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In Belleville, they walked up the hill until they reached the funny little bar that hosted the poetry slam every Saturday night. They stepped into the café—a run-down affair—said “bonjour” as required to the barman, and took seats close to the stage, which took up one corner. The stage was only one step higher than the rest of the café, but it was lit with a spotlight that set it apart.
Anjali examined the posters and bumper stickers that covered the walls of the stage’s corner, forming the backdrop. “Love is the lesson, life is the school,” said one. “I’m not lost, I’m exploring,” said another. “I don’t suffer from insanity. I enjoy every minute of it.”
A poster inviting people to a Human Be-In, held in 1967 in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, caught Anjali’s eye. This place had been around that long? She peered at the dingy walls, noted the unmatched chairs, the marred tables, and thought, yes, it very well could have been.
They had arrived early. The place was quiet, and they could talk.
“A glass of wine?” Anjali knew that they would be breaking the unwritten code that Indian girls ought not to be out and drinking.
“Yes!” Aasha said. Their eyes met conspiratorially over the small table.
“Not a word to your parents,” Anjali urged.
“Of course not! Same for you.”
“Definitely.”
“What are you hoping to get from this event?” Aasha asked, sounding skeptical as she looked around at the dubious surroundings.
“If I hear interesting lines, I’ll write them down. Artists steal.”
“That’s okay?”
“My professor of creative writing in Mumbai said it is.”
“If your professor said it’s okay, it must be great,” Aasha joked. “What do you do with the lines?”
“I see if they spark something creative for the screenplays I’m working on. They might take me in a new direction, or flesh out a character. Usually the lines change while I’m working with them. They become my own, so it’s not really stealing.” Anjali felt a bit guilty anyway. Just like the wine.
“How much time do you spend writing?” Aasha asked.
“Nearly every morning before work. Saturdays when I’m not out exploring. Sundays.”
“Why do you work at it so hard?”
“Immortality. I want to live forever.” Anjali was a bit embarrassed that this was her reason, but it was true.
“You want your name in the credits so people see it after you’re dead.” Aasha sipped her wine.
“Yes, I have an instinct for eternal life.”
“But only film buffs look back at old films.”
“True, but when they do, they’ll see my work and think of me, the way I think of Billy Wilder or John Ford.” Anjali sipped her white wine, something from the Saumur region.
“What do your parents think?”
“My parents’ lives are so small. Small circle of friends and influence. I want to be part of something big. To be a successful filmmaker. To change people’s lives through storytelling.”
“What about personal happiness? Which is more important?”
“I’d like to have both.” She didn’t know just how she was going to answer this question, and she squirmed in the cast-off café chair.
“Your parents are happy. Why is that not good enough?”
“They’ll die, their love will die, I’ll die, and we’ll all be forgotten. I want something of myself to live on.”
The place had filled up while they talked, and a young man in black jeans and gray T-shirt stepped to the stage and got the night rolling. Even though the evening was billed as an “open mike,” there was no microphone, and Anjali was glad they were seated close to the stage.
“Now, Madames et Monsieurs, we bring you, live from Paris, our poetry slam! We’re here every Saturday night, so come back. I see some regulars in the audience. And to new people, bienvenue! Welcome!
The crowd applauded and chatted.
“So without further adieu—Curly, you’re up!” the master of ceremonies shouted over the noise.
A bald man got up, and the crowd supported him to the stage with a round of applause. He stood with his hips thrust forward, his upper torso leaning backward, and recited his handcrafted lewd poem by heart. A lewd poem with a twist—with the recitation of the last line, the audience realized he was really talking about a doorknob.
Oh well, thought Anjali, nothing for me there. And I’m so glad my father isn’t here. He’d march me to Mumbai tonight.
A woman went up, wearing strappy black heels, a flowing black knit skirt and tank top, no bra, and a small red scarf knotted around her neck. The café was getting warm with all the people in it. The woman took the scarf off, and the crowd immediately whistled and stamped. She smiled and vamped a strip tease. The man who had recited his lewd poem yelled “Take it all off!” The woman threw the scarf to the MC, bowed to the applause, and waved for quiet. Finally the crowd settled down to listen.
Anjali was disappointed to find that she was shocked. But she was in Paris now, she was on her own, she needed to adapt to the fact that some women acted like this sometimes.
The woman recited a poem she had written that had Anjali scribbling lines. The one that really grabbed her was, “The man dug tunnels by the town wall.” She’d use that somehow, she was certain.
The woman bowed to an enthusiastic round of applause, and a young woman got up on stage. She wore her hair dyed purple and cut in a spiky boyish style, a black ring through one nostril, a short denim skirt, and red high-top Keds. She had cute legs, and no bra. The men’s eyes were riveted on her as she strode around the stage, breasts bobbing under her T-shirt. Using her phone as her prompt, she read a rant she’d written about the double standard that’s applied to women. The men in the audience listened intently, then forgot all about what she’d said as they applauded her cute sexiness at the end.
The quality of the poetry went downhill after that. Anjali thought to herself, some of these people might have a bit of a challenge becoming immortal.
“I think it’s time for me to go home,” Aasha said, as the clapping for another poetry slammer died down.
Just then the MC announced an intermission.
“I have to use the bathroom first,” Anjali said.
She dashed through the crowd as the MC named the poets that were coming to the stage after the break. She was the first person down the metal spiral stairs. She was a small person, but she barely fit in the staircase. Its walls were painted with graffiti, and so was the hallway at the bottom. In front of her was a graffiti-covered door. She finished up quickly and stepped out of the water closet. A line of women waited. Her mad dash down the stairs had paid off.
The two girls stepped out into the warm night air and threaded their way between performers and members of the audience who stood smoking. They decided to walk uphill to the Pyrénées Metro station. The life of Belleville’s streets swirled around them. Shops full of groceries, shoes, and clothing all teemed with Far East people.
“This is like a Chinatown,” Aasha said.
“I love Belleville, it’s so funky.”
“Some of those readings were funky,” Aasha said wryly. “I don’t know how you’re going to use them in a screenplay.”
“For the good ones, I’ll find a way,” Anjali said. “Thanks for coming with me.” She turned around. “Look, you can see the Eiffel Tower from here!”
It stood silhouetted against the dramatic clouds that Paris was adept at fomenting, with the evening sun behind it.
“I love this place,” Anjali sighed.
“You would. It’s like a movie set.”
