Paris, I Love You but You're Bringing Me Down Read online

  To my parents

  Paris, as much as I love Paris, feels to me as though it’s long since been “cooked.” Its brand consists of what it is, and that can be embellished but not changed.

  —William Gibson

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  THE GODDESS P.

  SEND IN THE CLOUDS

  EGO TOURISM

  THE REALEST

  ART IS NOT A LUXURY

  SOMETHING IS ADDED TO THE AIR FOREVER

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Rosecrans Baldwin

  Copyright

  THE GODDESS P.

  SUMMER

  —A cubicle in Versailles—Everything I know about Paris I learned in seventh grade—Job interviews in France are brief—The hunt for a room for sport or pastime—Young Jeezy is the Frenchest—A life in ten duffel bags—The main difference between the French and American economies explained while I apply for a credit card—The Paris Flu—Rachel passes a breast exam—Bruno and I embrace for the first time—

  1

  The sun above Paris was a mid-July clementine. I bought copies of Le Monde and the Herald Tribune at a kiosk and climbed the stairs to my new office on the Champs-Elysées. For three hours, I mugged at a laptop, trying to figure out how the e-mail system worked. My fingers were chattering. I spent long, spacey minutes trying to find the @ key. They’d given me a keyboard mapped for French speakers, with the letters switched around.

  For the rest of the day, strangers approached and handed me folders, speaking to me in French while I panicked inside. A sentence would begin slow, with watery syncopation, then accelerate, gurgling until it slammed into an ennnnnnh, or an urrrrrrrr, and I’d be expected to respond.

  What did they want from me?

  Why was every question a confrontation?

  First day on the job, my French was not super. I’d sort of misled them about that.

  The advertising agency occupied three floors of a building located a few blocks east of the Arc de Triomphe, next to a McDonald’s. Our floor might have been a wing from Versailles. Chandeliers everywhere. Gold-flaked moldings. Long rooms walled by spotty mirrors. There were fireplaces like cave mouths, and high ceilings painted with frescoes. A cherub’s little white gut mooned my desk.

  For a long time I’d thought Paris had the world’s best everything. Girls, food, the crumble-down buildings. Even the dust was arousing. Coming out of the Métro that morning, I’d been so full up my throat constricted.

  Basically, I’d been anaphylactic about France since I was ten.

  So I was trying to seem cool and unruffled.

  My new boss, Pierre, was an old friend. We knew each other from New York, where Pierre and his wife had lived before returning to Paris, their hometown. In March, I’d received an e-mail that Pierre had sent around looking for someone to join his agency who could attend meetings in French but write English copy.

  We spoke the next day. Pierre said, “You’re good in French…”

  I said, “How good in French?”

  Around lunchtime, Pierre introduced me to André, his co–creative director. They shared an office. André was stocky, long-haired, orthodontic. He grinned like Animal from the Muppets. I liked him right away. Probably ate scissors for lunch.

  “André doesn’t speak English,” Pierre said.

  “Fuck that,” André said in English, staring at me. He added, smiling, “But no, do not.”

  A computer monitor attached to André’s laptop showed two nude women sixty-nining. André had on a pink Lacoste shirt and a blazer with two lapels, one folded up. It was the first jacket I’d ever seen that included a constantly popped collar, suggesting, Dude, let your clothes handle the boil, you’re busy musing. At that moment, André’s boots were perched on an Italian racing bicycle. People informed me later that he never rode it—it was parked there only to keep beauty in near proximity.

  I told André I liked his office. André grinned, then his BlackBerry began to chirrup. André ignored it and said in English, “So, where you come?”

  “Come from,” Pierre corrected him.

  “New York,” I said.

  The BlackBerry kept ringing. André grabbed it like it was a burning club and screamed down the line while rampaging out of the room.

  In a short while, I’d figured out the e-mail system and how to remap my keyboard; as long as I didn’t look too closely at what I was doing, it would perform like a QWERTY layout and communicate my intentions. Perhaps this will become a metaphor, I thought. Then my calendar program started making a boingy sound. It said I was late for a réunion on the sixth floor.

