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The Tour Saint-Jacques loomed above Philippe at this point. The tower had four impossibly long gargoyles at the top, leaping out from each corner, defying gravity as if the laws of nature didn’t apply in Paris. Which they very well might not. He turned to walk toward Le Café Livre.
At this point in his life, he was more at home in Paris than America. He was descended from Huguenots, Protestants who fled persecution in Catholic France. His family had settled in New Jersey and passed down the French spelling and pronunciation of his first name—accent on the last syllable—to the amusement of his vicious childhood enemies. After twenty years in Paris, Philippe thought and dreamed in French more often than he did in English.
He noticed outside the café that, when a motorcycle went by, it was so loud it would drown out what people in the café were saying. In spite of it, he wanted the writers’ circle to meet outside. He had been in his office all day and wanted the fresh air, or air as fresh as it ever was in Paris. The city was located in a geographic bowl. The air didn’t get blown away and refreshed. Sometimes the Tour Eiffel was grayed out by pollution, much of it from all the diesel cars the French drove, and the mayor would declare that the Metro was free so people would walk less and breathe less.
The café’s woven wicker chairs stood in neat rows, inviting customers to sit and disarrange them. The black asphalt beneath the chairs was dimpled with circles where the chairs’ feet, under the weight of diners, had pressed into the softer pavement on a hot day.
He opened the door, from which hung a sign, “climatisée,” but he knew the air conditioning would be inadequate, as it was everywhere in Paris. He went in to talk to the bartender and could feel, in the warm, humid air, that he was correct about the French acceptance of dreadful air conditioning.
Inside, thousands of books stood neatly on hundreds of white shelves, on every wall of the café. Their creative presence sparked Philippe’s interest. Maybe there was a take-one, leave-one policy here.
“I called earlier, for a table for four,” he said in French to the man behind the bar, who had white hair and mustache and was a little slow on his feet.
“Outside or inside, monsieur,” the bartender asked. He exuded bonhomie and welcome, and Philippe knew that at least this one human was in the right job. So many people came to him and complained about their work.
“I think on the street.”
“As you wish,” and the bartender gestured graciously toward the door.
Philippe chose a table for four under the awning, against the wall of the café. The plastic barriers that came down when it rained or got cold had been rolled up tight, so the air moved out here. Of course, that meant smokers would sit out here, too. Philippe, a reformed smoker, regretted that the best spots in Paris cafés—outdoors—were smokers’ territory.
A waiter appeared in the doorway.
“Bonsoir, monsieur,” he said.
“Bonsoir. I’ll just put two tables together, if you don’t mind.” The waiter stepped in to help him.
“Combien?” the waiter asked.
“Quatre. Just four. We’ll order dinner.”
“Oui, monsieur.” The waiter hurried to whisk the used wine glasses off a nearby table, just vacated by a couple holding hands.
The long evening, full of light, that blessed Paris in summer because of its location so far north in the world, not that far from the Arctic Circle, was just getting started. More people arrived and took seats and tables. Philippe looked at his watch, then twitched his shoulders, trying to relax. He read the first page of his story, got out his pen, and made a change on all four copies.
“Hi, are you Philippe? I’m Carol,” said a woman with a British accent. She was wearing a sleek, expensive dress.
“Bonsoir, Carol.” He gave her the bisous, a kiss on both cheeks. It was the traditional French greeting between both men and women. Sometimes he didn’t want to greet strange men that way, but then again, it certainly did break the ice. “We’ll have another new member coming tonight.”
“That’s nice.” Carol took a sheaf of papers out of her leather Louis Vitton handbag, almost the size of an artist’s portfolio, and sat down opposite Philippe.
John strode under the awning, with a rolled up wad of his first draft in his hand. He looked around, saw Philippe’s and Carol’s papers on the table, and edged his way around people and chairs.
“Hello, is this the writers’ group? I’m John Germaine.”
His accent gave away his American origins.
Philippe nodded.
“I’m Philippe. This is Carol.” John leaned down to Carol to give her the bisous on both cheeks. Neither of them was French, but this was just the way it was done in France. He folded his tall frame into a black and white woven-wicker seat.
