Proust Said That Goes to Paris

Upon arrival in Paris, we went to the hotel reservation desk and discovered that reasonable hotel rooms were hard to come by. We settled for the best bargain they had to offer and began the series of transports that would take us there. En route, I watched the street signs, and felt massively gleeful when the bus followed the Boulevard Haussmann for many blocks, before depositing us at the Opera, where a brief Metro trip and two short blocks of walking took us to the door of the hotel. We were in the 9th Arrondissment, Proust territory, and the suitability of this location filled me with excitement.i

We dumped our baggage at the hotel and hit the streets, beginning our explorations with the corner cafe, where Horst noted immediately that the beer was too expensive. Welcome to Paris. We wandered through the commercial district, getting off the main streets and investigating less crowded throroughfares. After a few hours, the priority became choosing some place to eat. Being bewildered by the options, we made up our minds only when stopping for food had to be done at that very second whether we liked it or not, and at the inconspicuous corner cafe right here, which served the best pommes frites in memory.

Food reminded our bodies that we had hardly slept the night before, and after another couple of miles of walking, a recuperative nap before dinner sounded like the best plan. Collapsing, we slept much too long. I woke up at four in the morning, but Horst wasn't conscious until almost seven. For the first time in my life, I was the first person in the hotel dining room for breakfast.

There was no question about what I wanted to do first on this day in Paris: I wanted to go to see 102 Boulevard Haussmann, the address at which Proust had written most of Remembrance. The bank that had bought it and forced him to move still owns it, but they had at last reopened the apartment, complete with new cork on the walls and other historical restorations, although his furniture is now in the Musee Carnavalet. I knew that it would not be open on a Sunday, but I would come back on the Monday, the only weekday of our short stay in Paris, and stand in the room where this great act of creativity had taken place, hoping that the aura of genius would still permeate the space and leave its mark on the visitors.

We walked down the Boulevard Haussman and, as we got closer, I began to feel more and more excited, but insisted upon enjoying the things we passed, having a good look at them, not just running straight for the destination that was so important. These were, after all, the streets He had walked, the things He had seen, and as such they retained a special significance not to be ignored.

"It's here," Horst had said, and the tingling suspense of approach avalanched into heart thumping and pulse racing. I walked to the building and put my hands on it, standing for a moment like a blind person at a dead end. Horst stood by obligingly , like the companion to an autistic while I let the energy in the walls course through me. After a few moments, inhaling deeply, I began to examine the front of the building. It was at the front door of the bank that I finally saw the notice, advising customers that the bank would be closed on Monday for the holiday.

The holiday! Of course, November 11, the day of the Armistice! The bank was going to be closed on my only weekday in Paris, information sufficient to blacken my mood, send me stamping in small circles with arms flapping up and down ridiculously. Any of you who have read the last issue of PST may remember that the opening essay of that issue was how terrible holidays are, how they put all the agreeable things of ordinary life on hold, and never had I felt more irritated by one of these observations.

Horst scoured the adjacent buildings for a doorbell to ring or some neighbor to approach in the effort to keep my anti-holiday fit at bay. Resourcefully, Horst reminded me that my inability to get in only made it necessary for me to come back. How true, I admitted; I must come back, just the excuse I needed to make this all happen again soon.

It was time to make a telephone call to another correspondent who had offered to do the museum tour of the day, to see the portrait done by Jacques-Emile Blanche at the Musee D'Orsay and MP's furniture at the Carnavalet. When we spoke, we arranged to meet at the monument underneath the Arc de Triomphe in an hour.

A soft but nasty rain fell as we paraded up the Champs Elysee. The sight of the hundreds of flags hanging limply from the streetlights down the entire length of the avenue, as colorful and atmospheric as it was, did not cheer me much, and the hour that we spent under the Arc, huddling in the small sections where the rain didn't splash through, asking strangers meeting the general description of the person we were waiting for if they were our unseen friend, plus the deepening layer of dampness pervading our clothing, made matters worse. When an hour of waiting had ended, we gave up, needing very much the warmth of a cafe interior, and the recuperative aid of Campari and orange juice, the central heating of coffee and the experience of pommes frites.

Revived, we hurried to the Musee D'Orsay to see the portrait of Proust. In the annoying tradition of holidays, what is not closed is horridly packed; the line waiting for entry stretched out dismally, and I was concerned. Only a non-flash camera is allowed in museums, and the light on this gray day was failing. I needed to find Proust as soon as possible; I asked at the front desk immediately upon entry, and was told to go all the way to the back and up the stairs, and ask the docent at the rear desk.

