I was drawn to this image and the story it tells. Of course, Saul Leiter could be capturing a young woman writing to her parents asking for money to be wired to her so she can extend her stay (“just one more gallery, Mother”); perhaps she is sharing memories with a great-aunt who sparked her curiosity with tales of Paris in the 20s; or, as I have imagined, she has news to share of an awakening.
What tale would you tell?
Dear John
The terrace café is alive with chatter. I still understand so little of it but slowly, word-by-word, sentence-by-sentence, I am making sense of it. I read in French, but every paragraph is a struggle. I hope, perhaps, keeping a Camus close at hand makes me appear a little more exotic than I believe I am.
Daily pastries are a tradition I am embracing. I know they are sugary and all that, but this girl is learning what Oscar Wilde meant about being able to resist anything but temptation. The coffee is strong. An English gentleman, on hearing my terrible accent, told me the first day I stopped here that “it would put hairs on my chest”. My goodness, there must be something in the water. Everyone is so terribly forward. But, of course, he is correct … not literally, of course, but it is full of flavour. The aroma of roasted coffee and French cigarettes is strangely beguiling, though I know you don’t approve of cigarettes. Or maybe it is just cigarettes smoked by young ladies like me. Anyhow, as I was saying about temptation.
Views seem less old-fashioned here. Women are everywhere. Prominent. Confident. So fashionable. I feel like a small church mouse next to them. Sorry, dear John, to mention the church out of context. I know how much your daily life is guided by the words of your pastor. I have been to churches regularly since I arrived, but never on a Sunday. The buildings are astonishing. The history of centuries, stories told in leaded windows, stained glass, and marble arches. Oh, the gilding too. It makes me wonder but I am also sad to reflect on the wealth of the church in comparison to the worshippers. I keep a few centimes in my purse to share with the unfortunates who sit on the majestic steps seeking alms. It is the least I can do, though I suspect you will disapprove.
The other students are a scream. The girls are all so pretty. They take me to their favourite club where Connie Francis sings about ‘lipstick on your collar’. They apply theirs thickly here, and reapply it when they emerge from dark corners with boys who write poems and affect disinterest while all the time being attentive. Doors are held open, eye contact held too. It is all very unsettling. Different, but nice. I cannot remember you holding a door open for me. Or lighting my cigarette. Ah, yes, we are back to the cigarettes again. Gauloises, they are called. Cute little blue packets that tear open, the cigarettes packed tightly. Boys like Anton tap them on their hands before offering you one. I did mention Anton, didn’t I? He wears a leather jacket that you would not care for, and a neckerchief. You’d call him a gypsy or a greaser and look down at him. But he quotes the great writers and he thinks deeply. We have often talked late into the evening. Once, we sat on the steps at Sacré Cœur and watched the sun rise.
Now, dear John, I know you tell me I ramble and take too long to get to the point. Just one of the many things that frustrate you. My friends here seem to enjoy my little diversions and the time it takes for my stories and feelings to emerge. I am certain you would find the discussions tiring, boring even. But have you ever listened to you and your friends talking about the stock market and investments? I am more at home with the poetry and philosophy. I have written to my parents and they are happy for me to stay on and study for longer. I have a job in a little gallery and sharing an apartment will make life in Paris so much more affordable. Anton says that Europeans are so much more relaxed about living together than Americans. And he is right, of course. I feel liberated.
Do send my regards to your Mother.
It may surprise you to learn that Nancy wrote to me recently. How exciting that you are ‘spending time together’. I am sure you and she will be very happy. She has a far better head for heights than I, so the moral high ground you cling to should hold few fears for her. If you honeymoon in Paris, be sure to look me up.
Best wishes for the future.
Barbara
What a gorgeous piece — both the imagined letter and the framing around it. I could feel the shift in Barbara’s tone as she loosened from politeness into self-possession, like she was waking up in real time. The sensory details — Gauloises, lipstick, the sun over Sacré Cœur — made it cinematic, and that last paragraph was a perfect parting shot. It’s the kind of story that lingers long after you’ve finished reading. -Kelly
Oh that last paragraph. I loved it that she didn't feel a need to get to her point right away. All the little innuendos she slipped in were delicious. Excellent, Barrie.