Anjali stepped under the awning, saw them, and came over. As she edged around tables, knocking a chair accidentally with her knee, she was thinking how, in Mumbai, diners went to restaurants like cloisters—behind walls—with air conditioning and sealed windows, to escape the dust, the heat, the poor, and the noise and smells of the street. Here in Paris, everybody spilled out onto the sidewalk, so open.
She saw that John had indeed availed himself of her critique group. Too bad, she thought. I have to watch myself.
“Hello, sir,” she said.
“Just call me John.”
“Okay.”
To Philippe, she said, “Hello, I’m Anjali. Just arrived from Mumbai.”
“Welcome, please, sit down,” Philippe said. “Let’s get the waiter and order our food.”
The group studied their menus, with occasional furtive glances at the others.
Philippe clutched his menu and thought, they seem like nice enough folks. But let’s see how this unfolds. I wonder if anyone gets mean in their critique, which happens so often. I formed this group. I’d hate to see it get nasty. I’m responsible, in a way, if anyone rips into other members, especially if they do it perceptively and demolish the person.
I want people to feel safe, he mused, running his hand up and down the edge of the menu, to feel safe to share the truth of their experience, so they can become better artists—better truthtellers. That’s what’s at stake here: nothing less than the truth. The honest expression of the ugliness and beauty of the human experience.
He heard cutlery clank on china—probably a noisy American dropping his fork on his plate. The French did everything quietly.
He noticed that, like him, Anjali ordered the cheapest item, with tap water to drink. John ordered a steak with pommes frites and Carol ordered a salad with grilled chicken. They both asked for wine as soon as possible. The waiter left with their order.
There was a pause as people glanced at each other. Anjali was thinking, I came here for critique, but I’m terrified, too, of being slammed with criticism. I want encouragement to be a better writer, not to be guillotined.
John was thinking, I wonder how this writers’ critique thing works? Interesting to do something new. I hope they like me. Maybe I’ll get a new client.
Carol was thinking, that John is a hunk. A ring, unfortunately. You know what, I wish I were home with Louise. This group better be worth my time.
Philippe was thinking, well, here goes.
“All right,” he said, “let’s go around the table, do a proper introduction of ourselves, and say what we’re writing and what we hope to get from this group.
“I’ll start. I’m Philippe, and I love short stories. I read both the classics and the recently published ones, in English and in French. I’m writing short stories, but I can tell they lack a certain...je ne sais quoi. Maybe you’ll know. I’ve gotten rejections from literary magazines, and I want that to stop. I hope this group will help me see what I’m doing wrong, help me figure out what to do about it. That’s all! Not much to expect!” He laughed.
When John heard him say that, he thought that he himself would be published forthwith, unlike this guy in a cheap, ill-fitting suit.
When Carol heard him say he’d gotten rejections from magazines, she thought his honesty was commendable, especially among strangers, and among writers, who were a competitive lot. She wondered if he’d be of any use to her, however.
Anjali thought Philippe had a nice laugh.
“Okay, you’re next,” Philippe said to Carol.
“Hi, I’m Carol, and I work for Trapèze, a film company in the north of Paris. I’m writing a screenplay—of course. I’d like people to give me feedback on my characters and their story arcs.”
What she didn’t say was that she wanted their ideas, not just their feedback on her ideas.
Anjali played with the knife by her plate and thought, maybe Carol can help me break into the movie business! I might be in the right place!
The intros continued.
“Hi, I’m John Germaine, I own an investment company, and I’d like to try my hand at a novel.” Now it was time to follow up on an opportunity he had spotted. “Carol, when you sell that screenplay, let me invest the windfall for you. You’ll be in good hands.”
Anjali put a hand up to screen her face from John and rolled her eyes. Carol saw her, and her mouth twitched up a bit.
“I guess I’m next. I’m Anjali, I work for John. I just moved to Paris from Mumbai, and I’m wondering why Parisians look so glum.” Everyone laughed.
“It’s better now, when there’s sunlight. In winter, when they’re all Vitamin D-3 deprived and don’t know it, then watch out,” Philippe said.
He continued as master of ceremonies. “What are you writing, Anjali?”
