Paris, I Love You but You're Bringing Me Down

by Rosecrans Baldwin

  But each day his eyes had plumper bags. Claude was running out of time. None of our ideas were satisfactory, never mind avant-garde. By Thursday, Claude was exhorting, “You guys, don’t you realize you have a chance to make history? Do you want to be fucking famous or not?”

  The client’s business was a website where people sought answers to general questions, about plumbing or computer maintenance. Fame through the ages seemed a long shot here. To Claude’s credit, the client’s brief did demand something both “totally out there” and “outside the box,” to address their drop in business: people asking fewer questions on their website.

  So my slogan was “Ask More.”

  Genius, oui.

  To promote it, my idea was to install a forty-foot-tall translucent plastic chicken in Trafalgar Square filled with thousands of green eggs. Un poulet énorme. Surely, I explained, using my French-English scramble, people would wonder, “How did that get there, that giant chicken and all those eggs?” After all, I said, was there une question more fundamental to mankind than l’œuf et le poulet, and en quel ordre they originated? I explained that we’d host a contest: the client would award an obscenely large amount of money to whichever passerby got closest to guessing how many eggs were inside le gros poulet; and there’d be experts on hand to answer questions about how to measure a giant chicken’s volume; and we’d film it all, and stick it on YouTube; and what the fuck.

  “Okay, but why not rugby-sized eggs?” someone asked. “To pick up World Cup spirit?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Absolutely.”

  “But wait, why a chicken?” Claude asked, clutching his chin.

  “That is exactly the question,” I said, in an effort to buy time.

  Claude snapped, “No, exactly what question?”

  In fact, I had no idea. My chicken had appeared to me that morning on the Métro, somewhere beneath the Louvre-Rivoli station. The rest I was inventing on the spot. At what point I should cease and apologize for stringing bullshit streamers around the room, I figured they would let me know.

  “Oui, exactement,” I said, and paced beside the conference table. “Donc, vous voyez…” A few more seconds. Then it came to me. “Indeed, Claude, this is the type of question, c’est la type de question, that people will be asking. ‘Why a chicken? Pourquoi un poulet?’ ‘Hey, a giant chicken in London, what is that doing there, qu’est-ce qu’il se passe?’ But this is the chicken’s raison d’être, just like our client’s: to inspire questions. Because how are questions formed? From provocation—the very raison d’être of advertising itself. Thus, it is our job, notre obligation, to provoke and inspire, faire l’inspiration. We make people ‘ask more,’ and thus the chicken becomes this slogan embodied.”

  Claude had been frowning. Now he switched to cautiously eager. “Okay,” Claude said, “whatever, go do it,” and he ordered Jean-Luc, a young designer, to develop some drawings of my chicken.

  Jean-Luc, who spoke very little English, looked confused.

  The next day, we gathered in a boardroom on the agency’s top floor. The pitch would be done by conference call, addressed to a telephone shaped like a starfish. A few directors were attending, as well as Bernard, the main boss, who stood against a wall, chewing gum and reading his BlackBerry.

  Of our three ideas to present, my chicken went last. I’d say I was nervous, but in fact I was semicalm. I’d never pitched anything before, so what could they expect of me? The previous evening, Pierre had said, “Just tell a little story.”

  Luckily, the clients were English speaking.

  I began by explaining what it had been like for me to arrive in Paris. To leave behind the accustomed and be thrust into moments where the only solution was to inquire, to request help. I talked about my passions for the Place des Vosges and croque-Monsieur, and how little they’d helped me so far. I explained about locking myself out of my cell phone. I described how Paris itself was becoming my catalyst, my provocation, and how it made me ask more.

  So, rather than Paris, a giant chicken.

  Ten minutes after that, once I’d finished, the client’s marketing team requested a five-minute break. Their team was a Eurozone trio: Spaniard, German, Brit. On return, they said they disliked all of our ideas. “These were big disappointments, guys.” The main problem with mine, the Spaniard said, was that one of their Israeli competitors already had a slogan, “Ask Me,” that was too similar to “Ask More.” The giant chicken, they said, was okay. The Spaniard said, “It was good, and totally out there, as per our request.”

