by Susie Kelly
Fortuitously, because it did divert my mind slightly, when we arrived on the platform there was a lunatic, unshaven and dressed in filthy clothing. He was shouting and waving his finger, pointing at people and occasionally spitting quite an impressive distance.
“Do not,” warned Terry, “attract his attention. I know what you’re like when it comes to collecting peculiar people.”
“Terry, I don’t attract their attention. You know that perfectly well. It is they who cluster to me like moths around a flame.”
“I won’t be surprised if he makes a pass at you, with those shoes you’re wearing.”
He tugged me further down the platform out of range as the spits were getting closer. We chattered about all the places we’d seen since we had first set out from Versailles, and our journey home the next day. I knew he was trying to relax me but nothing less than a general anaesthetic could have done so and the “underground” drums beat louder than ever. I concentrated surreptitiously on the crazy man, without attracting his attention because I didn’t want to get spat upon. It looked as if he was a regular or else they were ten a centime, because nobody was taking the slightest notice of him. By this time he was angrily ripping a newspaper into shreds, hurling it all over the place, and eating selected pieces.
The train rumbled to a stop. We climbed in and sat down. A lady opposite looked at my burned feet and smiled sympathetically. The doors closed. Nothing happened. Instantly, I felt very, very hot. I looked out of the window straight into the eyes of the newspaper-eating madman, who shook his fist and sent a shower of saliva towards us. The lady opposite rolled her eyes, and began to fan herself with a magazine. Sweat poured down my back.
I reminded myself how courageously Marie-Antoinette had borne her final ordeal, the two-hour journey to the guillotine in the tumbrel. I told myself that if she could hold her head up all the way, I should be able to manage ten minutes underground. The train was like a sauna. It pulled away slowly, and slowly crept along its subterranean rails. Terry tried to maintain a conversation and I tried in vain to reply. My mouth had dried up, and I was sweating faster than the train was moving.
When we arrived at Joinville-le-Pont we had to slide our tickets into a slot in the barrier to raise it. Terry’s went through, but mine crumpled up because it was all bent and mushy from being clenched and twisted in my wet hand. Terry’s ticket wouldn’t work twice, and it looked for a while as if I might have to clamber over the barrier, short too-tight skirt and funny sandals notwithstanding. A very large gentleman with a twirly moustache noticed our predicament. He tapped me on the hand and pushed his season ticket into the slot to release the barrier.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Having a Good Time – Don’t Stop Me Now!
“Quickly, bring me a beaker of wine, so that I may wet my mind and say something clever.” Aristophanes
L’accordéoniste
FOR the last night of our journey we wanted to dine again beside the Marne, so we cycled to Champigny and crossed the small footbridge leading out to the guinguette on the Île du Martin-Pêcheur – Kingfisher Island. There was a very large expanse of empty tables, and only two other diners seated. We hesitated: did we really want to spend another almost solitary evening? The maître d’ approached and asked whether we had reserved, and tut-tutted when I said no. Looking pointedly at the dining desert around us, I thought he was joking, and laughed. He glared back, but with much mumbling and sighing he led us to a table beneath an awning. Then he disappeared for almost half an hour.
As we sat obediently wondering what would happen next, if indeed anything at all would happen, more diners began to arrive. Very soon the place was full to capacity and people were being turned away. There was a party of affluent, stylish people who took aperitifs on a small lawn before settling down in one of the dining rooms. They seemed to be celebrating a retirement, because every so often somebody popped up and made a speech directed at a very satisfied-looking gentleman of a certain age, and bottles of champagne followed each other in quick succession. At a long trestle table beside us was a more casually dressed group of about 50 people, from grandparents down to gurgling babies in buggies. I’m always surprised by how perfectly behaved young children are, in France, no matter where, and no matter the time. They sit, eat what is put in front of them – even andouillettes – and don’t make a noise or climb on the table. Even babies seem to know instinctively how to behave.
