Pardon My French

by Allen Johnson

  Henri spoke with such a soft, leisurely tone that it was hard to imagine him cracking heads with anyone.

  By that time we had wound our way into the center of Montpellier. We turned down a narrow street framed with parked cars and camionnettes squatting over the sidewalks and pressed against the stone tenements like massive ornamental doorknockers. Anywhere in Montpellier (anywhere in France, for that matter) finding a parking spot is always a small wonder and an occasion for a little victory dance. As luck would have it, I spotted someone backing out down the street, and Henri gobbled up the space in an instant.

  We got out of the car and rounded the corner where we were greeted by a typical French square. Shaded by towering sycamore trees over a cobblestone surface, the plaza was teeming with children, university students, and a few unshaven gentlemen in snap-down caps who exchanged handshakes at the corner café.

  The morning market—with canopied carts of fruit, vegetables, and flowers—was in full swing. Money was exchanged, and apples and pears were dropped into the canvas shopping bags of sturdy women with floral-patterned dresses. Across the way was a small bar that belonged to Henri’s friend, Philippe, the former rugby player. The bar was called LE BAR DES SUPER VEDETTES, The Bar of the Super Stars.

  “Who are the super stars?” I asked Henri.

  “Why Philippe and me, of course,” Henri said with a laugh.

  When we entered the bar, Henri kissed Philippe on both cheeks. “I would like you to meet my new American friends,” Henri said.

  “Rich American friends,” Marie-France added with a grin.

  Henri acknowledged his wife’s addition with a nod. “This is Allen. He is a singer,” he said, expanding his chest as if he were preparing to sing a line from a Wagnerian opera. “And this is his wife, Nita. She is … well, beautiful.”

  Philippe smiled a genuine smile and shook my hand. He, too, was a big man with broad, muscular shoulders and narrow hips. To me he looked more like a boxer than a rugby player. His hair was thick and coarse and dusted gray. “Enchanté,” he said. “Welcome to our little bar.”

  “Thank you. It’s an honor to be here.”

  The pub was long and narrow, approximately twelve feet wide by forty-five feet long. The bar itself, a hefty hardwood counter with brass footrests, nearly spanned the entire length of the room. Although it was barely noon, the bar was already lined with clients, each nursing a bottle of beer or a glass of wine.

  We were ushered to the back of the room and seated at two small tables that had been pushed together to accommodate the four of us. Then, hardly settled in our chairs, Philippe’s wife, France, placed three-dozen open-shell oysters at the center of our table. I looked at the mountain of shellfish and then at France, who was smiling brightly, her hands resting lightly on her hips. She was a stunningly beautiful brunette, perfectly attired in blue jeans and a burnt umber sweater, unzipped at the neck by careful design.

  I had always avoided fresh oysters in the past. They looked a little too much like fish bait for my taste. But, in the spirit of adventure, I cut the muscle from the shell, squeezed a little lemon over the shell and slurped the thing down, seawater and all.

  “How do you like it?” Henri asked.

  “A little salty,” I admitted.

  I selected a second shell from the tall stack while Nita sat back smugly in her chair and grinned. She has always alleged that she has an allergy to shellfish and that her eyes swell shut when she eats them. Understand, this is nothing I’ve seen firsthand, so I sometimes wonder if she uses the excuse as a deft ploy to avoid eating anything remotely strange.

  I reached for a second oyster. This time I surreptitiously dumped out the seawater from the shell before swigging down the briny morsel.

  “Ça va pas,” France said, catching my deception. “You must drink the water with the oyster. We say it makes a man virile.”

  “That has never been a problem in the past,” I joked.

  “Still, it is the way things are done,” France said, clearly not budging on the time-honored protocol for feasting on oysters.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, giving up the fight.

  As I was savoring my last oyster, I asked Henri how things were going in Lyon.

  “Oh, nothing startling to report,” he said. “No, wait, there was something that you might find interesting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, I was the first person to come upon the scene of a car accident just outside of Lyon.”