  “But maybe too much,” the German said.

  The Brit chimed in, “At the moment, terrorism makes promotions a bit difficult to orchestrate in London. A giant chicken appearing overnight, it could be perceived as a threat.”

  A minute later, the Spaniard admonished me in particular. “Believe me, it is the very last thing we would like to be associated with, terrorism.”

  After the call, Claude led the team out to the terrace. In a haze of afternoon cloud, almond-colored, the Eiffel Tower was fuzzy in the near distance, its bodice and skirt obscured. Domes of churches below us were like brown mushroom caps. Smokers smoked. Everyone made sarcastic comments that the wind took away. The clients were lambasted as philistines and dickless nerds.

  Bernard came up next to me. “Hey, that was a nice presentation.”

  “They thought my slogan was stupid,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, it’s how you sold it. You did a good job, actually.”

  “But they didn’t buy it,” I said.

  Bernard looked up from his BlackBerry and shrugged. His long hair, loose to his shoulders, was about two-thirds black, one-third silver.

  “Anyway, how about pitching a motel chain tomorrow?” he said.

  Thus, the joke: Two French advertising bosses, a Texan marketing executive, and a novice American copywriter walk into a bar …

  The next morning, Bernard explained, our agency would be pitching a giant French motel chain. The chain had recently been purchased by American investors, who were prepared to spend a big chunk of money on advertising. So far, Bernard said, the agency had pitched the chain’s marketing director once and been rejected. But he was granting us a second chance. Ever since the first pitch, a creative team had been reworking the material around the clock. A lot of money was at stake. The agency would be going into the pitch with its biggest Parisian guns: Bernard’s boss’s boss, Nicole, who was the president of our holding company’s Europe operations; a guy named Paul, known as the agency’s “branding czar”; and me.

  Why me? I said.

  “Just do the same as today,” Bernard said, dodging the question.

  That evening, Paul the branding czar was not happy. His creative director, Céline, who would not be at the presentation, was said to be livid. Paul and Céline had been reworking their pitch with a big group, Paul explained, but there was one intractable problem: the motel chain’s marketing boss, an American, specifically a Texan, was believed to personally dislike Céline and her team.

  “And that is why,” Paul wearily explained, “you will play the American creative director brought in specially from New York to replace Céline and save the job, okay?”

  I said something like, Yeah?

  Paul handed me the presentation to memorize.

  The next morning, Friday of my third week at the agency, I wore my one suit to meet the branding czar in the president’s penthouse office. Handshakes all around, but no kisses. Nicole, the big big boss, gave me a compressed smile from behind her desk.

  “So,” Nicole said, “I hear you are good at presenting. You are new?”

  Nicole was small but commanding, a slender older Parisian wearing an expensive-looking suit. Her head rested on a cloud of gold scarf. Nicole appeared to have two assistants, who fluttered when she moved. She radiated something—prestige? Perfume? In the taxi to the presentation, Nicole told me the Texan would most likely say no to whatever we presented, but perhaps not, perhaps my a
ccent would win the day.

  The motel chain’s office was located nearby on an imperial, leafy boulevard in the eighth arrondissement, not far from the Arc de Triomphe, surrounded by embassies. Their building was a traditional Haussmann wedge, très beau, six stories tall plus an attic the color of ripe blueberries. We were shown into a conference room on the third floor. When the Texan arrived, he didn’t look American. He wore a sleek, trim suit, and he and Nicole immediately swapped bises; he knew whom to kiss. The Texan’s assistant brought us coffees. She was a brooding French girl with black glasses and a faraway look, and she bid us to sit at a massive table.

  The Texan set the mandate in English: “Now, you are aware I’ve already said no to you guys before. But we’re here, my mind’s open, let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Paul told the Texan not to worry. “We really have something to knock your socks off.” Nicole introduced me, saying I’d been flown in specially from New York for a fresh perspective, and that I and my crack team of créatifs had been working in seclusion nonstop.

  Nicole nodded at me to begin. The Texan’s assistant dimmed the lights.

