by Rona Altrows
Would you consider doing something for me? Would you walk around the city with Socrates every day for, say, thirty days, as he engages in his conversations? Afterwards, write down what he and his interlocutors have said. Then there will be at least one written record that is wholly accurate. That will set my mind at ease. I will have some copies made; in fact, I have just purchased a good quantity of papyrus for the purpose. We can discuss fee privately. Be assured that our acquaintanceship will not stand in the way of my paying you a fair price for your services.
I must admit to a much smaller, secondary purpose. By taking this action I hope to rehabilitate my own reputation. I am thought to be respectable, but a shrew. I am not sure where the misperception originates—certainly not with Socrates. If a few kind words about me were to find their way into the writings, I would be pleased.
Favour me by taking care of yourself and Young Pericles.
Fare well.
WORK WITH ME
To fulfill a mission of kindness. To execute a project of passion. The key, to collaborate.
AJ
TO JOAN OF ARC FROM AJ
May 30, 2013
Dear Joan,
It is impossible to know if this letter will get to you. Personally, I am agnostic and have no idea whether there is any substance to the Christian promise of life after death for the deserving. Moreover, if there is a heaven, can it be reached by Canada Post? Another unknowable.
Still, I must make the attempt, as a friend of mine finds herself, from time to time, in serious psychological trouble and I think you may be in a position to assist. My friend’s name is Joan Himmelfarber. We have known each other since childhood. My family had a television; hers did not. When we were seven years old, and she was over at my house to play, we watched a rerun of the show “You Are There,” hosted by Walter Cronkite. It featured an interview with “you” as performed by an actress. The interview was conducted in a replica (supposedly) of your prison cell. My friend Joan was enchanted by your story. She read about you; she practically memorized The Lark, Anouilh’s play about you. In her teens, Joan learned that you hardly ate. As a result, when adolescent social anxiety took its toll on her, she stopped eating much. Shunning food made her happy, she told me at the time, because it made her feel closer to you. Her parents were worried. They were afraid she was anorexic and took her for help but she would not listen to any of the doctors. Her menstrual periods stopped, as often happens when girls do not eat, and that only increased her euphoria because, as she explained to me, you did not menstruate either.
When we were at university, both members of the film society, Joan took me to see the 1928 silent movie The Passion of Joan of Arc. We watched transfixed as Maria Falconetti, under the brutal direction of Carl Dreyer, portrayed you as a terrified teenager in your last days on earth. I knew, but was careful not to tell my friend Joan, that Falconetti never appeared in another movie and took her own life some years later. Still, after watching the film, my friend’s fascination with you only grew.
By the time Joan reached her twenties, her preoccupation had taken a new twist. At times, when under stress, she would suffer a temporary break from reality and, in her mind, become you. It happened shortly before an operation for a broken leg following a fall from a balcony. (There was some question as to whether it was actually a jump, in another of her attempts to imitate you.) She interpreted her exam room at Emergency as a cell and complained that her “jailers”—the nurses on the floor—were trying to rape her.
Decades later—Joan and I are in our fifties now—the problem persists. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say the problem continues to resurface. Recently, in a job interview conducted by three executives, including an intimidating human resources professional, Joan felt intense pressure and morphed. She answered business questions with talk of messages received from Saint Michael, Saint Catherine, Saint Margaret. When the human resources professional said “We’ll let you know, “ Joan asked if she would have their answer before or after the crowning of the Dauphin.
As far as I can see, Joan’s lapses into Joan-of-Arcdom do not affect her on a day-to-day basis. The delusions only overtake her when she is under extreme stress. Who understands stress better than you, after your experience with your inquisitors? What terror you must have felt when they showed you those instruments of torture. No wonder you broke temporarily and recanted. Rest assured we have all forgiven you that short-lived mistake. Stress does funny things to people.
It may strike you as ironic that I would communicate in writing with you, since in life you were illiterate. Well, it seems to me that sometime in the past five hundred eighty-two years, someone up there must have taught a bright young woman like you to read. After all, illiteracy is a kind of hell and surely the powers that be in your eternal dwelling place would not leave you in such a state of suffering. You already burned once, in life. That is enough.
But to come back to my friend Joan Himmelfarber, I am sure you are by now eager to know how you can ease her burden. I do not think it should be too difficult. Would you mind simply making your presence known to her, in much the same way that Saints Catherine, Margaret and Michael made their presence known to you? She is sure to recognize your voice so I do not think you need bother with any visual representation. I know you speak French but I am sure something similar to Star Trek’s universal translator can be employed to overcome the language barrier. Please inform my friend gently but firmly that there is only one Joan of Arc and you are it. I think she will listen to you.
Frankly, if you do not intervene, I fear for Joan’s sanity. What if, on some future occasion, she morphs into her Joan-of-Arc persona and is unable to come back? If you can pre-empt such an episode, I would be grateful. I know you understand, as your own sanity was so often called into question once the English, their lackeys the Burgundians, and Cauchon’s dirty inquisitors came after you.