  He had our full attention. Henri explained how he pulled his car off to the side of the road, called emergency on his mobile phone, and ran to where the victim was lying in a ditch, inextricably pinned under his overturned Renault Clio. By that time two other men scrambled down the embankment. Henri and the others lifted the subcompact off the chest of the victim and eased his limp body to a patch of level ground.

  Henri desperately searched for a pulse; there was none. With no professional help yet in sight, he got on his knees beside the man. He pinched the victim’s nostrils and breathed into his mouth. He checked for a pulse. Nothing. Henri cupped one hand over the other, pumped fifteen times over the heart of the victim, and then quickly breathed again into his mouth. Still there was no sign of life. Henri continued this procedure until firefighters arrived on the scene and pronounced the man dead.

  “How did you know how to give mouth-to-mouth?” I asked.

  “I took a class twenty years ago,” he said with a shrug.

  “Did it ever occur to you that you could be sued for your action?”

  Henri smiled. “Not for a second. That’s the difference between France and the United States. We don’t have an army of lawyers waiting in hiding to take advantage of people’s goodwill.”

  “Yeah, okay, but how do you really feel about it?”

  “I hope I have not insulted you,” Henri said.

  “No, not at all. In fact, I can’t argue with you. I remember reading somewhere that seventy percent of all lawyers on earth are Americans.”

  “That would not surprise me,” Henri said.

  I could see that Marie-France was getting a little fidgety. “Could we talk about something other than politics,” she said.

  “It’s okay, Marie-France,” I said. “It’s interesting to get the French perspective on the States.”

  I turned back to Henri. “You’re a good resource for me, Henri. Tell me more. How else would you describe Americans?”

  Henri thought for a moment, and then he nodded as an idea came to his mind. “The French say that Americans are de grands enfants.”

  “Big kids? What do you mean by that?” I asked.

  “Well, first, it’s not a criticism—more of an observation.”

  “I understand.”

  “What I mean is you Americans are naïfs, as children are naïfs. This is very important. Do you understand the word ‘naïfs’?”

  “Yes, we use your word in English. Naïve.”

  “Good. You see, Americans are quick to believe what they hear.”

  “You mean we are gullible.”

  “Yes, I suppose that is the word. For example, all of you seem to be behind your president. Everyone is waving flags and singing the national anthem.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It is what we read in the papers, what we see in the movies and on television. The French are not like that. If you have ten Frenchmen, you will have ten different opinions. We prize individualism. We hardly ever agree on anything.”

  “In what other ways are we naïve?”

  “Americans are very Puritan.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that you are very strict, very moral—also very travailleurs.”

  “We are hard workers?”

  “Yes. You are very interested in making lots of money. We are interested in living.”

  Henri reminded me of something I had read once by the Italian scholar Umberto Eco. “In the United States there’s a Puritan ethic and a
mythology of success. He who is successful is good. In Latin countries, in Catholic countries, a successful person is a sinner.”

  “And that is what you mean by being children? We are naïve, Puritan, and hard-working?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure this is not a criticism?”

  “Oh, maybe a little,” Henri said smiling. “It is who you are.”

  Now Marie-France was really squirming. “Enough politics.”

  Henri raised his hands in surrender. “I’m done,” he said.

  It was then that I noticed a smallish, elderly man at the end of the bar. He had a glossy, unwrinkled face and wispy brown hair that he combed straight back. He wore a butterscotch corduroy sports jacket over a white open-collared dress shirt. At his feet was an unleashed ocher mop of a dog, a little terrier of questionable lineage. We exchanged glances, and the man smiled at me. I nodded, and the little man started to move toward me.

  As the man was walking my way, Marie-France put her arm around my shoulder and whispered, “This is the real reason I wanted you to come. One of your dreams is about to come true.”

  I looked at Marie-France with curiosity in my eyes. “Really?”

  She did not give away the surprise.

  The man retrieved a chair from another table and sat next to me. “Bonjour, monsieur,” the old man said.

  “Bonjour, monsieur.”

  “I hope this is not an intrusion.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I am told that you are a singer.”

