Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir

by Katherine Watt

  “Monsieur.” Ninon said, extending her hand to Charles.

  Charles impertinently seized her hand and turned it upward, kissing her wrist, a clever little ploy he had adopted to initiate intimacy. To be fair, it had worked incredibly well with the young women Charles had engaged with thus far. Ninon snapped her hand away and turned her back on him. Oh dear, she thought, this is going to be an even bigger endeavor than I had expected!

  “Monsieur le Marquis!” she scolded, “I am not one of your young friends! If you behave in such a manner again, our communications will cease immediately!”She gazed pointedly at the Maquis for a full minute as he wilted noticeably before she turned and took a seat on a nearby settee. After another full minute she invited him to take a seat as well, in an adjoining chair.

  Afraid to say the wrong thing, the Maquis just stared silently at Ninon, waiting for her next direction. For her part Ninon just watched the young man, taking some satisfaction in his discomfort. Finally she began.

  “Monsieur le Marquis, as a friend to your mother, I have agreed to make a man of you. You seem to perhaps have misinterpreted what this means. I fear our lessons will not be at all comfortable for you. I will in fact be sharing with you many secrets of the female heart.”

  At this the Maquis noticeably perked up and leaned forward a bit.

  “But I will also be exposing your own frailties!” Ninon continued. Charles settled back into his seat, looking dejected.

  “I am dining tonight with Marquis de la Rochefoucauld, Madame de la Salière and La Fontaine. Perhaps you would like to join us. La Fontaine will tell two new stories.”

  The invitation made Charles feel that perhaps his transgressions were not fatal. While his tutoring was not to take a path that he had hoped, he was not being tossed out the window like the morning honey pot.

  Charles pulled himself up to his full height and composure; “Madame de l’Enclos, thank you from the bottom of my heart for not only including me this evening, but for considering my education in the ways of the heart. I very much look forward to the dinner this evening.” Looking anxiously toward the door he was eager to get away.

  “Mais, Monsieur!” Ninon said, “Make no mistake about this undertaking of ours! We are going to take a course of morals together. Yes, sir, MORALS! But do not be alarmed at the mere word, for there will be between us only the question of gallantry to discuss, and that, you know, sways morals to so high a degree that it deserves to be the subject of a special study. The very idea of such a project is to me infinitely laughable. However, if I speak only of reason to you, will you not tire of our discourse? This is my only concern, for as you know, I am a pitiless reasoner when I wish to be. With any other heart than that which you misunderstand, I could be a philosopher such that the world never knew.”

  And with that she turned and walked out of the room, leaving poor Charles gazing at her back.

  Playfulness and Weakness

  Ninon sat at her desk, pen poised thoughtfully above a sheet of paper. Contrary to his fantasies of long afternoons in Ninon’s private rooms, her letters to the Marquis de Sévigné were the delivery of her promise to him to educate him in matters of love.

  “At your age, being unable to think of entering into a serious engagement, it is not necessary to find a friend in a woman; one should seek to find only an amiable mistress.

  The intercourse with women of lofty principles, or those whom the ravages of time force into putting themselves forward only by virtue of great qualities, is excellent for a man who, like themselves, is on life’s decline. For you, these women would be too good company, if I dare so express myself.”

  Ninon paused and thought for a moment about what she was saying to the young Marquis. The handsome young man had indicated that he would like to be next in line for Ninon’s affections. While the notion was intriguing for about half a second, she knew the folie of such a temptation.

  She continued, “Riches are necessary to us only in proportion to our wants; and what you would better do, I think, is to frequent the society of those who combine with agreeable figure, gentleness in conversation, cheerfulness in disposition, a taste for the pleasures of society, and strong enough not to be frightened by one affair of the heart.