“A screenplay. The Big Sleep, but set in Paris instead of LA.”
“Paris has its dark side,” Philippe said, “like any city—like any village out in the countryside, for that matter. Well, I’d just like to say welcome to everyone, and I hope you’ll bring your work regularly. So, to start—Oh, here’s our food.”
Each person looked at their plate as it was set before them. Philippe and Anjali had crocque monsieur—ham and cheese on toasted bread with a tiny bit of fresh arugula on the side. Anjali, a Hindu, avoided beef but ate other kinds of meat. John was served his steak with French fries and a small salad. It didn’t occur to him that Anjali, being from India, might be offended by someone at her table eating beef. Carol had a bowl of crisp lettuce with grilled chicken and vinaigrette on top.
“Mmm, good.” John was attacking his steak and chewing. “Cooked to perfection. Tender.”
“My chicken is good, not excellent, but then, I’m fussy,” Carol said.
“I like it.” Anjali wanted to eat with her fingers, but she cut her sandwich with fork and knife, as one must in Paris, she’d been told. “The cheese is delicious and toasted just right.”
“Good,” Philippe said, concentrating on his dinner. He wished he’d had the strength to just order tea. Still expensive, however, at five euros in Paris. Maybe after a few more meetings in a neutral public place, he’d invite these people to meet in his office.
“After the plates are cleared away, I’d like to do a short exercise with you, before we read the work you brought,” Philippe said.
“What’s the exercise?” Carol asked, tucking a leaf of lettuce, stabbed and neatly folded French style on her fourchette, into her mouth. She’d been here long enough to learn that trick.
“I’m going to read a line from a poem. We each write it down and then write our own poem, using it as our first line.”
“Oh, I love doing that!” Anjali said. “It’s amazing, the different directions people go in!”
First they finished their meals, listening to John talk about the stock market. He told them he had a mansion in Greenwich, Connecticut, a sailboat on the Long Island Sound, and another one in Cherbourg, France. He rattled the Rolex on his wrist.
Carol thought, crikey, I’ve met Mr. Inventory.
Philippe thought, just what we need for people to feel safe—a braggart.
“I’d like to have you come to my apartment for one of these meetings,” John said. “I’ll order in for everybody.”
Carol flinched—she was tired of take-away food, and of Jeffrey’s complaints about it. But it was nice of John to invite them all.
Anjali thought she’d love to see how her wealthy boss lived.
The waiter took their plates and brought tiny cups of coffee for John and Carol. Anjali and Philippe poured from the carafe d’eau, which was free. People brought their work out and placed it face down on the two tables.
“Do we have to write poetry?” John asked.
“Anything. Whatever you like,” Philippe said. “Okay, let’s start. The first sentence is from a poem I wrote, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke’s Book of Hours. And a few other poets. We’ll see where it takes you. I’ll give you ten minutes. Here it is.” He paused, then spoke slowly.
“‘I walk toward you now. It is for life that my body aches.”
The table went silent as pens scratched. John used a Mont Blanc fountain pen, Philippe noticed, while he had to be content with a blue medium-point felt-tip. They each paused, wrote, paused, scratched out, and wrote. Carol was aware of silverware clinking against china around her, civilized-sounding. John heard a man start up a scooter that had been parked on the sidewalk. The man roared off, the air reverberating.
After ten minutes, Philippe cleared his throat.
“OK, one minute to finish up. Just one thing: We want to help people write better, not discourage them so that they give up. So after each person reads, we say at least one thing we like about it. Then we say what we think didn’t work. We keep it in ‘I’ statements: ‘I think that phrase didn’t fit here,’ as opposed to, ‘You’re an idiot to write that.’
“Keep in mind Abraham Lincoln’s words: ‘He has a right to criticize, who has a heart to help.’
“We always conclude our critiques with one more positive thing, something else that we think works. A critique isn’t well done unless it has a balance of positive and negative. If you can’t think of at least two positive things to say about the text, you’re not thinking hard enough.
“I call it the praise sandwich: praise, then the gentle suggestions for improvement, and praise again. Some people call it the Oreo cookie.”