  I guess the feeling was like I wasn’t wholly in my body.

  The previous evening, before going home, Paul the czar had given me pointers on how to present, like Sell the Slogan First, and Make Him Believe We Know His Business Better Than He Does. So I explained to the Texan that our new slogan was guaranteed to be remembered. As soon as people heard it, his motels would be perceived as higher-class, cooler than at present, “more Hollywood.” All of this had been prepared for me, about Hollywood and perception, the new galaxy of hôteliers that his revamped motels would rule. But I tried to make it mine. I clicked through PowerPoint slides and showed pictures of French celebrities I didn’t recognize, stars I said would be his “brand ambassadors.” I was really building it up; it was time for the kill. I told him to get ready. I clicked the remote. The slogan for his motels would be “A New Fourth Star Is Born.”

  The Texan asked me to pause.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “Hotels are rated on a five-star system. You’re saying my hotels are subpar?”

  Actually, Pierre and I had noticed the same thing the night before, when Pierre had helped me run through the pitch before going home. But we’d figured we lacked the caffeine to read it correctly.

  Paul snapped to high alert. “No,” Paul said, “it is three. Three stars, the Michelin Guide? This is why, your hotels, they create a fourth star. They’re so good, it is a new level.”

  “Trust me,” the Texan said, “you’re talking to a hotel man. It’s a five-star system. Please do not tell me my business. In fact, please do not tell me your whole pitch is geared around, what, taking us down a peg?”

  Nicole said smoothly, “No, of course not. It could be changed. For example, ‘A New Fifth Star Is Born.’ ‘A New Sixth Star.’ It is the concept that is important. Why don’t we look at the rest of the creative?”

  Nicole nodded at me, and I resumed talking my way through slides of mocked-up magazine and television advertisements, where young women lounged in rooms that looked like bedchambers in a Danish space station. When I’d finished, the assistant relumed the lights with a remote control, which also raised the blinds.

  “Listen to me.” Nicole addressed the Texan. “We can rework the slogan, of course.” She placed both of her hands flat on the table. “Five stars, six stars, this is math. But the concept is very sexy. Extremely compelling, don’t you find?”

  The Texan also put forth his hands.

  “Nicole, you know I appreciate all the work you do.” He took an extra moment to nod at me and Paul. “Look. Yesterday I threw away our mattresses. Every hotel in the country, every mattress, thousands of mattresses headed for the dump. You know why? Because we’re going to replace them with these wonderful new beds—hypoallergenic, state of the art. So let me assure you, we are committed to this overhaul. What I mean is, our new residences will by no means be inferior products.”

  Nicole fenced charmingly for a minute, but the Texan was reluctant to engage. He was tired but smug; he’d been planning to turn us down no matter what. The Texan stood up and dallied beside the conference table.

  “You know what I like?” he said a moment later. “I like that BMW slogan. Do you know that slogan? ‘The ultimate driving machine.’ Now, you know why I like it?”

  According to the Texan’s posture, there was a podium in the room that was invisible to the rest of us.

  Paul said dryly, “Because you can’t go above ‘ultimate’?”

  “That’s it,” the Texan said. “It’s better than the best, the best you can get. And I just don’t think—well, if you had an option between a five-star hotel…” His hands weighed the decision. “Even if we’re the new fourth star? I don’t think it’s a tough decision.”

  “But let’s be honest,” Nicole said, smiling, “your hotels are not BMWs.”

  The Texan chuckled. “Maybe so. But that’s why we hire people like you.”

  * * *

  Olivier whistled at me when I got back to the office. “Ooh, the man in black, but you look so serious today!” He touched the right sleeve of my jacket and sang in French, “So beautiful, my little choo-choo!”

  Françoise muffled her laughter with her hands. Julie frowned at both of them while I hung my jacket off the back of my chair. My shirt was soaked from armpits to hem. My pulse was just beginning to slow.

  Julie said in English, “But why today are you wearing a funeral suit?”

  Then Nicole and the czar appeared in the door. The room went quiet. Nicole crossed the room and spoke to Pierre and André for a moment, then she motioned for me to join her in the hallway.