  “In the eyes of a man of reason they appear too frivolous, you will say: but do you think they should be judged with so much severity? Be persuaded, Marquis, that if, unfortunately they should acquire more firmness of character, they and you would lose much by it. You require in women stability of character! Well, do you not find it in a friend? It is not our virtues you need; but our playfulness and our weakness. The love which you could feel for a woman who would be estimable in every respect, would become too dangerous for you. Until you can contemplate a contract of marriage, you should seek only to amuse yourself with those who are beautiful; a passing taste alone should attach you to one of them: be careful not to plunge in too deep with her; there can nothing result but a bad ending. If you did not reflect more profoundly than the greater part of young people; I should talk to you in an entirely different tone; but I perceive that you are ready to give to excess, a contrary meaning to their ridiculous frivolity. It is only necessary, then to attach yourself to a woman who, like an agreeable child, might amuse you with pleasant follies, light caprices, and all those pretty faults which make the charm of a gallant intercourse.”

  Fast forward some three hundred and fifty years. My dear friend Siobhan has been in love with her best friend for three years. He doesn’t know. They share a work space and compare notes on their jobs every day. They eat lunch together and go for drinks after hours. During that time he’s been in two serious relationships and she has, at emotional cost to herself, counselled him through the ups and downs of each relationship.

  The women were each ten years younger than her best friend and pretty much emotional wrecks. The first wanted desperately to get pregnant, finally resorting to the costly expense of in vitro fertilization. When a much celebrated pregnancy ended in miscarriage, the stress and grief tore the couple apart. Siobhan was there to pick up the crumbled pieces of her friend and hoped that after an appropriate period he would recognize that what he was really looking for was right in front of him.

  Unfortunately, the friend’s appropriate period of time was much shorter than Siobhan could have anticipated and before you could blink there was a new pretty young thing sharing his apartment. This one was a lost soul of twenty five, trying to find herself. Her latest enterprise was an expensive wine training program that required her to travel around Europe learning all the important things about wine. She needed the man, not so much to support her financially (her generous daddy was taking care of that) but to support her emotionally. Often. And a lot. Siobhan took a deep breath and settled back for another long wait. “It won’t last,” she told me. “I don’t see him with her in the long term. Soon he will tire of the drama.”

  In the meantime, Siobhan rearranged the furniture in his apartment to be more user friendly, stocked his liquor cabinet with things that he would like and helped him negotiate a new employment contract earning him one hundred thousand euros a year more money. He celebrated the exciting windfall by buying himself an expensive watch. He texted a picture of the watch to Siobhan.

  Out of the blue I got an urgent message from Siobhan who was on a business trip in Ireland. “He just broke up with her! I am returning to Paris tonight and we are going to have dinner tomorrow. Let’s have drinks tonight.”

  It would seem that Best Friend has been following Ninon’s advice for his entire adult life. Do men ever outgrow the appetite for playfulness and weakness? Is it possible for Siobhan to move from the friend zone to a romance with Best Friend?

  Elliot told me one time that he contributed to the success of his twenty year marriage to the fact that he “married his best friend”. He has confided to me stories of a wild past with multiple girlfriends at the sa
me time; models, ballerinas, artists, all with traumatic problems and neediness. Joan certainly seems to be none of these things, the epitome of self confidence, quiet and stability. Somewhere along the line Elliot figured out how to make the leap from an agreeable child to a woman estimable in every respect.

  Best Friend is crushed. Siobhan confides that she needs to give him some time before she tells him how she feels. “But how much time?” I ask? “Look what happened last time!” It’s tricky we agree. Or is it just too scary? What if she tells him how she feels and he says he doesn’t feel the same? Which would be the greater loss? The loss of her Best Friend? Or the loss of hope? Hope that someday, this man will be hers.

  What is required here is a leap of faith. A heroic leap of faith.

  What about my own leap of faith? Can I learn from Ninon here? Is the potential reality of something real with Philippe worth risking the loss of the dream of something real with Philippe? After all, if it’s never to be, wouldn’t it be better just to accept that and move on? Am I brave enough to risk a heroic leap of faith?