Thank you for your anticipated assistance.
Sincerely yours,
Ariadne Jensen
TO JOSEPH PUJOL FROM ONÉSIME LAVALLÉ
Paris
le 27 mars 1908
Dear Monsieur Pujol,
Allow me to introduce myself as an admirer of both you and the art form you have mastered.
I found it enchanting to watch your cabaret in the ’90s. Indeed, I returned three times and never wearied of your act. Such musicality! Originality! Panache!
I was appalled when you were dismissed merely for sharing your unusual gift from time to time outside the confines of that one establishment, the Moulin Rouge. Monsieur Zidler seems to have the impression there is something sacred about his cabaret. He had no moral right to keep you from your public, which is to be found everywhere, because of the universal appeal of your unique mode of performance.
My heart sang when you won your lawsuit, wherein you proved that the charlatan who succeeded you at the Moulin Rouge, styling herself “the female pétomane,” was far from being la vraie chose. I was not at all surprised when it was revealed that she used a crude bellows hidden under her skirts to simulate the effects you produce naturally, sans external accoutrements or paraphernalia.
Last year, I found myself in Marseilles conducting several weeks of research for a historical novel when I learned, to my delight, that your travelling show, Le Théâtre Pompadour, was about to pass through the city. What an opportunity for me again to witness your genius at work! Your performance far exceeded my expectations. I was especially moved by the performance of Monsieur Debussy’s recent composition “Clair de Lune,” rendered by your wife on piano and accompanied by you on your natural instrument. Or perhaps it could more correctly be said it was she who accompanied you.
There is, as far as I can tell (and I have made a point of investigating the matter) no other living individual in Europe who has perfected farting as an art form. Moreover, I am astonished that you do your work odourles
sly—something that cannot necessarily be said for the pétomanes mentioned in medieval writings.
As I believe I have already mentioned en passant, I am a writer by trade. Like many who share my calling, I have not yet experienced quite the success of Zola, de Maupassant and Dumas. Nevertheless, I have a vision for an artistic collaboration with you. The limelight will stay where it belongs—on you—while a modicum of attention may fall on my own modest talents.
I propose that we produce a piece of theatre, a dramatic history of your own electrifying life and ascent to fame. The show, a one-man production, to be called “Sharps and Flatulence,” would be performed by you in words and farts. The words would be my contribution, delivered in your sonorous voice. My involvement would be strictly behind the scenes. Through rehearsal we would work out the proper points at which you would add retorts, imitations, explosions, musical renditions, and other such flourishes, using your special talent. To keep audiences returning, we would present the spectacle in instalments, in the fashion of the romans-feuilletons of Honoré de Balzac and Madame Sand. We know a fascinating story told in serial form can sell newspapers. Similarly, it can sell theatre tickets, especially when the story is told in such a novel manner.
Let me assure you, Monsieur, my interest in what you do predates even my acquaintance with you. As a boy I was privileged to have an English-language tutor, an American, who caught me making farting noises one day during a lesson. I expected punishment, but no…instead he taught me an English expression attributed to the first ambassador of the United States to France, Benjamin Franklin: “Fart proudly.”
Although I now find myself in middle age, my interest in the potential of skilled farting has only increased. And in your practice, you have brought about the seemingly impossible—the conjunction of bodily function and high culture.
Should “Sharps and Flatulence” succeed artistically and critically, as I believe with all my heart it will, perhaps we can collaborate on further projects in future. Perhaps the shows can travel, even beyond the borders of France, so that your magnificent talent can be witnessed by audiences hic et ubique terrarum—here and anywhere on earth.
I await your response with great anticipation and optimism.
Please accept, dear Monsieur, my most respectful salutations,
Onésime Lavallé
YOU NEED NOT REPAY IN QUARTERS
Cashier misreads you, waiter slights you, repairman dawdles, service provider leaves a confusing message.
Trivial occurrences?
Or symptoms of a civilization in decline?
AJ
TO THE OWNER OF THE CAFÉ VERSAILLES FROM AJ
November 27, 2013
Dear Owner of the Café Versailles,
I am a regular patron of the Café Versailles and am, on the whole, happy with the service. My friend Leo often accompanies me. We like places where we can pay in advance at the counter, so the Versailles suits us perfectly that way. Last Wednesday, an incident occurred. Some would call it insignificant. Not to me. I cannot get the event out of my mind and I feel it warrants your attention.
The exact words used are critical. I remember all of them—for some reason, I have the ability to recall many conversations verbatim—and am therefore able to give you the following precise account of the verbal exchange between one of your staff and me:
“Excuse me… I didn’t get enough change. I’m sure it was an accident, because you were busy. But I am five dollars short.”
“Uh, I don’t think so.”
“I gave you a twenty. For two cups of tea—one Earl Grey, one green. ”
“Yes.”