Getting to the back was like navigating Macy's shortly before Christmas and there were dozens of things that drew the eye and attention, but I was not deterred as much as I would have liked, making resolute and unaccompanied passage to the second floor guide. Asking him, I got general directions and set off on the quest, but couldn't find it where expected. In a slight panic I headed back for more explicit directions, and was told that the piece might be out on loan to another collection, or might have been moved recently. Seeing my agitation, he questioned it and got the ultra-quick description of my concern. "Are you American?" he asked curiously. "Yes," I said. "Why?" He stared at me with a certain weary solicitude and said, "I'm sorry for you."

I would have loved to question his odd remark, but raced off instead to find the piece I'd come specifically to see. This time, with some further information about the likely spot, I did find it. I know this piece well, as it appears in a considerable percentage of books about Proust, and I have seen it on postcards. Standing in front of the actual portrait, though, was oddly moving, and I stood there for a very long time, and nearly cried.

I have seen many portraits painted in my lifetime, and have sat for a few myself. Standing in front of the oil paint on canvas, my imagination ran back a hundred years to the studio of Jacques-Emile Blanche, to the sittings in which the artist had Proust's company while he painted, and the deeply scrutinizing, almost other-worldly gaze to capture.

Blanche hated this portrait so much that he tore it up, and Proust was only able to salvage the upper torso and head. It reminded me of the time when my dear friend Harley Biermann, who is a wonderful painter, asked me to pose for a portrait. I did, and when she was happy with it and I had a first look, I said, "Miss Harley, the nose is enormous." She surgically reduced the nose to a more believable proportion and I found the result beautiful; she, on the other hand, detested it, found the finished piece without character, and relegated it to the back of her closet. She has moved twice since, and I suspect that this piece met with a violent end.

Looking at this portrait was like looking at a dead friend. I was mesmerized for so long that I began to hear people saying "Why is she looking at that for so long?" and others whispering "That's a portrait of Proust," which seemed to explain everything. This brought me to my senses, and I pulled out the camera to get the photo before it was really too late. Of course those pictures never came out. Even later Horst tried to photograph me next to the portrait, and those came out even less.

"The Louvre and all the other museums were closed..." -Time Regained

It was dark by the time we left the museum and walked quickly to the Louvre. Admission at this hour was hopeless, but at least we could ascertain whether it would be open the next day, which, of course, thanks to the holiday schedule, it would not. Horst's plan to visit there while I went to Proust's last residence, Pere Lachaise, was dashed, but he gallantly assured me that he also wanted to go to the famous necropolis to visit Jim Morrison.

By the time we had finished with Paris for the day, it was 4:00 a.m.; I had been awake for 24 hours and was nearly as dead as Proust. But there were very few hours free for sleep, or for horizontal inactivity, because tomorrow evening we would be flying back to Berlin, and there was still too much to see and do.

It was still morning when we headed out to Pere Lachaise, still gray and still raining slightly. With Horst along, I was spared the necessity of comprehending the Metro and when he said "Let's get off here," I simply followed him.

We had exited at a stop called "Stalingrad". For an East Berlin resident, who had lived through the conversion to democracy and had seen all the names, statues, sites and strongholds of the former regime disappear over time, he was fascinated by the reference to this happily forgotten past and had to have a look. We wandered around this working class district trying to recall the history, searching for an explanation, but enough Stalingrad was enough, and we opted to head on to the cemetary. As we returned to the Metro, I took a few photos of this untouristed district.

We got off the Metro before the Pere Lachaise station and entered the grounds from the back, wandering and marveling at the immensity of the place and the artful mansions of the dead, realizing soon that finding our beloved departed was not so easy. After a while we encountered some other tourists armed with maps they had acquired at the main entrance and got our first bearings from them. Half an hour later we stopped others with maps and got an even better conception. We finally found the simple black marble slab that contained the Prousts, a mere few hundred feet from the main entrance, so Marcel could have an excellent view of the comings and goings of the dead and the living.

Right beyond the entrance, I saw numerous florists open for this busy day when everything was closed except the cemetary and, after a moment or two of standing at the grave, I decided to go and get him some flowers. I chose a small bunch of violets, flowers I had brought my mother regularly for years, and went back to lay them beside his name. For some reason, the sight of this tomb did not sadden me like the portrait I had seen the day before. The prospect of leaving a copy of PST with him, and taking a full-daylight photo of the magazine at the grave, filled me with excitement for the assembly of this issue.