  The Funk

  I’m in a funk. It’s ironic actually. I just told a friend that one of the best things about living in Paris was that I had absolutely no worries. I should have known better than to tempt fate. I came home to an email that changed everything. The owner of my apartment, the PERFECT apartment in Paris, was planning to live in it beginning March, the day my current lease expires.

  My heart stopped. I had asked Stephanie to get an agreement from the owner that I could rent from her next year. It was taking an awfully long time for her to answer. I should have suspected. Stephanie said that she wants to be here at least until the beginning of September. Did I want her to talk to the owner of a place in the ninth and see if they would like a tenant?

  I was still stuck at the idea of giving up my perfect apartment. I couldn’t even think about the ninth.

  After about twenty minutes the survivor side of me kicked in. On the other side of this roller coaster was a better thing. I just had to buckle my seat belt and enjoy (???) the ride. “It’s an opportunity for growth,’’ I told myself. Show what you’re made of. “In March you will be remarking how absolutely fortuitous this change was for you.”

  For the next two days my apartment felt like a traitor. Looking out the window at the produce vendor, the rug man, the Japanese restaurant, they all felt like co-conspirators to the treason. Je suis la fille américaine! I belong here. I’m part of the fabric of the neighborhood.

  But maybe not. Options ran through my head. I could start looking for an apartment to buy again. Maybe fate was preparing to put the ideal place in my path. After all, I missed the apartment upstairs when it sold for a price I could easily handle. Maybe there was a more perfect place in store for me. Maybe the owner would find, after six months she didn’t really want to live in Paris, in Montmartre, on the most perfect street, in the only apartment with the perfect view on the perfect curve of the perfect street. Maybe the summer months will be so horribly hot and miserable that she will hate it and will want to get out fast! Maybe she will find that she doesn’t like living in Paris at all. Or maybe not. After all, it is perfect.

  Besides, I can’t plant myself in a temporary place based on a bunch of maybes.

  Then I considered actual survival. How could I ensure that I would have a roof over my head, regardless of whether or not it was the perfect roof? Right before I got the email I was having dinner with visitors from the US who were staying in a little apartment on rue Lamarck, right across from the metro station. My friend Silvie manages it and I always thought it looked quite charming from her website. I wondered about it being on the stairs to the métro. Would it be noisy? Dona and Alan assured me it was very quiet. After dinner I went to take a tour of the apartment. It had potential but the furnishings, decor and accoutrements were not at all to my liking. I thought about what I would do if I were to live there long term. The little cafe next door was nice. The bartender took great pains to make me the perfect sidecar. He even invited me back the next night to have another.

  But no. Besides, it was right next door to Caroleen! Wouldn’t that just frost her balls? The idea actually became appealing for half a second. Maybe for six months while my owner decided that Paris didn’t suit her at all? Too many ifs. What if she decided not only did Paris not suit her but she wanted to sell the apartment and she wouldn’t sell it to me? What if she decided Paris suited her perfectly and she stayed? What if she decided that she would prefer to go back to short term rentals and make a bit more money? There were far too many uncertainties to just wait around.

  And then I stupidly looked at Caroleen’s photo blog; her fabulous website that is a placeholder until she launches her actual website that she’s been working on for three years. Every day she posts a picture or two with a short caption. Not this day. She posted a picture of a poster with a cartoon of a French woman, terribly thin, terribly stylish.

  “Yesterday I happened to walk into my local butcher shop just as everyone was still reeling from the size of an American woman who had bought a chicken.

  Knowing I am originally from the U.S. they asked me if it’s true that obesity in America has become epidemic, repeating something I’d heard from a group of French doctors I’d been training at The American Hospital of Paris: In Paris, as most hospitals don’t have scales to accommodate people of such proportions, they get sent to a veterinary clinic outside the city, in Asnières, where livestock gets weighed.