Just before it expired, our patience was rewarded by the maître d’ returning. While simultaneously shouting orders to waiters, he waved a menu briefly before us, from which we managed to glimpse what was on offer. It was rather expensive, but never mind, this was our last night. He stabbed at a handheld computer screen with a small pencil and tucked a piece of paper under a clip on our table. Terry asked what I’d like to drink, and I said without any hesitation: “Champagne.”
“What – a whole bottle?”
Despite popular belief caused by a malicious rumour spread by one of our previous English neighbours, I am generally abstemious to the point of being almost teetotal. At home I seldom drink unless we have company, and then at most two glasses of wine or a small whisky. When we’re alone, I’m happy with a cup of tea or hot chocolate. It is only when we go out, or are travelling, that I occasionally indulge.
“Yes, please,” I said. “Let’s celebrate the completion of our trip. Five hundred miles isn’t bad.
“Madame Bollinger said of champagne:
‘I drink it when I’m happy and when I’m sad. Sometimes I drink it when I’m alone. When I have company, I consider it obligatory. I trifle with it if I’m not hungry and drink it when I am. Otherwise, I never touch it – unless I’m thirsty.’
“I’m happy we’ve had such a satisfying adventure, and sad that it’s almost over. We’re in company, and I’m not hungry, but absolutely famished. And I’m very thirsty. I think that satisfies most of the criteria.”
Unlike our meal, the champagne came swiftly. By the time our food arrived 40 minutes later, the bottle was empty. Despite the long wait I was feeling exceedingly happy, and called out to the grim-faced maitre d’ to bring a second bottle. Terry was looking a little bemused, and I was conscious but unconcerned that I was behaving rather loudly. I don’t recall what we ate, but I do remember thinking what a splendid time we were having.
A pretty girl with a professional camera went from table to table, sweet-talking diners into having their photographs taken, making them eligible to win some undisclosed prize later in the evening. Some people, like ourselves, refused. How could she possibly imagine I’d want a photographic reminder of my appearance? However, many more accepted, including all of the large party next to us. The girl snapped away and beamed, and returned later to show the finished photos. Nobody would buy one, and her smiley expression turned to a fixed grimace. As she walked back to the bar, her face set in an angry scowl, I wondered if this was an evening job that enabled her to earn a few badly needed euros. Did she have a sick child, an old mother, student debts to pay? I felt sorry for her. Should we offer her a glass of champagne? Oh, too late – the second bottle was empty. While I seemed to be getting through it rather quickly, Terry was making his last.
Later during the evening an accordéoniste arrived and weaved her way around the tables. With her hair in a loose chignon, and dressed in a floaty, flowery dress with a plunging neckline, she played all the old accordion favourites.
A couple occupied the entire dance floor with their expert tango. Gradually more couples joined in, elders with teenagers, lovers of all ages tangled together, children hopping around holding hands. This was what we had come to a guinguette to see. Listening to and watching a couple of hundred people of all ages relaxing and enjoying themselves beside the river on this summer evening was worth the cost of the food, which was unremarkable except for its price and the unbelievably long wait for service.
Madame de Pompadour, who transcended her unfortunate maiden name of Mademoisel
le Poisson [Miss Fish] to become the favourite mistress of Louis XV, remarked that champagne is the only wine that leaves a woman beautiful after drinking it. I knew my appearance was beyond redemption, but what a fun evening I was having! I was so amusing, so witty, so confident. My French had never been so smoothly fluent as I chatted with the people around us. I wish you could have been there. I really sparkled. Even my voice which normally sounds like bagpipes played by a beginner seemed to be quite wonderful, as I sang along with the music. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d found myself quite so entertaining.
I think Terry paid the bill – in fact I’m certain he did. We wheeled the bikes over the small bridge from the island back on to the path. It was quite late, and quite dark, and I couldn’t see very well, yet I rode my bike like a circus performer, twisting and turning at speed around and between startled pedestrians, waving and singing to their further astonishment. Terry was calling at me to slow down, but nothing was going to stop me. The groups of people stretching the entire width of the path scattered as I shot through their midst yelling “Bonne nuit, mes amis!” and singing “Don’t stop me now.”
