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Philippe sat in his office, surrounded by white plastic because of his shelves and table, and began to feel that he needed to be amongst people instead of laboring alone. Historic surroundings made of wood and stone would also be nice. He decided to work on his sermon not in his office above the gallery on Rue Lanneau but at La Bibliothèque Historique de la Ville de Paris in Le Marais.
He felt relieved. He could postpone the moment when he found he had nothing good to say about God until he got to the library.
As he crossed the Seine, he reflected on his responsibility as the man who’d called the writing group together, as perhaps pastor to the group, to foster an environment of safety in which people could write the truth. If he could just get Carol to critique in a less personal way. It was a matter of approach. And word choice. That’s all, he would tell her. If only she would not launch into him when he said it and rip him apart, her fangs dripping his blood...
He snapped out of that particular rêverie when he stepped off of Pont Marie, which crossed from Ile St. Louis to Le Marais. He headed toward la bibliothèque, passing boutiques. He paused to glance at a window display of colorful silk scarves. He knew he was procrastinating.
If and when he talked to Carol, she might attack back with words that would cause him pain for a long time. Till he died, most likely. He still smarted from Madame Babineaux’s comment about the way he pushed his glasses up his nose and distracted her from the sermon. He had a lot of those wounds, all over him, from the church ladies, from life itself. Oh Lord, he supposed they meant well, but honestly, they were rough. He’d tried to toughen up, to become inured to it. He never had mastered that one.
Well, he mused, he had a sermon to write and there was nothing he wanted less to do. Maybe he’d read the magazines and newspapers at the library.
He turned onto Rue Pavée and saw a slim, blonde woman bustling ahead of him on the sidewalk, headed in the direction of la bibliothèque. He was quite sure it was Carol. What was she doing in Le Marais on a weekday?
If he could catch up with her, he could have a “walk and talk” with her and maybe convince her to be more considerate at the writers’ group. And he could postpone writing his sermon. That would be an excellent morning’s work, he thought.
She turned in at la bibliothèqu,e and he ran to catch her before she got inside the library. He hurried through the massive, ancient gate of la bibliothèque and saw her across the courtyard, near the library’s door.
“Carol!” he called.
She turned, recognized him, waved, and stepped toward him.
He walked across the huge cobblestones of the courtyard to her carefully, lest he twist an ankle on the lumpy 15th century paving. She was dressed in a skirt and well-cut long jacket of the same fabric. She sported a colorful silk scarf, tied at her throat just so. That’s what Paris did for people, he thought—it gives them flair.
They exchanged the bisous. Carol smells of the most wonderful perfume, Philippe thought. I wish I knew what it was. I would buy some for Elodie.
Philippe is out of breath and his cheek is sticky, Carol thought. I wish I were married to a great man like him rather than slogging out every moment alone.
“You’re working here today?” Philippe asked.
Carol blushed. “Trapèze allows me to work from home one day a week,” she lied. “But I didn’t want to be home alone.”
“Yes, I’ve got this sermon to write and I’m desperate not to do it, especially not alone in my office.” Well, this was his chance. He’d better take it. “Say, do you have time for a quick walk? A stroll might get our creative juices flowing.”
“Okay.”
So they crossed the cobbles gingerly and went out the gate, turning right on Rue Pavée.
“Let’s check out Place des Vosges,” Philippe said.
“Fine with me. For a little while. I do have to work.”
At the corner of Rue Pavée and Rue des Francs Bourgeois, they turned right. The centuries-old stone walls of la bibliothèque loomed on the right and those of the Musée Carnivalet on the left. Their footsteps rang with those of a hundred other people on the street. The sound reverberated against the two walls, back and forth, creating quite a din that was topped by several scooters motoring by. The noise bounced around and then headed skyward, Philippe supposed, floating toward the clashing, torn, grey clouds above. A typical Paris sky. There was something about the landscape around the city that created dramatic clouds. But the French wouldn’t call the clouds dramatic because for them, “dramatic” meant a tragic ending. They called the clouds romantic.
He hoped his talk with Carol wouldn’t have a tragic ending. He didn’t want to lose her from the circle. She brought interesting projects to the group, ones that sparked animated discussion. She had lots of experience making stories more compelling. He’d followed her suggestion to read PIXAR’s rules of storytelling. That had been a great idea. The circle needed her. But he also didn’t want people to end up trashed at every meeting. And then not telling the truth in their writing, out of fear.
The sidewalk along Rue des Francs Bourgeois was so narrow that Philippe had to walk in the street. Another scooter dodged past.
“How’s your screenplay coming along?” Philippe thought, I could make small talk the entire time and never get down to the crux of the matter.
“Working on several, actually. Cross-pollination, you know.”