  Obesity (not to be confused with being surpoids or overweight) in Paris, while it exists, is still a visual rarity, as noted with surprise over and over by Anglo visitors. French girls and women are depicted in illustrations as stick thin, which of course is not true nor is it the norm or even desired norm.

  But fashion and beauty, synonymous with Paris, is a big part of French culture; most café terrace chairs face outwards so passersby can be seen - and appreciated. If one is to look up at the sky just about anywhere in Paris no electrical or telephone lines will be visible because, as a French architect friend explained, “It ruins the eye!”

  I used to wonder if Mireille Guiliano’s best-selling “French Women Don’t Get Fat” shouldn’t have been titled, “French Women Won’t Get Fat.” When I was growing up, my father, who never lost his French accent or sense of élégance, used to admonish all of us, “Take a little pride in your appearance!” This was in the U.S. where, later, because of small “French touches” to my wardrobe - a scarf here, a one-of-a-kind necklace there (I designed my own) - I unwittingly became a sort of “fashion trendsetter” on campus, particularly in grad school.

  Concerning obesity, health is one consideration yes, but for now, at least, the French still like to quote Russian novelist and philosopher Fyodor Dostoevsky at dinner parties: “Beauty will save the world.”

  La beauté has been an integral part of French culture for centuries - besides fashion we see it in French art, architecture, gastronomy, design, not to mention French savoir-faire drives the world’s luxury market - and is highly valued.”

  Clearly this was aimed at me. And it’s complete bullshit! The people in my neighborhood are so very lovely to me. The butcher is so friendly since I asked him how his vacation was. The cheesemonger the same. The wine seller, the servers at Cépage, the girls at the grocery store. The only person who is reeling over my size is Caroleen. She didn’t seem to mind for the two years I was picking up her tabs and buying her seafood platters and lobsters at L’Ecailler. What changed? Clearly not her image of her own wonderfulness, “unwittingly becoming a sort of fashion trendsetter on campus”?

  And seriously? Doctors sending their patients out into the suburbs where the livestock gets weighed? Well played, my dear! You managed to come up with the ultimate insult. But like your other fabrications and fairy stories, this is not true.

  What changed was that I dared to walk away from her. I dared to chal
lenge her bigotry and her racism. I dared to decide she wasn’t worth my time.

  And now, six months later it is killing her that I’m still here, still thriving, still making friends, still becoming part of the neighborhood.

  Fasten my seatbelt indeed. It might be a bumpy ride. But I’ve dealt with far more challenging foes than the vain, and evil Caroleen. She will not send me packing. I will come out of this little set back in a better place.

  A Tale of Two Meals

  It’s fortuitous that my daughter just gifted me an eBook; On Looking; A Walkers Guide to the Art of Observation. It was my intended reading material for today’s lunch. After reading the prologue I was reminded to stop reading and pay attention to my meal. And while I was enjoying today’s delicious selections, I thought a lot about this meal in contrast with last night’s.

  Last night I had lunch with some new friends. I have to admit I was a bit intimidated to meet Dan and Vicky. I know Dan only from the internet, having connected with him on another social media page. They live in West Hollywood and seem to enjoy a very chic life. When I invited them to join me for Wednesday jazz night in my favorite café in the 9ème, I worried that it would be a bit low brow for them. They are staying in an apartment featured in Architectural Digest and had an amazing lunch at L’Avenue followed by dessert at Le Crillon. Upon meeting them, I warned them, “This is MY Paris!”

  I needn’t have worried, Dan and Vicky are two of the loveliest people you would ever want to meet! And I mean that sincerely! As soon as they walked in Dan gave me a big hug and introduced me to his best friend Vicky who pulled me into another hug. They are so warm and interesting. We sat for hours drinking wine, listening to jazz, eating good food and talking talking talking. It was one of the best nights I’ve had ever! And it included all of my favorite things; my favorite French drummer, my very favorite French restaurant owner, and Paris.