  Getting my étages wrong, I wound up in a law firm. The receptionist was prickly: I was due for a meeting where? With whom?

  On the proper floor, I asked an IT guy for directions. He said a bunch of things and gestured with his arm. Tried a hallway: dead end. Backtracked, tried another hallway. Oh, you’re dead, I told myself. Around me people were speaking French into headsets, wearing scarves despite the heat. Finally I found a conference room, took an empty chair, and apologized to a horseshoe of elders who were watching a PowerPoint presentation—“Désolé,” I said, catching my breath, “désolé.”

  A woman wearing a white suit and white eyeglasses said in English, “Excuse me, who are you looking for?”

  Kind of bold, I thought, matching your pantsuit to your glasses.

  Finally, down the hall, in the right conference room, I met Claude, a senior account director, who assured me I was where I belonged.

  “Dude, you’re from, like, New York? So cool, man,” Claude said in English. Claude was skinny and smelled of cigarettes, with arms sunburned to the color of traffic cones. “I love New York,” he said. “Why did you leave? You know, no one goes New York to Paris.”

  Claude said he’d recently returned from the beach. “Just the total best, dude, Antibes. You haven’t been? You must go with me sometime.”

  Behind me, a breeze suckled the blinds from a large open window. The view spanned Paris, one of those views that came with sunshine and clarinets, from the Eiffel Tower to the Grand Palais, to the fondant of the Sacré Cœur.

  I wanted to levitate right out of the room.

  Claude asked if I was married and what girls were like in New York. “They’re easy, right, easy pussy? Like you’re just going down the street”—Claude mimed a drum major swinging his arms; he found it hilarious and exciting—“and there’s one! And there!”

  Slowly, about a dozen young French people turned up—art directors, copywriters, project managers, programmers—nodding with afternoon fatigue. They helped themselves to Coke and Coca Light from plastic bottles shaped like petite scuba tanks, and Claude began the meeting. “Okay, so hey, meet this guy…” Claude paused before saying my name. Truthfully it was a pain in French, all those “R”s. Claude asked in French if I had any introductory remarks. I said, “Excusez-moi?” People laughed, and I laughed, too, a survival reflex or whatever. I said, “Non.” Claude explained to the group that I was there that afternoon only to listen. “Mais demain matin, nous aurons un brainstorming … with this dude.” Claude gestured at me and winked.

  An hour later, I had no idea what my assignment was, what I’d be called upon to do, or when I’d be required to do it.

  In the beginning of my job, I had a look: toddler struggling with digestion. I saw it reflected back at me in people’s sunglasses, absorbed by my coworkers’ eyes. They weren’t used to an American coming up so close, being such a worried listener—me pressing in with my nervous smile, my jaw clamped, my forehead rip
pling with humps like a Klingon’s.

  Why couldn’t I have found a job in Sydney or Cape Town, where the surf brahs communicated by vibe?

  What had I done?

  2

  My seventh-grade French teacher, Madame Fleuriot, wore brown nylons, high heels, and yielding sweaters. She had a bouffant hairdo of cotton candy that melted in the rain when she forgot her kerchief. Madame’s bosom was substantial: a single body. I remembered it bobbing around the room. Who knows what the other boys thought about Madame, but there was something I found intriguing—her high laugh, her dismissive tone. When we didn’t know a French noun’s gender, Madame Fleuriot mocked us. Wasn’t it obvious, the pen’s masculinity? The crockery’s curves?

  In her class, we learned that most of life in France wasn’t intended for children. Madame would sigh, “You are too young to understand.”

  At the end of the year, Madame Fleuriot threw us a party. She hung tricolore ribbons in the windows and taught us how to make crêpes. All the butter seemed to relax Madame’s posture. She reclined on her desk and swung her feet. She told us, If ever we were lucky enough to visit Paris …

  Just the word “Paris,” she was undone a bit.

  Around that time, my mother brought home Charade, a murder mystery set in Paris with Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant. First time we watched it, in the den, my mother announced that Charade was her favorite movie.