Terry must have put the bikes into the laundry room at the hotel, and I must have somehow got upstairs and into bed. I woke up the following morning with a clear head, a detailed memory of the previous evening, and a feeling of intense mortification.
After we’d loaded our bikes for the last time we chatted to the Slave girl while she served our breakfast, cleared tables, reset them for lunch, and smilingly ignored the bellows of the bandits. I told her how much we had enjoyed staying at the hotel, and her face lit up with pleasure.
“We have only been here ten days, but we have big plans for modernising it. The last owners did nothing for years.”
That was fairly evident. I hoped she’d have some help in the task ahead. I visualised her armed with hammers and saws, ladders and paint pots, buckets and bags, with half a dozen nails clenched in her teeth, cheerfully rebuilding the place in between serving meals and ironing bed linen.
“Please mention our hotel to your friends,” she said, as we left. So that’s the Auberge Slave, Joinville-le-Point.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Longest Mile
“Begin at the beginning and go on to the end. Then stop.” Lewis Carroll
IN gentle drizzle we took a last look at the green waters of the Marne and cycled into the Bois de Vincennes, where we became entangled inadvertently in the French Psychotic Motorists’ Annual Jamboree. Every passing car, klaxoning furiously, forced us off the road, slammed to an unannounced halt in front of us, or changed direction without warning. Only our British bulldog spirit, Anglo-Saxon sang-froid and swift reactions enabled us to maintain our good humour and avoid becoming road traffic accident statistics.
By the time we emerged from the woods and alongside the Seine, the sun had come out. When I’d bought a ticket for the Conciergerie the previous day, it included entrance to the Sainte Chapelle. Because Terry had been waiting for me I hadn’t used that part. To my eternal shame, I knew nothing of the Sainte Chapelle, and really didn’t mind whether or not I saw it.
“It seems a pity to waste the ticket. Why don’t you go and have a look? I’ll sit outside with a cup of coffee,” Terry said.
We crossed the oldest bridge in Paris, contrarily named Pont Neuf, to the Ile de la Cité. Carefully and gently we leant our bikes against the glass side wall of the café. A waiter came out and pointed at them, and started explaining something that Terry didn’t understand, and rather unkindly I left him to sort it out. We had learned by experience that sometimes the best way to deal with an awkward situation is to be unable to understand the language.
I stood obediently for several minutes in a long queue that led round several corners, to go in to the Sainte Chapelle. Then I wondered why I was doing so when I already had a ticket. Smiling simultaneously smugly, triumphantly and apologetically – no easy feat – I made my way to the head of the queue and through security into the chapel. I imagined a dim and musty little place that would warrant five minutes of my time.
The small chapel was commissioned in the 13th century by pious King Louis IX to house what he believed to be Christ’s crown of thorns and a relic from the cross, bought for an extortionate price from the Byzantine emperor.
If ‘Gothic’ conjures up a picture of stern austerity, there is nothing of that in this enchanting church. It’s Aladdin’s cave and Blackbeard’s treasure chest all in one. La Sainte Chapelle is the most exquisite building I have ever seen. Breathtakingly, heart-achingly, overwhelmingly, tear-jerkingly magnificent. My jaw had never spontaneously fallen open before. Until then I had thought that “open-mouthed wonderment” was an exaggeration.
The vaulted blue ceilings are decorated with golden heavenly bodies to resemble the night sky, supported by pillars painted in voluptuous colours – rich red adorned with golden Castilian castles and midnight blue with golden fleurs de lys. Standing in this glorious church is a truly sensuous experience. It’s so beautiful that you feel you want to break off little pieces and eat them.
When it still served as a royal church, the lesser social classes worshipped in this lower chapel. The floor above was reserved for royalty. I climbed the narrow stone spiral staircase. It was worth the momentary panic of claustrophobia because it leads into a radiant jewel-box of brilliant hues. The high walls of the chapel are formed by intricate stained glass windows separated from each other by the most slender of columns, giving the impression that the entire wall is built of one vast pane of bejewelled glass. Sunlight poured through these windows and projected lakes of coloured lozenges that danced on the floor, creating a living kaleidoscope.