“And you gave me this change. What I am showing you right now.”
“Plus a five dollar bill.”
“No, that is what you forgot.”
“I did not.”
“But I haven’t even put the change away. As soon as I got to my table I saw the error. And I don’t have a five in my wallet.”
“Oh, I gave you the five. I sorta know I did.”
“But I come here all the time. You’ve served me before.”
“I know what I gave you.”
“I would like to speak with the manager, please.”
“Oh fine. Here’s a five.”
“Thank you. But I can see you still don’t believe me.”
“Sure I do. Sure I do.”
As a successful entrepreneur, you are aware of the importance of tone in all commercial transactions. That is particularly the case in a business reliant on customer service, word-of-mouth referrals and return business. I was not happy with your staff member’s tone or language, both of which clearly implied that I was a liar and a thief.
I am not asking you for anything. That is why I have not described the worker in question, nor even disclosed that person’s gender. I would, however, suggest that you remind all your staff of your expectations in their dealings with clientele. Perhaps they need to learn about courtesy and giving the customer the benefit of the doubt.
May I also respectfully suggest that you make the occasional unannounced visit to the café. There may be more going on at the Versailles than you realize.
Sincerely,
Ariadne Jensen
TO THE OWNER OF FLOWMAYVIN TRENCHLESS SEWER REPAIR LTD. FROM AJ
October 23, 2012
Dear Sir:
I am writing on a matter that may seem, at first blush, insignificant to your business. What, after all, do the wording, punctuation and format of a note have to do with the maintenance of sewers? Until twenty-four hours ago, I would have said there is no connection at all, which is likely your view too. By the time you have read my letter, though, I believe you will agree the links are strong.
Yesterday I found a note from your company suspended from the bottom of my apartment mailbox. Identical notes awaited the other occupants of the apartment building. As a person on top of your business in both senses, you know precisely what that note said: The trenchless sanitary pipe rehabilitation scheduled on your block today, has been cancelled.
I was puzzled. When you wrote “cancelled,” did you mean cancelled for all time? Or did you mean deferred to a later date? I have seen the word “cancelled” used both ways in recent years. You can understand how the ambiguity might trouble the other building occupants and me. If the cancellation were permanent, we would consider our sewer worries over for the foreseeable future. If, however, the work needed to be rescheduled, when would it be done? And where would that leave us in the interim? We do not have your expertise in trenchless sanitary pipe rehabilitation. (Indeed, it takes a certain kind of personality to conduct rehabilitation of any kind, and neither I nor my co-occupants in the building, from what I know of them, are cut out to work in the rehab field.) We rely entirely upon you when it comes to the health of our sewers, and now we do not know what to expect.
I was also taken aback by the presence of the comma after the word “today.” I wondered what that comma could mean. Clearly, the note was in a standard printed format, intended to be sent to different people on different days as circumstances dictated. My first idea was that you had intended to insert the date of the relevant “today” to suit each situation. So, in my case, your vision of the note would have read as follows: The trenchless sanitary pipe rehabilitation scheduled on your block today, October 22, 2012, has been cancelled. But—back to reality—there was no space on the note for a date after the comma. There were only two possibilities. One: You did not have the ability to translate your vision into reality, so I could not trust any efforts you might make to rehabilitate my sanitary pipes, trenchlessly or otherwise. Two: You were sloppy enough to insert a comma where it did not belong. How, then, could I trust you to be careful with my sewers? Both possibilities led to the same conclusion, one that did not bode well for you as a future service provider.
My nex
t letter will be to the president of my condominium association. I wish I did not have to write that letter. But the maintenance of high standards is one hallmark of civilization and each of us has a role, however small, to play.
Sincerely,
Ariadne Jensen
TO THE PRESIDENT OF PHARMABELLA FROM AJ
March 31, 2014
Dear Mr. Christopher,
I have been a customer at your Pharmabella stores for many years. On the odd occasion when I need prescription medications (and who does not, from time to time) I buy them at your pharmacy. I wear little makeup, but what I do purchase comes from Pharmabella. Soaps, cleaning supplies, and the occasional tasty treat, all Pharmabella merchandise. I don’t know how many thousands of dollars I have spent at your stores over the years. I have watched (and in my own small way, helped) your company grow from a modest enterprise to a veritable retail giant. I do not keep track of such things but for all I know, you may be on the stock market.
I have always enjoyed a fine quality of product and good service at your stores. Until last Monday.
I went in to the store for one item: a pad of paper, the kind one writes letters on. In fact I am writing this letter on a sheet of paper from that pad.
You see, I write many letters—it is my passion—and for me to be without a pad of paper is like a smoker being out of cigarettes. Most of my letters are personal but from time to time I write to civic, provincial and federal politicians to let them know my thoughts on the issues of the day. On occasion, I write to businesspeople to inform them of pleasant or unpleasant events that have some connection with their enterprises. And that is the kind of letter I am writing you today.