How comforting it is to find I am back in Paris again. Calm and nonchalant in knowing that I am far away from all that turmoil raging in London, I am now savouring all this stimulating city’s attractions on what is such a radiant sunny day. I had my initial baptism into this happy hunting ground in my youth a good many moons ago, during a fortnight’s holiday with my school’s sixth form class, following which Paris has always sat on top spot of my “away from it all” list.
My runaway trip with Doc ran finally without a hitch. So I shall avoid giving you a blow-by-blow account of our various minor ups and downs. His plan for my hiding in his car boot was to work out admirably. I will admit that I did occasionally twitch with misgivings, particularly as I lay curling up in a tight ball, almost dying with cramp, as our car was arriving at a final control point prior to driving on board a train. A customs man, holding on to a snarling sniffing dog, was shouting at us. But far from commanding us to stop and—God forbid—lift up our boot lid, this official was abruptly signalling us onwards, straight onto our train bound for Calais.
Add on an hour or so, and our car was stationary in a motorway lay-by just south of that town, with our windows down to allow us to savour a good many lungfuls of cool crisp air. I was now sitting up in front with my jubilant companion, drinking a cold can of Badoit, wiping my brow and soothing my numb limbs.
I must say that it was not until our car was running into that busy circular highway around Paris that I was gradually unwinding and my angst did not vanish totally until Doctor Smith was drawing up in front of a classic portico on top of which I saw, cut in bold gold capitals, that comforting inscription—OULIPO.
From my first introduction, I had bountiful input from our local Oulipians. Thanks to such convivial companions, I quickly found a compact but practical fifth floor studio flat to inhabit for six months, just north of Vavin subway station. (If I may just on this occasion opt for a US word for this form of transport!). My accommodation is in a handy district of this city. Of a morning I stroll not thirty yards from our front door to two important shops that satisfy my basic daily wants. First, a traditional loaf baking magasin, crucial to providing a long thin warm crusty stick to start my day (with lashings of apricot jam). And adjoining this paragon stands a classic Parisian bistro to which I go to savour my mid-morning cappuccino.
What I find particularly alluring about this pair of habitual ports of call is that multiplicity of ambrosial aromas which waft outwards, a fatal attraction to anybody walking by. For a drink or a snack, I invariably opt for this sort of bar with its own distinct spirit, its squad of garçons always in a hurry, noting down and bringing back what you ask for, or pouring out with a flourish an abundant array of drinks. It’s an oasis that has an intrinsic part to play in this town.
Not having paid a visit to this “City of Light” for far too long, I am sad to find in so many districts nowadays a mushrooming of boring uniform global imports such as Barsucks, Costalot and Macdon’t, all lacking any charisma or individuality as to its products or its layout and all slowly driving typical local bistros into bankruptcy.
Anyway, by mid-morning today I was found sitting comfortably in what is now my usual spot by a window in my customary bistro for watching Parisians ambling by, improving my skills in this local way of communicating by dipping into a copy of Paris Match and that morning’s Figaro and also consulting my bilingual Collins dictionary. This was my last day of furlough prior to launching my Oulipo class and so it was crucial that I also rack my brains about how to plan my tutorials within my vocal limitations.
Obviously, having to stand up and talk, clarify or justify my input in my own idiom, ought not to occasion any major worry. My good Doctor is to thank for that. But I am anticipating that topics will sporadically occur with my pupils which I can only sort out by switching into local vocabulary (minus you know what), and such a probability is starting to look particularly scary. Up to this point, by counting on my schoolboy vocabulary, I had not had any particular difficulty in finding and using a sporadic “virtuous” local word. But my ability to launch into any continuous profound discussion with my class in its own lingo was starting to look truly doubtful.
At first I thought it fun to work my way word by word through that pair of local journals, looking for vocabulary I could say. But my antagonist was turning up with alarming constancy in all I was scrutinising. Doctor Smith had said that this “black animal”—as locals might call it—was found in cataclysmic proportions in this lingua franca. Its British variant was mild in comparison. And so I quickly found out. In drawing up my OK Paris word list, I had to discard all but a tiny minority of nouns, pronouns and so on as taboo.
