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The day was winding down. John Germaine made calls to all his investment buddies until seven, when most of them went home and prepared to go out to dinner. The exchange traded funds, or ETFs, that he’d invested in and encouraged his buddies to invest in had been going up steadily for months. He was replete with his success.
John descended from the 52nd floor of Montparnasse Tower to the street. He had dined at Fouquet’s, Maxime’s, and La Tour D’Argent many times, but tonight he decided to assume Cassandra was busy so he could feel free to buy his favorite dinner—ham and cheese rolled up in a crêpe, Paris street food. He ate it standing, watching people mill around the foot of the tower, figuring out what to do next. He had another crêpe with Nutella inside it for dessert, relishing the gooey chocolate and hazelnut spread.
He sighed. It was time to check in with Cassandra.
“I’m at Dior.” Cassandra sounded bored, didn’t even say hello when she answered his call.
“Is Emily with you?” John could imagine her reluctance to be in her mother’s shopaholic tow.
“We won’t be back until late.”
“Okay, see you later, hon.” He clicked off. His wife spent too much, it was just a bit frightening. Well, he’d kept up with her bills so far. As soon as he landed a new client, he’d be in good shape. Until her next shopping foray.
To forget his troubles, tonight he’d take another improvisational acting class. Acting out his screwball side would be fun. And he’d have a chance to prove once again that he did well at everything he put his hand to. Except reining in Cassandra’s spending.
His long legs ate up the distance through the interconnecting tunnels of the Montparnasse Bienvenüe Metro station as he put his plan into motion. He passed a guitarist and singer emoting on Janis Joplin’s “Me and Bobby McGee.” John felt proud when he heard American rock played in the Paris Metro. American rock stars wailed, singing from deep in their guts. There was something so raw, so authentic about it. And the French—the whole world—knew it.
He passed through the Gare Montparnasse tunnels humming “Bobby McGee.” Not many men of his stature did such things, he thought, humming in tunnels, but so what? He’d earned the right to be eccentric.
He noticed that a timeline of World War I had been painted on the walls of one of the tunnels. The French were commemorating the one hundredth anniversary of the start of that war this summer. And the seventieth anniversary of the liberation of Paris in August 1944 during World War II.
John thought, you have to take into account the cost of these wars when you try to understand the French psyche. People had to survive brutal shortages, ugly occupations, and the decimation of their families.
When he thought of how Germany had been the aggressor in three major wars against France since 1870, he had to wonder: how has the modern-day European Union survived as long as it has? France and Germany were the leaders of the EU, Germany even more so, and they were countries that had repeatedly and until rather recently been deadly enemies. It was hard to understand the change of allegiances.
John shook off gloomy thoughts of war. He would take line 13 to line 1 to line 7. Fantastic system, the Paris Metro. The school was in the Tenth arrondissement, near Metro stop Poissonière. Who but the French would name a Metro stop “Fishmonger’s Wife”? Who but the French had a language that made “fishmonger’s wife” sound elegant?
Walking to the artists’ space on Rue de Paradis, he passed a man lying unconscious on the pavement along the base of a building. Dogs must have peed there many times over the centuries, John thought. That guy was going to wake up stiff and sore and smelly, if he hadn’t passed out that way. With all my assets, I’ll never get like that, he thought.
At 40 Rue de Paradis, he dialed in the five letters of the door code he’d been given and pushed the scarred, ancient wooden street door open. He walked down a long archway—high and wide enough that a horse-drawn carriage could drive over its cobbles—and into the central courtyard.
The building rose up on four sides around him—the Paris-requesite white stone building, six stories, which was why his black glass, fifty-nine-story office tower was such an eyesore. Here in the courtyard, the noise of city traffic was muffled. People’s windows were open, and he could smell onions sautéing in butter. The sound of subdued conversations in French—the French always kept their voices down, unlike raucous Americans—reached John as he mounted the steps on the far side of the courtyard.
Through the window to the right, he could see a drama class in progress. A woman in a sleeveless, formfitting red dress and red heels held a script in one hand and emoted with the other, making large gestures. She faced a nervous young man with an immaculately trimmed dark beard and glasses.
“Bon chance,” John muttered. He was here to make up his own lines, not work that hard memorizing someone else’s.
John continued up the steps, thinking to himself: open the door of the artistic space, nod hello to the glum young Parisian sitting at the reception desk—why were so many of them glum? Run lightly down the stairs, pass the dilapidated couch, and voilà, as the French would say. Here was his classroom.