  It was the first time I’d heard her say she had a favorite anything.

  Mom taught nursery school; Dad sold textiles. We lived in hell: suburban Connecticut. One year, when I was fourteen, my parents took me and my little sister, Leslie, for a week’s vacation in Paris. Our hotel, near Place Saint-Sulpice, was minuscule. Leslie and I barely got our luggage into the room. That first morning, we were staggering from jet lag. Our mother was already in the dining room; she looked primed. Back at home, she’d said what she wanted most from Paris was the coffee, the morning coffee. She ordered café au lait, très noir. When the coffee was ready, the waiter brought it out on a silver tray and served it ceremoniously, pouring espresso from one little pot, milk from another, the two streams melding in the cup.

  My mother held the coffee below her nose. Her cheeks flushed.

  I’d never seen my mother as a woman before, a woman powerfully contented.

  That’s when I began drinking coffee. I was hung up on every little thing. I loved Paris, and felt straightaway at home. Not to be grandiose, but it seemed like the city had been waiting for me. The air was adhesive, hot, and fragrant, and we walked the city up and down and saw everything. Even my sister got into it: she ate from every crêpe stand we passed. My mother would say afterward, “I don’t think she ate a single meal inside a building.”

  Toward the end of the week, at a men’s store that resembled a cottage, my dad told me to choose something for myself, anything. I picked a red-and-white shirt with a button-down collar—the first piece of adult clothing I’d ever wanted to wear.

  Too quickly, we were back in Connecticut.

  In school, Madame Fleuriot’s video days were notorious. Our lessons were based on a program, Voix et Images de France (Voices and Images of France), that featured a family in Paris called the Thibaults, who lived at number 10 Place d’Italie. Monsieur Thibault was an engineer—Monsieur Thibault est ingénieur. Madame Thibault, a homemaker, took care of the children, Paul and Catherine, who looked miserable. There were two college students in the lessons, Robert and Mireille, who were also boyfriend-girlfriend. Mireille was a hot blonde, maybe nineteen. Every episode, she wore the same red skirt and white blouse—big tits, big hips, long hair, and if Robert was infatuated with Mireille, so were we.

  For example, one day, visiting the Tuileries Gardens, Mireille took a table at an outdoor café. Spring in Paris, too good to be true, how lovely! But she was thirsty—well, who wouldn’t be?—so Mireille ordered a kir royale. However, ooh la la, when the waiter returned with her drink, he spilled the whole thing down her front.

  “What’s so funny?” Madame Fleuriot said, pausing the VCR. She studied the screen, where Mireille’s breasts and nipples were plainly showing through her blouse.

  “Ah, you boys,” Madame said, “please, grow up.”

  Madame laughed and relaxed, one hand perched on the TV cart. Mireille remained paused, pendulous.

  “Now, a kir royale,” Madame said. “You know this? It really is delicious. You’re too young, of course.” How we disappointed her. “In Paris, children do not drink to get drunk. Excuse me. Now, kir royale.”

  “Kir royale,” we said.

  “Mostly it’s champagne,” Madame said, “but with cassis, just a few drops? It’s really wonderful. On a summer afternoon?”

  Later in the year, Madame showed us a 1980s French movie called La Boum. At one point in the film, some teenagers go to the cinéma, and a boy sticks his penis into a popcorn box so the girl sitting next to him will jerk him off. But we weren’t shocked. We were turning fourteen, we knew about those sorts of things. Stuff like that happened in Paris. Plus, it wasn’t cool to make a big deal about anything.

  “French” became an umbrella term for me, describing things I liked before I knew why I liked them. But Paris was different. Paris was an umbrella, a dream I carried around in case the weather turned bad.

  3

  After college, I moved to New York City and began waking up early to write fiction. So far, I’d completed two novels—both were dreck—and set about writing a third, plus started an online magazine with a friend. But none of that paid much, so for the rest of the day I wrote anything that earned money. Pet-grooming articles. Real-estate brochures. At one point, I had a column in a magazine published exclusively for American Express “black card” members. They hired me to write what was characterized as luxury humor. “Oh, you know,” a woman’s voice said over the phone, from high above Sixth Avenue and Forty-third Street, “wine, châteaux, jokes about Greece. Can’t you do that?”