  Nicole told me she’d just received an e-mail: the Texan said no.

  “Forget it,” Nicole said in English, patting my arm. “Today the stars were not in our favor.” She laughed. “But we may use you again, would that be okay?”

  When I’d returned to my desk, everyone had heard the news. Françoise said, “Now see, I don’t understand why they ask you to do this in your first month?”

  “Ah, but he has the advantage,” Olivier said. He knotted his hands behind his head. A number of people gathered around to listen. “He is American. You think, in all my years, have I ever talked to that woman?” Olivier pointed at me with a ruler. “And him, already they’re good friends!”

  Olivier switched to English and asked me, “Hey, mister, how say this, fwacking crazy.”

  “Fucking crazy,” I said.

  “This business?” Olivier said. “IS FUCKING CRAZY.”

  Olivier walked out. Not only was he pissed, but he seemed injured. For a minute, lots of people stood around not saying anything, then they went away to resume their work.

  10

  Parisians love Paris more than anybody does. I heard it all the time from Parisian coworkers, how much they loved their city’s charms. Leaves on the grand boulevards changing color, window displays adjusting to the season. In late September, somehow all of Paris seemed more French for being in flux.

  Pierre had two sisters. One of them, Monique, an economics lecturer at the Sorbonne, invited Rachel and me to a party. “I have a marvelous view this time of year, you must come see.” Monique and her husband lived close to us, four floors above the Canal Saint-Martin, in a trendy district on the Right Bank, north of Place de la République.

  We walked over from our apartment, going up along the canal. At nine p.m., hundreds of twentysomethings were having picnics along the banks, throwing tiny impromptu dinner parties under a purpling sky. Normally the canal is a working waterway, but at that hour no boats were moving. Fishermen lined the banks, homeless and otherwise. At Monique’s apartment overlooking the canal, sixty people, young and old, were dancing to a remix of “Toxic” by Britney Spears. We met Monique’s husband, Jérôme, a mathematician, at the door. He was tan, sharp, all eyes. Jérôme had appeal off the charts, yet an aura of no bullshit
. He had a way of talking while smoothing back his hair that said he’d obtain your secrets.

  “You’re the writer,” Jérôme told me in French, after he fetched us champagne. “The guy working with Pierre. You speak French?”

  “Not a lot,” I said, in French, pas beaucoup.

  “Okay,” he said, “but I won’t speak English with you!”

  “No problem,” I said.

  “Fuck English,” Jérôme yelled at me in English.

  “Fuck English,” I repeated.

  Jérôme had plump lips. He licked them a lot. Jérôme pulled me in close to say in French, “I love this, this word ‘fuck.’ But I agree, it’s not good for you to stay protected inside English.”

  He said something else in French that I didn’t follow. At the end of the room, behind the dancers and through the hanging smoke, was an enormous plate window. There you could see the depth of western Paris in blues and grays, its Gothic buildings staggered like rows of folding chairs. Finally I heard Jérôme say, “This city, you must embrace it. Learn something, or you’re lost.”

  “Oui,” I said. “C’est ma stratégie.”

  “Ha! Good, be strategic,” Jérôme said, laughing. He added in English, “You will make an army.”

  By midnight, the air was speared with cold. I told Rachel during our walk home that I was pleased to have snuck stratégie into conversation. It was a new word I’d learned that week from Olivier. I’d also learned the French for “stapler”—agrafeuse—because Olivier hadn’t understood me when I’d asked to borrow “la stapler,” so he taught me its gorgeous name, which sounded to me more like an expensive motorcycle.

  Later, I’d have trouble remembering agrafeuse. I never figured out why. Even as my fluency increased, I couldn’t latch on to it. At the office, I’d say, “Pardon, Olivier, est-ce que je peux emprunter…” and when I couldn’t remember agrafeuse, I’d mimic clenching my hand, as if squeezing a stapler, or a hand exerciser. Which confused Olivier. The first time it happened, he pulled out a hand exerciser from his bottom-left drawer and told me to keep it.