Georges was teaching tonight. Good! He was the silliest of the bunch and awoke the most playfulness in John.
John knew it was improbable that a man with his connections, who operated at the level of society he was privy to, would be not just interested in watching improv, but in acting in it.
But it was true. The risk-taker in him, that dealt with millions of dollars in volatile investments, also liked to take risks in front of his improv class.
Georges was directing a warm-up. The six class members listened.
“I want you to work your faces as well as your torsos, arms, and legs to sculpt yourself into a new character,” Georges said. “Line up against this wall and walk yourself into a new character by the time you reach the opposite wall. Got it? Go!”
With only a moment’s reflection and hesitation, John threw himself into the fun. He buckled his knees and twisted his torso to the right as far as he could. Keeping his torso there, he reached to the left with both arms, and began to walk to the opposite wall.
“Work your faces!” Georges called.
John smiled, then twisted it into too wide a smile, with teeth clenched. He didn’t mind being silly, ridiculous, among these folks. He felt about four years old, but in a good way.
“Okay, that’s good, now change!” Georges called.
John noticed Babette, such a big smile, teeth encased in shiny braces and yet such a better smile than Cassandra’s frosty look. Babette’s black hair hung down to her shoulders in tiny braids. She was laughing, walking on tiptoe, swinging her arms wide from side to side with each footstep. The whole class was acting nuts.
Then Georges joined in. John laughed out loud as Georges scooted across the floor like a Hunchback of Notre Dame rugby player protecting the ball.
“Okay, good work,” Georges said. John sidled next to Babette. She smiled up at him. It felt like a privilege to be a human being around that smile.
“Now we get into some improv,” Georges called into the hubbub. The actors stood still, their faces flushed with exertion and fun, as he explained the exercise. John wanted very much to excel at this, to impress people with his improv as much as he did with his investment savvy.
“John, you and I start,” Georges said. “You go on stage with a walk, as a character of some sort, just as we did earlier, and you mime an activity—chop vegetables, talk on the phone, whatever. Then, when you’ve established your character and your activity, I’ll come on with a walk, in character, and join you in the activity, and we’ll see what happens. Ready? And go!”
The rest of the class seated themselves along the wall. John couldn’t wait to try it, but at the same time, he was nervous.
John pondered his character for a second, then walked in front of the group pretty much as the man he was—he had to admit it—confidence was a good thing. He pretended to open a piano and to sit on its bench. He began playing Tchaikovsky’s Concerto in B Minor, as he had when he was a piano student in high school. In his mind, he heard it playing as the popularized version, “Tonight We Love.”
He banged out the chords, letting his hands go dramatically high as a concert pianist might. He crossed hands—right hand playing bass notes—even though he knew perfectly well that Tchaikovsky’s score didn’t call for that. He was getting anxious for Georges to come on, with Babette’s and five other pairs of eyes watching him intently.
Georges approached, dragging one leg. John laughed out loud at Georges’ character and wished that he would stop laughing on stage, it seemed so unprofessional.
“Sounds wonderful, Your Royal Highness,” Georges said, like a demented serf. John laughed again, it was so unexpected.
“It’s Tchaikovsky, he’s a great composer,” John said, still banging out chords.
“I’m jealous, Your Highness. You know, I’m so jealous, I want to kill him.”
“Oh, don’t do that. It wouldn’t be nice.”
“I have a knife.”
“Don’t do anything rash,” John said. Where was this going? He was scared and excited.
“Yes. I kill him, I feel better.”
“That’s sick. I’m taking you to the doctor,” and John led Georges to Babette. “The doctor will fix you.” Where were these lines coming from? He didn’t know and didn’t care. Everything was happening fast.
Babette mimed giving Georges a shot.
“That’s better. Let’s go have something to eat, your Highness,” Georges said.
John led him back to the piano, which was now a table.
“But I still want to kill Tchaikovsky!”
“Look,” John said, feeling and sounding demented himself, “here’s a loaf of bread on the table. Its name is Tchaikovsky. Stab it!”
Georges mimed stabbing the poor baguette.
“Stab it more!”
Georges’s serf did as instructed.
“Good, good!” John said. “You’ve killed Tchaikovsky!” He allowed a pause in the action. Then, in a normal voice, he said, “Now give me the knife.”
Georges paused, considered, then called, “End of scene! Great!”
At the end of class, John felt once again that, yes, he was a Renaissance man, capable of doing well at whatever he put his hand to. And a little loony, which he deemed good. Before leaving, he turned up at Babette’s elbow again and relished that smile one more time.