I could have most happily spent the rest of the day sitting in and admiring the beauty of this little church in its absolute perfection and almost oriental splendour. My only regret was that I had left my camera behind, so I wasn’t able to share the beauty of La Sainte Chapelle with Terry. I went back to find him and tried to persuade him to come back in, but the queues were long, and there was the problem of our bikes. We’d come back again one day.
Of all the sights we saw on our journey, and all the other beautiful buildings I’ve ever seen, nothing compares to La Sainte Chapelle. As we cycled away I was trying to rationalise why I had so loved the flamboyant chapel when the opulence of Versailles had slightly repelled me.
We dawdled amongst the old books, magazines and paintings at the bouquinistes along the quay, clinging to the last few hours of our journey by our fingernails. With no particular plan, we meandered in a roughly westerly direction to see what happened.
Just past the Eiffel Tower close to the Bir Hakeim bridge is a small green square known as the Place des Martyrs Juifs du Vélodrome d’Hiver. The monument marks one of the most shameful events that took place in wartime Paris. Nearly 13,000 Jewish men, women and children were rounded up by the French police in 1942. They were held in the indoor cycling stadium, the Vélodrome d’Hiver, or ‘Vél d’Hiv’ as it was known, before being shipped to concentration camps. Very few would survive. There is an immensely moving life-size sculpture of a group of men, women and children. A mother cradles a child on her lap, her husband’s hand resting on her shoulder. Another child plays forlornly with a doll. A young man comforts an older man, and a young woman lies on the ground, her elbow resting on a suitcase, her arm supporting her head.
The monument bears an explanatory plaque, but anybody seeing it would not need to be told its meaning. Polish sculptor Walter Spitzer, whose family survived Auschwitz, has perfectly depicted people who are bewildered, exhausted, and in despair.
This little square is a very sad place, but it’s well worth a visit to admire the artist’s haunting and beautiful sculpture.
We continued cycling beside the river until we arrived at the suburb of Javel, a bustling area of modern buildings and competitive traffic. Before it was swallowed up into the general agglomeration of Paris, the small village of Javel
had witnessed the birth of two household names in France.
Towards the end of the 18th century it was a centre for the production of chemicals. A French chemist named Claude Louis Berthollet discovered the properties of sodium hypochlorite, from which he developed the product that has a place in every French home today. He called it “Eau de Javel.” It is still called that in French; in English it’s known as bleach.
By the time World War I broke out in 1914, Javel had become an area of mostly wasteland and allotments. An engineer of Dutch/Polish origin purchased a large plot of land there. He built a vast factory to manufacture munitions for the war effort, employing some 12,000 female workers who produced up to 30,000 shells daily. Their considerate employer provided health care, maternity pay, canteens, crèches and clinics for these ladies. They must have wished that the war would never end.
When it did their employer needed to find a different product for his workers. What he decided to manufacture was the new-fangled horseless carriage. The logo of André Citroën’s new venture was two chevrons, which are still seen today on the front of every Citroën motor vehicle. In May of 1919 the first Citroën Type A went into production, and in 1948 the quirky, iconic 2CV took France by storm.
Sadly, innovator, caring employer and creator of one of the great names in French industry, André Citroën was a broken and bankrupt man by 1935, victim of market forces and his Achilles heel – gambling. Michelin took over his company, and within a year he was dead at the age of 57. But he left behind an enduring legacy and a name known and respected all over the world.
Javel is no longer a small village, but part of the 15th arrondissement of Paris. There is no trace there of the chemical factories, nor the Citroën car production plant which closed down in the late 1970s and relocated out of Paris. The memory of its great founder remains in the local Metro station named after him, and in the futuristic André Citroën Park. This innovative design covers about 30 acres, with wide lawns, two vast glass pavilions and a number of water features. I loved its neatness and clean geometric shapes, and imagined that once man inhabits the moon this is the kind of park he’ll build there. It was the sort of place where two very hot cyclists could enjoy spending half an hour in the shade with a cool drink.