Philippe wondered how his story about Tamara / Meredith and her self-destruction could possibly cross-pollinate into what he’d say to Madame Babineaux in his sermon on Sunday. Well, it did, actually. We all need to be saved from ourselves, he could say...voilá! Cross-pollination via Carol’s idea.. Marvelous! But back to the matter at hand.
“I wondered, Carol, is the writers’ group helping you?”
“Yes! Quite. Why do you ask?”
“You’ve been a writer a long time. I suppose you’ve been in many critique groups?”
“Yes.” What is he nattering on about, Carol thought.
“Do you find that some people critique more—what would I call it—more harshly than others?”
“Of course! Some people go quite ballistic.” Carol thought, not me though.
Philippe thought, exactly the problem. “How does that affect you?”
“Well, I feel that I quite want to hide. Maybe go away and never come back. What are you driving at?”
He paused. “I’m eager for the group to be a place where people can write truthfully, and not be judged personally so that they begin to hide the truth.”
“Quite.” Wait, is he talking about me?
“I’m eager for critiques to be given in ‘I’ statements, you know, like, ‘This text comes across to me as racist,’ rather than, ‘You’re a racist.’”
He is talking about me, Carol thought. Bloody hell!
“I think that that way, people feel safe to express the truth about their experience.”
Philippe examined Carol’s face. A bit flushed. She’s upset, he thought.
“Well, I’ve taken tons of much tougher critique than that in my career,” Carol said.
“I’m sure. It must be difficult in the movie business. I’ve heard they’re always changing your words.”
“It hurts like hell. But I’m an artist. I never give up.” No matter how much I’ve wanted to at times, she thought.
“Perseverance is key.” I need to not give up praying for Meredith, Philippe thought.
They crossed Rue de Turenne side by side. When they reached the sidewalk opposite, Carol stopped and put her hands on her hips, elbows akimbo.
“You know, it’s all a load of B.S. anyway,” she said.
“What is?” He thought, not what I’ve been talking to you about. It most certainly is not B.S.
“All this writing and making up stories. That’s what liars do—make it up. The stories we work on at writers’ circle are just the product of our imaginations. So what difference does it make, all this critiquing of lies—and doing it ever so gently, as you insist?”
“Fiction is the lie that tells the truth,” Philippe said. He’d read it somewhere. “In fact, fiction is the best way to tell the truth. When we write a story that’s honest about the experience we’re drawing from, the story becomes a jewel box, and inside is a gem.”
They turned and walked a bit farther. They were now at Place des Vosges. Philippe wondered if Carol would walk around in the park with him or stomp off and never come back. Or if she’d come back to the circle and just do the same things until he had to tell her to leave. That would be sad.
As they crossed to the park entrance, Carol thought that it was so unfair to be singled out. But she had to concede that Philippe had done it rather more gracefully than she could have, in his shoes. Still...
They now stood before a low green metal gate. These gates guarded every park in Paris. They didn’t keep rats out, or pigeons, or small biting dogs. But there they were, blocking the way, and you had to push through to get into the park. It seemed like a waste of metal and effort.
“Shall we go see if the lindens are still blooming?” Philippe asked. He was relieved when Carol went through the gate with him.
They started out on the sand-and-fine-gravel path. Carol scuffed the path with the toe of her shoe. A little cloud of dust floated upward. She felt angry with Philippe, but she needed him, as a sounding board for her life and for her writing. She was careful with her tone of voice, that she not leak anger on him.
“You know, John’s poetry is honest, but his fiction isn’t. When Chuck slugs it out with four bad guys and walks away unharmed—ridiculous!” She gave him a sidelong glance with a hint of a smile in it. “Maybe you should have a ‘walk and talk’ with him too.”
“You’re right, his fiction isn’t honest. Neither is anybody writing a story that glamorizes violence, robbery, or sex with no commitment.” He turned to her. He pushed his glasses up his nose, he was so impassioned about his topic. “What about the horror of taking a human life, or the years in prison when you’re caught stealing, or the guilt, remorse, shame when two people who had been one heart and one flesh in a sacred intimacy now pull apart, shredding their souls, wounding themselves deeply? It’s a lie to make it glamorous.” He’d had enough experience in his younger days with unethical sex to know the truth about that, he thought.
He looked up. The French penchant for trimming trees into geometric shapes was evident here. The lindens that ringed the park had been clipped into submission. He sniffed. Their scent was gone till next spring.
He thought his little walk and talk with Carol might have gone well. Maybe he should nudge John a little harder on his fisticuff stories, too. Well, he’d done enough writer-nudging for one day.
“Let’s spend a minute window shopping in the galleries under the arcade,” he said. “Maybe I’ll get some inspiration for my sermon.” Not likely if they display naked ladies.
Carol went with him, hurt, smarting, but willing to give what he’d said a bit of thought.
