by Nicky Gentil
Naturally, this incited the cabdriver and me to start discussing the recent shootings in France and the terrorist threat in general.
Then, after having spent a good half hour on the subject, the cabdriver − who had just pulled up at a red light – turned to me and said:
‘I agree that, with all these attacks, we don’t exactly feel safe. And ultimately, wherever we go in the world these days, danger never seems very far away. But you know, Madame, one day all of this will definitely stop.’
His tone of absolute certainty took me aback, causing me to stammer:
‘Seriously…? Do you really think so?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Nothing, absolutely nothing, lasts forever in this world. So, it is perfectly logical to believe, one hundred per cent, that one day all of this will cease.’
Deluded idealism? Unreal optimism? Or just sheer madness?
As I reflected on his most unexpected of observations, I could not help but think that my cabdriver did actually have a point. While his words were undoubtedly imbued with an almost childlike simplicity, on the other hand it was quite impossible to deny their veracity.
In fact, thinking about it, maybe it was precisely their childlike simplicity that made his words ring so very true. After all the proverb does say, does it not, ‘out of the mouths of babes…’
My Very First Book and Nath
Publishing a book is tantamount to bringing a child into the world. Well, almost… Should this comparison appear a tad excessive, please bear with me while I explain.
Writing is one of the most amazing creative activities, one which the budding author initially keeps secret, preferring not to discuss it with anyone, for she (let’s go with ‘she’ on this occasion given the comparison with childbirth) has absolutely no idea how it is going to pan out.
Then, as the weeks go by, timidly she’ll begin to discuss it with those closest to her because they are beginning to observe a change in her; clearly she is no longer the same.
During the entire gestation process, the writer will give her creative project – an undertaking in which she firmly believes – her absolute all. In spite of this, she has no guarantee that it will actually come to fruition. And even if it does, she has very little control over the end product. Whatever she intended to write at the outset, in reality the creative process is in charge and it is better to treat that process with the greatest respect.
If all goes well, many months later – years even, in some cases – the fruit of several hundred hours work will be born: a beautiful literary baby.
To hold one’s own published work for the first time is a highly charged, most emotional moment. And, from that point on, the author embarks on a different, equally gratifying phase: the book’s promotion. It is at this stage that the work begins to take on a life of its own, writing a new story, its own personal story, as it generates many surprising, unexpected, truly amazing experiences: positive feedback, press reviews, book signings and presentations that, in turn, give rise to wonderful encounters with people from all walks of life.
This is precisely how I experienced the publication of my very first book, La jazz-girl passionnée et son dévoué accordeur. In the manner of a proud first-time mother, the day I was finally, at long last, able to hold my own published work in my hands, I was absolutely ecstatic.
And, subsequently, the publication of my book did indeed lead me to have some truly magical experiences, one of which culminated in a cab ride quite like no other!
Here’s what happened…
*
On that sunny winter’s day, I was on a quest to find a piano tuner who works in a large piano showroom in Paris and who features in the fourth story of my book, titled in the English version: The Piano Shop Showroom and a Most Surprising Surprise!
(This is a story of a charming encounter. I go to a piano showroom to test two Steinways for a friend. A young piano tuner greets me and, since the place is empty, we start talking pianos – a subject about which we are equally passionate. Then as I go off to test the two designated instruments, the effect I inadvertently have is one of great surprise; after about half an hour, the young piano tuner comes back to offer me his personal thanks - together with those of his boss − for my performance, explaining how relieved they are not to have had the same old classical pieces inflicted upon them. According to him, it is extremely unusual – ‘a breath of fresh air’ − for pianists to play jazz in their shop. And, apparently, the ultimate in the unusual stakes is ‘a woman who plays jazz’!)
I was so hoping to find this tuner because I thought – since he was in it − he might just like a signed copy of my book.
What I could not possibly know is that, by going on this quest, the very subject of my story − the ‘my goodness you’re a woman and you play jazz!’ theme of surprise – was now about to repeat itself, punctuating various scenes of my existence, like some kind of running joke in an offbeat comedy!
*
I entered the shop and, on this occasion, was greeted by the manager:
‘Good morning. How can I help you?’
‘Hello. I’ve come in search of a piano tuner I met here, in this very shop, a few years ago.’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘No. I’m afraid I don’t.’
With a slightly bemused look on his face, he replied:
‘Well, you see, here’s the thing. My entire sales team is made up of tuners. We have three shops and they rotate between them. So I’m sorry, but I really can’t help you.’
Never one to give up easily, I decided to adopt another approach:
‘I may not know his name. But I do know one thing about him.’
‘Ah... and what would that be?’ asked the manager, his bemusement now verging on irritation.
‘The tuner’s mother is German.’
Relief replaced his incipient irritation as he said:
‘Now you’re talking! That would be Étienne and he is currently working in one of our shops on the other side of Paris. May I ask why you want to see him?’