  “Yes,” I said. “How did you know that?”

  “Marie-France told me.”

  “Ah.” I looked at Marie-France as she adopted a mischievous, quizzical look that said, “I wonder what this is all about?”

  The old man smiled a soft, serene smile. “So, what kind of music do you like to sing?” he asked.

  “Mostly jazz.”

  “Ah, yes. Ella Fitzgerald, Count Basie, Billie Holiday.”

  He already had my interest. “You know our American jazz musicians then.”

  The old man smiled again—humbly, knowingly. I was beginning to like that smile a lot. “But, of course. Do you know I once spoke to Bird in Paris? It was 1948 … no, 1949.”

  Bird was the nickname given to the famous alto saxophonist, Charlie Parker. “Ce n’est pas vrai.” No kidding. “Charlie Parker is a jazz legend.”

  “Yes, I know. He was a very nice man. And he loved to play. He would play all night long, just for the joy of playing.”

  “Charlie Parker,” I said, pronouncing the words with reverence.

  “Who do you like?”

  “Oh, I’m kind of a crooner,” I said. “So, I like Frank Sinatra and Sarah Vaughan and …”

  “‘How High the Moon.’”

  “Yes, exactly. Are you a singer?”

  He pursed his lips the way the French do to suggest a modest, qualified “yes.” “Well, I do sing a bit. I like to scat,” the old man said.

  “So do I,” I said. As I explored the old man’s face, I thought a moment like this does not arrive every day: sitting in a bar in Montpellier and talking about jazz with a Frenchman with a little yellow dog at his feet. I looked at Marie-France again and gave her a smile of gratitude.

  I turned back to the old man. “Follow me,” I said. I snapped my fingers in time and sang the first four measures of “Fly Me to the Moon” in scat. “Bweep-bah-doo-be-doo, bah-doo-be-doo, bah-doo-be-dow.”

  And then, on cue, in tempo, and on pitch, the old man scat-sang the next four measures, the syllables tumbling out of his mouth with ease. He had an airy, slightly raspy voice, like the resonant overtones of a Coleman Hawkins tenor sax solo. It was magnificent. The people at the end of the bar stopped talking and turned around to hear what was going on. Henri started beating out the tempo on the table.

  Sixteen measures into the song, I started singing the lyrics while the old man scatted fills at the end of each phrase. Our voices became louder, fuller, as a few people began to clap in syncopation on the second and fourth beat. We were swinging now. The old man had his eyes closed and his head tilted back. I imagined he was raising his voice to Charlie Parker within heaven’s gate. His little yellow dog sat up and cocked his head to one side, puzzled by his master’s strange behavior.

  We were both singing freely now, reveling in that wonderful, ineffable steam that fills the chests of singers when they finally stop thinking about what note comes next. In a word, we were flying—just two grateful passengers going along for the ride. I looked at the old man. With his eyes still closed, his face was luminous as if he had entered another dimension, a dimension frequented only by dreamers, poets, and les vieux chanteurs français. I knew that he was singing, not from his brain but from his soul.

  We finished with a scat free-for-all, our voices intertwined, building on the rhythmic and melodic ideas of the other.

  When the last note drifted into space, we were both laughing, and the bar patrons were clapping and hooting. One man put two fingers to his mouth and let loose with a whistle blast. Henri slapped me on the back so hard he nearly buried my face in a plate of barren oyster shells.

  The old man cupped my face in his hands and kissed me on both cheeks. “Merveilleux, absolument merveilleux,” he said, his eyes lustrous with pure joy.

  “Marvelous indeed.” I wrapped my arms around the French singer. “Merci. Merci beaucoup. You are the best.”

  Then I looked into the eyes of Marie-France, who was beaming. I did not have words. I just shook my head in thankfulness. And then, because sometimes a look is just not enough, I took her into my arms as well until Henri blustered, “Hey, that’s enough, you American gigolo!”

  I released Marie-France and turned to her burly husband. “I love you too, Henri.”

