The day was still young, and the sun was casting its springtime spell on the streets of Paris. A perfect morning to sit outside somewhere and read the paper while drinking a large café crème. I put on my sunglasses and, full of the joys of spring, walked past two girls in light coats with scarves wound several times round their necks who were standing at one of the newspaper kiosks, leafing through the magazines.
I was just thinking that I would have to talk to Madame Clément and François that afternoon about the fact that in three weeks’ time we were going to have important visitors and that the cinema would have to be closed for the film shoot, when I was almost trampled down by a group of Japanese tourists. Laughing and chattering, armed with cameras and brightly colored shopping bags, they were following a tourist guide as she thrust her red umbrella into the air in time with her footsteps. I stood aside to get out of the way and found myself standing in front of a newspaper kiosk.
RINGS FROM CARTIER—IS THIS HER NEW MAN? The headline in Le Parisien hit me right in the eye. I was dumbfounded as I looked at the photo. A young man with dark brown curly hair was looking back at me. He was staring into the camera in a state of shock and seemed to be quite surprised himself. Beside him stood a smiling blonde in a black evening dress. It took a couple of seconds for me to realize who the man was. “I don’t believe it!” I said.
The newspaper seller was very friendly. He even offered me a carrier bag. I bought not only Le Parisien but also Le Monde, Le Figaro, Libération, Les Echos, L’Equipe, and, just to be on the safe side, the current edition of Paris Match. Then I rushed excitedly, carrying cat food, shirts, and papers, the few yards to the Café de Flore and went up to the first floor.
At this time of day, not much was going on on the first floor of the Flore, and you could sit there undisturbed. We Parisians normally avoided establishments like the Deux Magots or the Café de Flore, where tourists would sit every day, trying to soak up the atmosphere of the old days, but if it couldn’t be avoided, we preferred the Café de Flore, which was a bit farther from the church of Saint-Germain, and then we went for the first floor, where tourists rarely penetrated, unless they were looking for the bathroom.
I crossed the sunlit room, where there were only two ladies deep in lively conversation, looking suspiciously like denizens of the publishing world. They looked up quickly as I came in, then turned back to a list that was lying on the table in front of them. One of them was talking, underlining her words with lively gestures. The other was nodding with interest and making notes in a little black Moleskine.
I found refuge at one of the rear tables by the window. Just to be on the safe side, I kept my sunglasses on. A waiter in a black vest came over to take my order. After ordering my café crème and scrambled eggs, I almost expected to hear “Of course, Monsieur Bonnard.” But the waiter didn’t even say “Of course, monsieur.” He just growled an indifferent “Oui” and took back the menu. The waiters in the Flore are not easy to impress and are usually in a bad mood. Still, over the years very important guests have sat at the tables in their café and held important conversations about art, philosophy, and literature. Compared with them, what was the owner of a small cinema who had just made his way onto the front page of Le Parisien, where he didn’t look particularly intelligent?
“Paparazzi, damn it!” Solène had hissed as we were surprised by the flash of the two photographers on the deceptively quiet place Vêndome on Sunday evening. “Come on, Alain. Just keep cool.”
She’d taken me by the hand and quickly led me the few paces to the entrance of the Ritz, paying no attention to the two men in their leather jackets, who followed us to the hotel, trying to tempt the actress out of her reserve with their questions. I admired the self-control with which Solène ignored the paparazzi. She said nothing, looking obstinately forward as she hurried to the hotel entrance. Then she turned round briefly and smiled thinly.
“Messieurs, if you have any questions to do with my new film, all you have to do is come to the press conference at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Good evening.”
It was clear that those two gentlemen were not necessarily desperate for information about a new Allan Wood film. The question of who was sleeping with whom was far more interesting.
“The shadow side of fame,” Solène had explained with a laugh after we had run past the porter like two kids who’d just broken a window. We were now sitting in the lobby. “For a moment, I’d almost forgotten that.” She raised her hands in mock desperation. “At first, I always got terribly upset when one of those stupid snappers jumped out from behind a hedge and then published the craziest stories in the tabloid papers. But it’s best to stay cool. Publicity is part of the job; that’s the way it is. If there’s nothing about you in the papers, you’re on the way down. Then you can take early retirement, or become an animal rights activist.” She grinned. “But if those press dummies get too cheeky, they get it in the neck from my lawyers.”
She’d crossed her legs and was contemplating her pointed black patent-leather shoe. “You wouldn’t believe the people they’ve foisted on me—three months ago, it was the gardener. Headline: ‘She calls him chéri. Is he Lady Chatterley’s lover?’” She smiled broadly. “Kind of sweet, isn’t it? Those gossip sheets really will clutch at any straw to one-up the opposition.” She gave me a sly glance. “I hope you weren’t too shocked, Alain.”