‘Well, you see, I happen to be a jazz pianist and…’
He did not allow me to go any further. Suddenly, he had a really happy, excited look on his face. In fact, absolutely ecstatic would probably be a better way of putting it.
‘You play jazz? You’re a woman and you play jazz?? That’s just soooo rare. Could you come this way, please?’
I followed him to the room at the end of the shop where, five years previously, I had tested the two Steinways. A client was playing a grand piano with a view to buying it. However – to my surprise and, I confess, great amusement – the ‘wow, we have a female jazz pianist in our midst’ factor seemed so much more important to the manager than a potentially lucrative sale, as he approached his client with the words:
‘Could I just ask you to stop playing for a few minutes?’ adding, as if this so obviously rendered his request totally legitimate: ‘You see, a female jazz pianist has just come into the shop.’
The idea of ejecting this poor client from her seat was by now turning my amusement into embarrassment but, apparently unfazed by the request, she got up good-naturedly, enabling the manager to lead me to a concert Steinway, where he said:
‘Would you mind playing something for me?’
A concert Steinway! Would I mind? I told him it would be an honour and a few minutes later, while I was playing, he sat down at the neighbouring piano and joined me in an impromptu jam session.
Once we’d finished, he exclaimed as if he still couldn’t quite believe it:
‘Wow! You really can play jazz. It’s a sort of traditional, bluesy, New Orleans style, isn’t it? I love it! But where does Étienne come in?’
I told him that I wanted to give a signed copy of my book to Ét
ienne, explaining the reason why, and he suggested I come back the following Tuesday when Étienne would be there on desk duty. He also agreed to keep the book a surprise.
*
Four days later, I duly returned to the shop and this time the manager had the look of an excited child who had been asked to keep a secret but was literally bursting to tell it.
He greeted me with:
‘Hello. I just can’t wait to see Étienne’s face when he discovers the reason you’re here. He’s working in the office in the basement. Follow me.’
Down the stairs we went to a small but exceedingly modern, hi-tech office. The manager walked in first and proudly announced:
‘Étienne, this lady has come specially to see you.’
Étienne looked up and said, as if only a few days, and not five years, had elapsed since our first meeting:
‘Oh, hello, I remember you. You’re a jazz pianist, aren’t you? What can I do for you?’
What a charmer, I thought. He can’t possibly remember me after so long. Presuming that the manager must, after all, have let the cat out of the bag, I replied:
‘You’re kidding! The last time I was in this shop was over five years ago.’
Then, turning to the manager, I said: ‘Surely, you must have told him why I was coming.’
The manager raised his hands in protest of his innocence, which Étienne proceeded to confirm:
‘I can promise you that I really don’t know why you’ve come to see me. But I do remember you coming here to test some pianos because you played jazz, for a whole morning, here in this very shop. You’ve no idea how rare it is to have a jazz player, let alone a female jazz player, come and test our pianos.’
The young Étienne was undoubtedly charming but, clearly, he was also genuine. He really did remember me. And, upon learning that he was actually the ‘star’ of one of the stories in my book, he was particularly touched to receive a signed copy.
*
As is often the case when I get talking to someone who is as passionate about pianos as I am, I had lost track of time and just left Étienne somewhat late for my next meeting. I thus jumped in a taxi and said:
‘Bonjour Monsieur. I would like to go to the Café de la Paix on the Place de l’Opéra, please.’
‘Off to have tea with our lady friends, are we?’ was his surprising reply.
Hmmm... So no stereotypical assumptions there, then, I thought to myself, before saying:
‘No. Actually, I’m going there to present my book… not to the entire café, you understand, but to a guitarist friend of mine.’
‘Ah, so you’re an author, are you?’
‘Well, not exactly. I’m actually a translator by profession, but a few years ago I took up piano playing again. And then I wrote a book about it that I recently managed to get published.’
‘Goodness. That sounds exciting. What sort of things do you play?’
‘I’m a jazz pianist. But I’m not into anything dissonant and innovative. It’s very traditional jazz...’
A slam on the brakes screeched the car to an emergency stop as the cabdriver turned round to look at me and say:
‘Wow! That’s just so unusual. You’re a woman and you play jazz?’
Thinking to myself, there’s nothing like a bit of mad Parisian driving to spice up the recurring question, I grinned at him and replied:
‘As long as I’m still alive, I do.’
The surrounding cars were now tooting their horns, so he drove on and, smiling at me in the rear-view mirror, said:
‘You have a slight accent. How long have you lived in Paris?’
‘You’re right. I’m not French. As you can hear, I’m English, but I’ve lived here for nearly thirty years.’
Referring to my ‘as long as I’m still alive’ comment, he asked:
‘So still not used to Parisian drivers, then?’
‘No,’ I said resignedly. ‘And I don’t think I ever will become accustomed to them. It’s the formative years and all that...’
‘So, tell me about your book.’