  “Not like that you won’t,” he said, expanding his enormous chest. “There are limits to international détente.”

  “But no limits to love,” I said, which sparked a noisy outcry of approval from everyone sitting around the table.

  I just smiled, for there is one thing I know for sure. Timing is everything.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Jazzmen of Montpellier

  IT WAS AT LE BAR DES SUPER VEDETTES that I learned about a jazz club in the south end of Montpellier called Jam Action. On Thursday nights, after a concert by a professional combo, amateur singers and instrumentalist were invited to jam.

  For readers who may be unfamiliar with the term, a “jam” is a gathering of musicians, often meeting for the first time, who improvise on well-known jazz standards. Typically, the musicians will begin a number by introducing the original melody of the tune, which is called “the head.” Then, each musician will play his or her interpretation of the song, often straying from the melody while still adhering to the basic chord structure of the tune. Finally, after all have had a chance to solo, the musicians return to “the head” to bring the song to a close. The pattern is almost classical in its simplicity: presentation of theme, embellishment on theme, reprise of theme.

  In French slang, a jam session is called “un boeuf,” meaning ox, steer, or beef. It is said that the expression derives from the famous Right-Bank cabaret in Paris, Le Boeuf sur le Toit (The Ox on the Roof), which became a center for American jazz in the 1930s.

  After poring over a map of Montpellier to pinpoint the location of Jam Action—no easy task—I headed out the door with my cornet tucked under my arm.

  Now, as a jazz singer, I’m not that bad—I made my living as a singer in my twenties for half a dozen years, and I’ve had my share of accolades—but I know my limitations. Let’s just say that I’ll never dethrone any of the truly great jazz singers like Mel Torme and, more recently, Kurt Elling. Still, I do like to sing, and if the voice is in good form, and the gods are with me, I can swing. So it was with mixed emotions that I got on the Palavas freeway to Montpellier—the emotional goulash of anticipation, excitement, and nervousness, like the feeling of asking the pretty popula
r girl out on a date. You really want to, but you just know she speaks a different language or has read all the Russian novels or has caviar and champagne for breakfast, and when she sees you standing there with your hat in hand like Bashful in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, she will surely laugh in your face. That’s the feeling I had walking through the front door of Jam Action.

  * * *

  I STEPPED INTO A DARKENED ROOM—a cavern really. I stood for a moment near the door, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness that surrounded me. The club was enormous: three stories high with a long bar at one end and tables and chairs scattered on three levels around a raised stage. The room was definitely designed for performers. A bank of red, white, and blue lights washed the stage that was at the moment home to a bebop jazz quartet led by a gifted Montpellier-adopted trumpet player from Guadeloupe, Frank Nicolas. They were cookin’.

  As my eyes adjusted to the room, I realized that the place was packed. I noticed a blond woman sitting in a chair to my right. Her legs were propped up on a second chair, which appeared to be the only available seat in the house. She must have noticed me caressing the chair with my eyes because she immediately set her feet on the ground and swung the chair around to accommodate me.

  “May I?” I said in French.

  “Oui.”

  I sat down and turned my attention to the band. In addition to the trumpeter, whose melodic lines were reminiscent of a brooding Miles Davis, the quartet included a guitar, contrabass, and drums. They were playing intricate jazz standards like “Nica’s Dream” by Horace Silver and “Straight, No Chaser” by Thelonious Monk. The sixty-eight-year-old drummer, René Nann—a former percussionist for the famous Belgian singer, Jacques Brel—was explosive, changing rhythms every two measures. The guitarist and arranger, Thomas Fontvieille, held the band together with rich, full chords and melodic solos. Finally the bass player, Lonnie Plaxico—former accompanist for such legends as Dizzy Gillespie and Chet Baker—treated his instrument more like a guitar than a standup bass, fingers flying up and down the fret board.

  The band was dynamite—melodically and rhythmically exploring tunes in a manner that was miles over my head. They took my breath away. And I was beginning to wonder what I was doing with my cornet at my feet. I nudged the horn deeper under my chair.