People were looking at him rather blankly, he thought. He’d have to model his own rules and remind everyone constantly. What was so hard about “praise sandwich?”
Yet nobody would remember. Their praise would be tepid. When it came time for the criticisms, their eyes would light up, and they’d dive in with relish.
“OK, anybody care to start?” Philippe said. He wondered if people would take risks, dig for the truth, be honest.
A long pause. Everyone was hanging back, some from fear, not wanting to possibly receive scathing criticism, some from not wanting to appear selfish and too “me first.” Then Anjali raised her hand. “I’ll start.”
The table settled down to listen.
“I walk toward you now. It is life
that my body craves.
I don’t know you.
you speak – hollow,
you shout – shrill.
Unmask yourself!
Who are you really?”
John whispered, “Good,” and gave his assistant a congratulatory nudge with his elbow.
“I like the way you took the first line and made it your own,” Philippe said.
Anjali nodded, happy in the praise.
“I’ll read.” John capped his magnificent pen and placed it on the table, rather than hide it in his pocket. Then he changed his mind and put it away. Showing it off was a bit too much like Cassandra, with her luxury-brand ostentations. He flicked his paper. At the last second, before he read, he changed the first line to make it his own, too.
“I go toward you, longing to really live.
But to you, I’m dead
a lynch pin in your mighty wheel
My mettle frays
Strengthen me,
lest I am battered
at the foot of your spinning gears.”
The table was silent again, though diners around them chatted, and forks and knives continued to clink on china.
“I like the way you had ‘wheels’ and then you returned to it with ‘gears,’” Carol said. Everybody was being so nice in the new group. It was so boring.
“Yeah, ‘mettle’ and ‘metal’ connote strength.” Anjali flexed her bicep. “He’s strong, and yet he’s fraying.” Am I getting a little too forward with the boss, she wondered?
“Thank you.” John gave a gallant bow of his head.
“I’ll read.” Carol riffled her papers and cleared her throat. She heard a Paris police siren in the distance, sounding like a bagpipe that played just two notes: high-low, high-low. The French called it the pin-pon. She’d read that in a driver’s education manual over a woman’s shoulder in the Metro: “Céder le passage à la pin-pon,” or “Yield way to the pin-pon.” Carol, old dear, she thought, what are you nattering on about? Come back, wherever you are. “Yes, okay, let’s see what happens.”
“I go to you
You step back just as fast
If I reach you, I’d be whole.”
“It’s haiku,” Carol said. “I think it’s my relationship with my art.”
“What’s haiku, five-seven-five syllables?” John asked. “Aren’t there rules?”
“Japanese haiku artists follow that,” Carol said. “But I agree with the school that says it’s generally short line, long line, short line. Whatever gets the job done.”
“I hear so much longing in that haiku,” Philippe said.
“Read yours, Philippe?” Carol asked, uncomfortable talking about longing.
“Okay. Here goes.” He was silent for a few seconds. He noticed a scooter go by with a woman in white stilettos and white crash helmet clutching the man driving in front of her. Another couple ambled past with a young girl, head all-over golden curls, holding her parents’ hands and peering at the street-side diners.
Meredith, my little girl. Oh, honey. You’re causing me so much pain. I can’t walk it out on the streets of Paris, I can’t write it out, and I can’t talk it out, especially with this group.
He glanced around at the writers, all intent on hearing his work. He cleared his voice, smoothed his paper, and began to read.
“I walk toward you now. It is for life
that my body aches.
I seek you, demand you, and wait.
You build me up,
you dash me against the rocks.
Even so, I know you love me.
Yet though you slay me, still
will I trust you.”
“I think there are too many yets and buts and even so’s in there,” said John.
Philippe thought, John’s forgotten the praise sandwich already. Mon dieu!
“Okay, so let’s read what you all brought tonight,” Philippe said.
John read the first chapter of the novel he’d started. It had a tough male protagonist named Chuck, who got into a fistfight with four equally tough bad guys within the first two double-spaced pages. Chuck, needless to say, prevailed. He left the scene with the four ruffians rolling on the ground holding their battered jaws, fists, or groins, not to mention shattered egos.