Once I’d finished describing the main themes of my book – the birth of my passion for jazz improvisation, the fulfilment of a completely wild dream with the acquisition of my beautiful baby grand piano together with my discovery of the fascinating, mysterious piano tuning profession − the cabdriver said:
‘You know, I really wish you every success with your literary venture. And I do believe you will succeed. When you talk about your experiences and your book, you have that joy, that happy enthusiasm, which all people who have a passion in life simply exude. And it’s so contagious. Just talking to you has made me feel really happy, so much so that I would like to buy your book. In fact, I would like to buy two copies – one for me, and another for a friend of mine who plays the piano. Could you give me the title please, so I can order it?’
With a slam on the brakes, he screeched the car to a halt once again – this time in order to reach for a pen and paper. We were slap bang in the middle of the Place de la Concorde! The Place de la Concorde!! Help!!! I thought it probably best not to waste any time by saying that I actually had a pen and paper, as well as some business cards, on me. Instead, I just gave him the title in the hope that we could be on our way, without further ado, and that the increasing cacophony of tooting horns would consequently cease.
It was thus only a matter of seconds before the cabdriver started up his car again and, by dint of some miracle, actually managed to drop me off, safe and sound, at my chosen destination!
*
A few weeks later, I noticed that a certain Nath had given my book a serious thumbs-up by awarding it the maximum amount of gold stars, five out of five, and posting a lovely comment on my publisher’s website.
It translates as follows:
‘I have just finished reading this book and I loved it. The author has a true passion for pianos and jazz improvisation, a passion that radiates from every page, and she really knows how to convey that passion to the reader.’
As an author, it is naturally wonderful to receive such positive feedback; the undiluted pleasure I gain from writing every single word of my books, actually intensifies each time one of them is thus received.
And, with regard to this particular comment, I would just like to take the opportunity to extend my most sincere thanks to Nath because, while I have absolutely no idea who Nath is, I like to think it was the cabdriver.
The Cabdrivers in Bordeaux
That week we were in Bordeaux on what was quite the weirdest holiday we had ever been on.
My husband had just undergone a major operation. Given his relatively young age, he had been advised to put his life in the hands of a world-renowned specialist – a surgeon based in Bordeaux who was pioneering a highly innovative way of performing this surgery and achieving spectacular results.
We had planned this to coincide with the children’s half-term holiday and, further to my husband’s discharge from the hospital, had decided to stay on for a few days in case of any unexpected complications. Talk about convalescing in style. There we were, cocooned in the swanky surroundings of a four-star luxury hotel in the South of France!
During that strange week, because our hotel was slightly out of town, we were dependent on the local cabdrivers whenever we needed to go anywhere; to the chemist, the medical laboratory, the hospital appointments − and, indeed, for the occasional, more agreeable activity such as visiting the city of Bordeaux or, later in the week when my husband was feeling much better, the spectacular Saint-Émilion region.
I cannot remember any specific conversations with the cabdrivers in Bordeaux because, frankly, most of that week remains, to this day, a complete blur in my mind. That said, of one thing I am quite certain: I shall never forget the amazing kindness of the cabdrivers we encountered whenever they discovered
the reason why we were holidaying in their town.
I decided to mention them here simply by way of a thank you.
The Silent Type
I got in the taxi and in response to my standard opening line – ‘Bonjour Monsieur, I would like to go to…’ – the cabdriver remained perfectly silent, not even bothering to utter so much as a ‘Bonjour Madame’, content merely to start the car.
It was like that for the entire journey; he did not utter a single word.
And even at the end of the journey he remained silent, pointing nonchalantly − indifferently even − to the amount displayed on the meter.
This caused me to ask him:
‘Do you ever speak to your clients?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t see the point’ was his most surprising reply, one so unexpected that I only just managed to refrain from bursting out laughing.
Conclusion: clearly this man had chosen completely the wrong profession!
The Compassionate Cabdriver
That day, it was my turn to be silent…
We were in the throes of an annus horribilis, a bleak year during which a significant number of our friends and relatives died. At one point, it got so bad that we found ourselves going to a funeral once a week; the situation was lugubrious to the point that it began to border on the ridiculous − ‘If it’s Friday there must be a funeral’ being the joke of the moment. Naturally, by joking about this dire situation, we were not being at all disrespectful. On the contrary, our humour provided us with a very necessary self-defence mechanism; it was our particular way of coping with the terribly tragic events of the moment.
As far as I was concerned one of the hardest aspects of those dark days was, as mother and pillar of the family, having to remain strong for everyone. Our children were still very young so it was of the utmost importance to be there for them, to support them, to let them voice their fears and sadness and to reassure them. And I have to say that we were particularly proud of them during that year, as they too stoically soldiered on, equally keen to maintain their sense of humour, their own running joke being: ‘Nobody is allowed to spoil our vacation. If anyone dies during the school holiday, we’ll kill them!’