  Shortly after I replied to Pierre’s e-mail, the agency flew me to Paris for an interview. It all happened pretty fast. Pierre let me crash on his floor and drove me to the office on his Vespa—at a stoplight he shouted, “There are handles under the seat, you do not need to hold me.”

  We had a meeting with Pierre’s boss, Bernard. Bernard had long hair and chewed gum. He wore Beatle boots and a slim black suit and spoke perfect English, with a Valley girl’s cadences.

  During the interview, to compensate for my lack of credentials in advertising, Pierre said things like, “Luxury humor is the type of fresh thinking we need.” I spoke a little French; Bernard suggested I stop. “You can learn this later.” He wanted to know, Bernard said, how I felt about doing presentations.

  “So, look, there’s a lot of global business out there. We need, like, a hundred of you,” he said. “English-speakers, I mean.”

  Bernard stared at me for a few seconds, snapping his gum. “Okay, well,” he said, continuing in English, “so how do you feel about Paris, good?”

  “J’adore Paris,” I said.

  “Who doesn’t?” Bernard flipped through some folders for a moment, then looked up, as if he’d forgotten why I was there. “So … we’ll see how it goes. Pierre, do we have any other business to discuss?”

  That was the interview.

  Three weeks later, I returned to Paris to find an apartment. The agency provided me with an HR representative and a real-estate agent to show me around. Extremely generous of them, I thought. We saw eleven apartments in nine hours. The agent was serious about her business. She rarely smiled, driving us in her small Peugeot. The HR rep was friendlier, with peachy skin and a high, screwy laugh. All day long, we crisscrossed the city, and I could barely keep track of the neighborhoods, the arrondissements.

  Back in Brooklyn, I’d spent hours reviewing apartment listings on websites for expats. The descriptions were dreamy and confusing:

  Exclusive EXCLUSIVITY: Magnificent studio. Totally renewed, last floor, sight loose
ned on Paris. Beautiful room to be lived, with U.S.-equipped cooking (oven, patches, refrigerator). Public prosecutor’s department. Very brilliant: several windows. SdE with wc. Close any conveniences. Immediate availability. To seize!

  The first apartment was above a farmer’s market near the Sorbonne, on the Left Bank. The location was Paris Magnificent. Many cheesemongers nearby, booksellers, and tabacs. It was the area known as the home of Sartre and Hemingway, the old boys you saw on postcards for €2.25. We waited for ten minutes to be let into the building, and the agent checked e-mail on her smartphone. A lot, I thought, had happened since the days of Hemingway. Luke Skywalker had happened. Supermarkets happened. Hip-hop happened and Joan Didion happened. E-mail happened. More relevant to Paris, there was 1968 and Les Halles razed, there were Mitterand’s grand projets and Serge Gainsbourg buried in Montparnasse.

  The landlord arrived and we climbed upstairs, where the apartment did not reflect the Left Bank’s glory. It reflected us. It was a 1970s party pit and the owner had gone in for mirroring. Walls in the bedroom were mirrored. The headboard was mirrored and cabinets were mirrored. The breakfast bar would be good for doing cocaine.

  “Do you like it?” the agent asked in French.

  “Ce n’est pas terrible,” I said, focusing on my enunciation.

  She said, “What would you prefer to see?”

  I glanced at a pair of chairs upholstered in red leopard. I did not want to seize them.

  “S’il vous plaît,” I said slowly, “moins des chaises des animaux?

  “Merci beaucoup,” I added.

  The next two apartments were under construction. A fourth apartment, north of the Luxembourg Gardens on a demure, quintessential Parisian street, was all green. Green walls, green drapes, green furniture. Kitchen appliances in avocado. The only thing that wasn’t green (the doorknobs were green) was in the bedroom, behind a chair: a large trompe l’oeil painting of women’s lingerie hanging on knobs.

  We were in a Folies Bergère dressing room.