With unbridled glee, I pulled a copy of PST out of my purse, stood it up next to his name, and laid the violets beside it, then pulled out the oh-so-portable paper camera and stepped back, grinning, to get this snapshot that I had dreamed of since the prospect of coming to Paris had arisen. I moved around until the elements were all aligned perfectly, put my finger on the button and pushed.

The button did not move. Confused, I looked closely, and saw that there were zero photos left to be taken. Glee gave way to rdiculous frustration, enough stamping fo feet to disturb the dead, followed quickly by a black-humored fit of giggles. Horst suggested that it was time for him to find Jim, but perhaps I might go out to the commercial district around the entrance and look for another disposable camera, then meet him later.

There were two camera stores in the district, both closed. Everything was closed, except the cafes, restaurants, florists and a shop selling Chinese knick-knacks, items which Proust's friend Leon Daudet had once compared to him. Totally frustrated, I found no option but to return to the grave to say goodbye.

On the way in, I saw a photographer smoking a pipe as he bent and stretched to record beautiful grave sites on film. As on the night when I found myself locked out of my apartment in Berlin, I was without shame in requesting the help of strangers and dashed over to ask this gentleman if I could pay him for a photo.

He listened politely, but demurred. "You need a professional photographer," he said, "and I am just an amateur." "Well," I responded, pulling the irritating paper camera out of my purse, "I am more of an amateur; I just want a snapshot, really." But he declined, embarrassed to be unsuited to the task, and I thanked him for listening and marched dejectedly back to pay my last respects.

At the grave, I turned when I heard the sound of footsteps moving swiftly over the less famous remains in Proust's neighborhood and saw the photographer, with pipe still clenched between his teeth, coming in my direction. "I changed my mind," he said, "I'll do it for you." But he insisted that I, too, should be captured in this photo, and posed me over the slab.

It has always been my intention to leave myself out of the magazine, to be the unseen Miss P, or, for those who have not read every word of this magazine carefully, perhaps Mr. P. I am always charmed when my readers think I am a man; this means that the novels I write (and the first was finished a week before I left for Europe) will contain characters that would be believably masculine as well as feminine. But I could hardly argue with his offer, and added the rain on the grave to the assorted wetness on my black coat, thanked him profusely, offered money for postage which he refused, left him with a copy of PST and my card, waved goodbye and blew grateful kisses. Before I left, I moved the increasingly soggy copy of PST to the top of the slab, where the rain and even the briefest interludes of sun would leave it somewhat permanently affixed, until it, too, would deteriorate, like the beloved body below.

When I met Horst later and told him this story, I was certain that I knew the reason the photographer had changed his mind. "It's the hat," I said. "Parisians cannot resist this hat."

Our next stop was the Museum of Contemporary Culture in the Bois, because there was a show of Asterisk comics there and Horst wouldn't leave Paris without Asterisk t-shirts for his twin sons, who are serious fans. For me, the attraction was merely the Bois du Bologne, Proust's childhood playground, but by the time we arrived, it was getting dark, and there was no time to locate the Allee Marcel Proust. It was only a few hours before our plane would take us back to Berlin.

We returned to the Metro. "It's time to go back to the hotel and get our stuff," Horst said. "What time is it exactly?" I looked at my Proust watch. "It's just about five," I said.

Horst left me at a cafe by the Opera, and kindly ran back to the hotel for the baggage while I had a final Parisian Campari. When he returned he had a last expensive beer, and we picked up the bags to head out to the bus. As we exited the cafe, a Parisian spoke to me for the last time of that visit. "Quelle jolie chapeau!" he said. At the airport, I checked my watch to see how soon we would board. Much to my surprise, it still said five o'clock and has remained there since, stopped at the time when I was reminded that I must leave Paris, and at the same hour that I saw the last of the German Proustians in Berlin.

We flew back to Berlin, and I filled the last few days there with confusion on the undergrounds and visits with friends. On my very last night there, Konstanze threw a party, inviting all the East Berliners who had ever been guests at my house in San Francisco. For the first time, I saw this group of friends all together, and we toasted each other through the night.

"And of something which a year before made me yawn I have said to myself with anguish, longingly contemplating it in advance: "Shall I really be unable to see this thing? I would give anything for a sight of it!'" -Time Regained

P Segal