where in Paris was a house with such a large yard. It seemed to span an entire block.
“No,” he said, “actually these guys are a much better band, but it is another one of Schmitt’s acts. They’re from Paris.” He paused for another long draw of his Icee. “They’re called ‘Booty Juice’. Still disco, but hey, it keeps my chops up.”
“Booty Juice? That’s kinda gross, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but they’re french, it doesn’t bother them.”
“I guess,” I said, “So how do you know Valaire?”
“Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing,” he said.
The music inside had turned to Carl Perkins’ ‘Blue Suede Shoes’. The number of couples dancing had diminished to only a few couples, and Xavier and Valaire were still going strong. The room was getting louder and the crowd seemed to be getting drunk as a whole. I watched the procession of revelers passing two by two, and I could see Svente at the door behind them.
“I’ll tell you the truth,” I began, “I don’t really know her at all. I only made her acquaintance this week, and to be perfectly honest she frightens me.” I took another drag of my Icee and I heard the sound of Richard slurping the last of his. “Actually I met her through a very nice girl who I heard was found dead this morning.”
“Man, I love a good Icee headache.” He had his hands between his eyes, and let out a slight groan. “You mean Marie?” he asked.
“You know her, er, knew her, I mean?”
“I know of her. She’s a debutante from Philadelphia. She lives on the top floor of the Jardin over in Cluny.”
“That’d be lived, as in formerly.”
“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, she’s connected pretty well… she owns most of Vanderbilt University or something. He’s some sort of researcher, anaesthesiology I think.” His headache seemed to have passed, as he put his glasses back on and leaned against the rail beside me. “I need to go loosen up, we’re up next. And I believe you might want to get moving.” He pointed to the door where Svente was taking a coat. “That’s your friend there isn’t it?”
“Holy shit,” I said. It was officer Blotch. She was pretty easy to spot (no pun intended) even from across the room. I knew I hadn’t been close enough for her to recognize me, but I wanted to take no chances. “Uh, I’ll see you in a few days, okay?”
“Of course. I’ll see if I can cover you. Exit stage left already.” He extended a hand, we shook and I headed inside, leaving him on the veranda behind me.
I slipped through the door and wound my way through the crowd, trying to keep myself in the dark. I made my way behind the grill. Unfortunately when I checked the door I saw Blotch was still talking to Svente; he was shaking his head with his arms out beside him like he didn’t know what ever she was asking him. I was standing in front of the kitchen door when the yelling began.
“You! Stop! You took my wallet!”
I didn’t even look back. I crashed through the door and started looking for the way out. I had the impression the way we’d come in might be the main entrance, but I also knew there had to be a delivery/service entrance as well. There were a couple of guys in chef hats yelling some incomprehensible french at me but I wasn’t much interested in what they thought. I spotted a spiral stair in the corner and bolted for it. One of the cooks tried to stop me, but a good stomp on his toe dissuaded his interest. None of his business anyway, I thought.
When I reached the ground floor I saw the freight elevator to my right, and through it’s folding steel door I could see it was moving. There was a door to the street but it was barred and wore an ancient lock that looked like it rusted shut during the revolution. I looked back at the elevator shaft and realized the exit was on the other side of the car. The three sets of legs in the car helped me make up my mind, and I jumped back to the stairwell and followed it downward.
Fortunately I’d absent-mindedly stolen someone’s lighter at the table. I sparked it occasionally as I descended, trying to see the bottom of the stair. It twisted around and around so many times I lost count, eventually ending in a catacomb, but it didn’t seem to be the same one I’d been in before. I saw no sign of the ladder I’d climbed before, and the tunnel I was in had a bit of a low ceiling. I could hear someone clamoring down the stair behind me, so I took off as quickly as I could, flicking the lighter looking for the first thing that looked like an exit.
I wandered through the tunnels for what seemed like an eternity. The voices behind me disappeared before long. I tried too keep track of where I was, but I knew I was hopelessly lost, and I knew it. I began to think about how fitting it would be to contribute my bones to the piles that filled the tunnels. Some wanderer I am, I thought.
After I’d nearly given up hope I spotted light in front of me. As I neared it I heard a woman’s voice speaking loudly, in french. I carefully inched my way toward it. When I got near enough I realized she was describing the history of the catacombs. I peered around the corner to find a group of about fifteen tourists on the other side of a roped off area. I waited quietly until she moved the group onward, and I slipped in behind them. We followed her for about twenty minutes listening to a rather interesting and detailed account of the catacombs and the government’s attempts to save their integrity.
When the tour ended we were thanked politely and we were shown to the exit. I passed the booth where a thin man was selling macabre trinkets and souvenirs to a few twisted tourist. I saw him staring at me as I walked by, and I realized the daylight outside showed the dirt which covered my hands and clothes. I smiled and waved, then I ran off into the crowd of morning traffic.
Next Week: It would hace been different except for the Swiss miss.
Copyright © 1997 JPArmstrong
There is no explaining people’s tastes… old french saying
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