“It’s entertaining for a certain type of reader,” Carol said cautiously. She shifted in her wicker café chair. Enough of all this “make nice” rubbish. Time for someone to be incisive. “I wouldn’t buy this book.”
“I wouldn’t either, but you’ll laugh all the way to the bank, John,” Anjali said.
“Good! That’s what I like to do,” John replied. His assistant wouldn’t buy his book? What? What kind of people were these writers?
“It’s not my type of reading, either.” Philippe drank a bit of his free water. “Could it be a little more nuanced? Maybe there’s some value that Chuck cares about other than winning fist fights?”
John dug for a quick answer. “Uh, he fights for justice.”
“I don’t see a fight for justice in this text,” Philippe said. “I see a fistfight that’s revenge for one of the bad guys calling him stupid.”
“Well, he’ll fight for justice in the next chapter.” John took out his Mont Blanc again, proof that he was a Renaissance man who was good at everything. He’d get good even at writing novels.
“Your book needs to have a theme,” Carol said. “I’ve had films produced, and I know. Your theme in this novel needs to bubble up through every word, every paragraph. Just like in a film—every word of dialog, every scene, has to explore the theme.”
John twitched his neck and shoulders. He’d expected people to love it. He knew this type of story sold well. What was all this harping on theme? He wasn’t writing War and Peace, after all. “Well, I don’t know—”
“—well, it’s true,” Carol said, defending herself, wondering if she had come across as preachy. “Even in this genre, there are writers who stick to the theme. They sell best.”
Even in this genre? John twitched his neck again. Who was she? Well, she was a professional screenwriter, true, but a bit too braggy about it. His story was different. This was a novel with a chance at being a blockbuster. Maybe her production company would buy the option to make a movie of it.
“I’m establishing the kind of man my character is in this first chapter,” John said.
“Yeah, somebody who beats people up for nothing.” Anjali smiled cheesily at John.
She’s smiling to keep her job, John thought. This writing business brought out the beast in people, apparently. Even his brand new assistant was turning on him. The corporate board rooms he’d experienced weren’t much different than this.
“I’d like to see your main character have some principle that he struggles to uphold,” Philippe said.
That hurt. John loved his main character just as he was.
“And the bad guys can’t be all bad,” Carol said. “They aren’t interesting unless you show that they have good points.”
“Okay, I’ll make them all good tippers,” John said.
“Each one different,” Anjali insisted. “Nuanced. Worthy antagonists to your worthy protagonist. What’s even more interesting is when the antagonist wants something that’s just as good, or good to him, but opposite to what your protagonist wants. For example, a protagonist fights against the building of a dam for ecology’s sake, and his antagonist fights to build the dam because it will create jobs for the town.”
John nodded to the group and motioned for their marked-up copies to come back. He would have to find some time to think about his story. Antagonists wanting good things? This fiction-writing gig was harder than he’d anticipated. He was taking more flak than he had on his Yale dissertation.
Philippe thought, John’s poem was quite honest, but not his fiction. Interesting.
Anjali handed out copies of her one-page poem. She’d brought it instead of the screenplay she was working on because she was too frightened to present that. And she wrote poetry because it forced her to condense images and feelings into just a few words. “Poets say it best,” she’d read somewhere.
“I had a chance to go to a poetry festival in Goa, with a lovely pool at the hotel.” She laid her page flat on the table and picked up her felt-tip. Her left hand fidgeted with the top corner of the page as she read.
“Pool Man
“He works with fluid motions,
gracefully using his cleaning equipment,
working quickly.
He perspires in the tropical sun.
A bead of sweat gathers on his nose and
plunges
into the water.
He’s late for his next pool.
The water is cool and blue, but
it belongs to someone.
Will he ever get a swim?”
The table was silent for about thirty seconds.
“It has too many words,” Carol blurted out. “You don’t need ‘cleaning’ before ‘equipment.’”
Anjali flinched. To tell a poet she used too many words was like telling her she was both ugly and depraved.
“If she took out ‘cleaning,’” John said, “it would become: ‘He works with fluid motions, gracefully using his equipment.’ Maybe it’s just me, but that has sexual connotations maybe she didn’t want.”