My initial quixotic goal was to amass a hoard of up to a thousand Oulipo words by nightfall—a ludicrous ambition! In fact by midday and my third cup of invigorating potion, my catch was looking sorrowful, although it did contain a short list of basic units of communication, as follows: Oui and non, bonjour and bonsoir, s’il vous plaît, pardon, d’accord and bravo, voici and voilà, bon and mauvais, j’ai faim and j’ai soif, à propos, ça va, du bon vin, ça fait mal, à la maison… ,
But I quickly ground to a halt. I could not at first call to mind a local construal of “thank you” or “how much?” My solution to that duo was parfait! and dis-moi son prix. Both of which struck my mind as skilful thinking. From shops and stalls, I could ask about availability of any product by saying that handy formula y a-t-il? As for quantity, I could only buy un kilo or trois or cinq and so on.
Also, although I cannot say “I” in this land, I could always fall back on moi—and so for translating “I want” I could just say pour moi. But so much vocabulary just did not find its way into my mouth. I was thinking back to that flamboyant display of synonyms at Clapham Junction.
What if I wish to say any form of a word portraying an action or condition following pronouns such as vous, il or ils? I found no magic potion. I would just go back to communicating with hand signals as if I was dumb. No, for a quantum jump forward in all this confusion, I would simply dip again into La Disparition—that original and amazing Oulipopular classic book, which was a parting gift from Doc, and try to find in its most original and humorous narration a host of colourful solutions to my critical word block.
I am straying now and should go back to composing this daily dispatch. Paris is a city for admiring on foot and, as it was warm, my plan today was to criss-cross its midst, slowly taking in again all its sumptuous sights. By 2 pm I was out and about and basking in all its glory. But it was difficult to throw off that gloomy cloud of worry about my diction lurking in my mind. That diabolical sign was a fixation. I could not avoid it. In particular, as I was passing by that myriad of famous sights, I was not up to actually naming any out loud. Just think. If I was guiding visitors around this city’s sights, how could I triumph?
A possibility was, I thought, to try baptising such tourist attractions with synonyms in my own vocabulary? I found that I could, just about, partly in straight translation and partly by using long paraphrasing. So all aboard for my Oulipopular tour of Paris:
“From in front of “Our Lady”, that magical giant sanctuary of Christian worship rising up grandly from “City Island”, I start ambling along that famous “Right Bank”, continuing through that historic mass of royal palatial buildings along its rim, with its world famous accumulation of works of art. I stop and gasp at its vast glass pyramid and imposing formal courtyards. Managing at last to run (suicidally!) across that gigantic “Concord” crossroads, avoiding all that non-stop racing traffic, I am found finally striding up that grand broad road towards Paris’ most famous symbol, which I am bound to call its “Triumphal Arch”.
By four o’clock I was sitting glumly in a small bistro half way up that world famous highway, watching, through its tall glass doors, a constant flow of tourists ambling along in a happy go lucky fashion. I still could not rid my mind of that “ominous tiny round animal with a big grin”. Or if I was looking at writing in capitals, I could call it that “horizontal toasting fork”. I saw it all around—on road and shop signs, on city road plans, or on publicity displays across any bus that was passing by. If I had to look at a city transport map, it was plain that virtually all Paris stations contain my antagonist. I was simply hallucinating at any sight of that tantalising ghost continually laughing at my discomfort. I would just stay dumb from now on.
Back that night in my cosy sanctuary, following a glass or two (or four!) of cool Chablis to calm that gravity in my brain, I sat down to watch a thrilling football match on TV in which Poland won against Italy, four goals to two. It was such a tonic to iron out my worn out mind. What I did was turn down its frantic sound and just watch, so that it was all about playing and nothing about saying. By midnight I was back to normal and sitting calmly working out my tutorial formats. I was in fact starting to look forward to it all, in particular as it was obvious that my pupils with a similar liability could in fact act as my coach in improving my local vocabulary. Cocorico!