Anjali studied her poem, oblivious to what he was talking about.
Carol laughed. “That would make it better. Either everything is about sex, or nothing is. Decide.”
Philippe thought, I have no control over the topics that come up at a writers’ circle. If the ladies in my church knew all the topics I’ve heard discussed, they’d fire me.
“Nice line,” he said, “‘the water belongs to someone.’” He was determined to follow his own critique guidelines and offer some praise. “As if people could ever own the elements of the earth.”
“Earth, Wind, Water, Fire,” mused Carol. “I feel a haiku coming on.”
“You might want to experiment with deleting ‘a’ and ‘an’ and ‘the’ and ‘he,’ Philippe said. “Try it and see what happens. But great image of the overheated worker and the cool pool.” There, he did it, a praise sandwich.
Anjali nodded and took back her pages.
Carol handed out five pages of a screenplay, working title: Lien on Your Assets. There were four characters and a narrator, so each person had a part, plus Carol read the narration and stage directions. It was about an actress who, when the automobiles she hawked on TV commercials were recalled for bursting into flames, became a secretary in a firm that was run by a crooked businessman.
“This is good, high-level writing,” Philippe said. “But—”
“—there’s always a ‘but.’” Carol sighed.
“Yeah, I know. I was going to say that your protagonist obviously has a visceral, urgent need—she needs to work in order to eat. But your antagonist, that shifty businessman, doesn’t seem to have an opposite need that’s as acute.”
“He needs to stay rich,” Carol said.
“Don’t forget to make your bad guy nuanced,” John said. He was still smarting from the reaction to his first chapter.
“Now, John, don’t be mean,” Carol said lightly. She glanced at the next table, where dessert had been served. She’d love to have a beautiful French chocolat creation for dessert. She touched her midriff and decided against it.
Tomorrow morning she’d go to her favorite patisserie, where the confections looked like little jewels. One of them might be garnished with a fresh raspberry, like a giant ruby, with an emerald-green mint leaf, set off at just-so an angle. And the treats were presented like jewels, in glass cases that sparkled, with brass trim that gleamed. Best yet, their taste rarely disappointed, unlike pastries she’d had in London and New York City.
“Philippe, you’re up,” John said.
Philippe passed out a short story. It was full of tension and stress between an alcoholic woman, who had no clue about how ill she was and how much damage she was causing, and her boyfriend, who was ready to leave her. Philippe read it aloud with his voice tight, thinking of Meredith.
The group commented, not gently, because they had no clue the turmoil Philippe was in over his daughter’s illness. Each criticism felt like a knife blade in his already tenderized heart. Everybody in the group forgot to offer so much as a word of praise.
And then the evening was over. They settled the bill and stood.
“Thanks,” John said. “I guess I’ll be back with revisions. Bonne soirée.” He dodged easily around tables and strode into the still-bright dusk. He thought, at 10:30 in the long Paris summer evening, you could still read a book if you were so inclined.
“Yes, good night, everyone.” Carol grabbed her giant bag and headed out.
Philippe started toward his suburban rental near the end of the 13 line in Malakoff, just outside the Peripherique that marked the perimeter of Paris, and a mad highway if ever there was one.
“Carol, can I talk to you?” Anjali scurried after Carol, who was striding through the crowds of ambling tourists that annoyed Parisians so much.
“Sure, what’s up?” Carol asked.
“You’re a screenwriter—and a good one, obviously—and I wondered if you’d be willing to read a screenplay I wrote. My critique group in Mumbai loved it.”
“Is it in English?” Carol asked impatiently.
“Yes, of course.” Didn’t Carol know that English was one of the official languages of India? Hundreds of millions on the subcontinent didn’t speak it, of course, but it was an official language—one of more than twenty—nevertheless. People didn’t know much about India, it seemed. And the French version of Indian food was bland.
“Here’s my card.” Carol kept them in an inner pocket at the top of her huge handbag. “Email it to me and I’ll take a look. Good night.”
“Thanks!” Anjali said, hopes rising, dreams of having her movie optioned dancing before her eyes, of being able to leave her job with John. Of working full-time as a screenwriter.