“Aw, it wasn’t that bad,” I replied with a grin.
The incident on the place Vendôme had catapulted Solène back to the present. Her melancholy seemed to have vanished. And so had the paparazzi when I made my way home a little later.
I sank back in the leather upholstery of the Café de Flore and studied the front page of Le Parisien. It was quite amazing to see what fairy tales the paper had invented about the snapshot of Solène and me.
Is the lovely Solène Avril cheating on her Texan landowner? On Sunday evening she was seen standing outside a jeweler’s on the place Vendôme with an attractive man.
I smiled at the flattering thought. The attractive man was me!
The waiter came and slammed a tray with a silver coffeepot, a glass of water, and a jug of hot milk down on the table. I poured myself a coffee, and nearly burned my tongue when, without thinking, I took a great gulp as I read on.
Were the couple looking for an engagement ring? The Hollywood film star, who lives in a luxury villa in Santa Monica and has come to Paris with director Allan Wood to make a new film in the next few weeks, seemed relaxed and happy as she disappeared into the Ritz with the unknown man.
I shook my head in amazement, then put the paper down for a moment because my scrambled eggs had arrived. While I ate it with a chunk of baguette, I looked through the other papers, as well. These papers also reported on Allan Wood’s film and its star. Although she’d been living abroad for many years, Solène Avril was very popular in France—probably mainly because she came from Paris and spoke fluent French. None of these papers had anything about the attractive stranger who’d been seen buying engagement rings at Cartier, though they did mention that some of the scenes would be shot in the Cinéma Paradis. Solène Avril had obviously mentioned this at the previous day’s press conference, and the journalists had zealously taken down all she’d said.
“It’s the cinema I used to go to when I was a little girl. Shooting the film there means a lot to me. And Paris is still Paris. I’ve only just realized how much I’ve missed this city,” quoted Le Figaro, and Le Monde had an article under the headline PARIS, JE T’AIME! SOLÈNE AVRIL AND ALLAN WOOD IN PARADISE! which dealt with the content of the new film a little more extensively.
Tender Thoughts of Paris is the story of Juliette, who accompanies her fiancé, Sam (played by Ron Barker), on a business trip to Paris and, in the cinema she went to when she was young, meets the great love of her youth, Alexander (Howard Galloway), quite by chance. They have three days to visit all their old favorite haunts together and to conjure up a time when everything seemed
possible and feelings had an intensity that never comes back in later life.
“Of course, many things in life are irretrievable. In Tender Thoughts of Paris I’m trying to show that the dreams of the past are never totally lost. They may get overlaid with other things, abandoned, or suppressed. But they’re always there. All you have to do is find them,” says Allan Wood. The shy director appeared at the press conference for only a short while.
Solène Avril, the leading lady in Wood’s new film, is particularly pleased that the Cinéma Paradis, with its rich history, will be one of the original locations.
“In America, these little art-house cinemas have almost died out,” said the French star. “I find it so reassuring that there are people like Alain Bonnard, who maintain quality and traditional values even if that is out of step with the spirit of the age.”
Beneath the article was a photo of Solène Avril and Allan Wood standing in front of an old fireplace. And even in Paris Match, there was a photo collage of Solène Avril, Howard Galloway, and the Eiffel Tower, with a short paragraph about the forthcoming visit of these stars to Paris, which ending with the question of whether the lovely Solène and the handsome Howard might become a couple in real life, as well.
I folded the papers and put them in my plastic bag, then looked around for the waiter, who had not shown himself upstairs for quite a while. In the end, I folded the check and a twenty-euro note, stuck them under my cup, picked up my jacket and all my bags, and headed for the stairs, where a display case had ashtrays and mugs from the Café de Flore for sale. When I passed the cash register downstairs, three waiters were standing there together, chatting. They gave me an indifferent glance and then went on chatting. The ignoramuses did not know whom they were dealing with: Alain Bonnard, a man who stood for quality and traditional values.
After reading those papers in the Café de Flore, which had amused me while at the same time giving me an idea of what it was like to be the focus of public interest, I began to think for the first time that the coming weeks could be quite exciting for me. And I turned out to be right.
I’d hardly taken a couple of paces along the rue Bonaparte with my bags and shirts when my phone rang.
“Wow!” said Robert. “I take my hat off to you, Monsieur Bonnard! I always knew that there was a real dandy hidden somewhere in you. You’re faster than sound!”
“You, too, it seems,” I replied. “Since when have you been reading Le Parisien?”
“Since my friend took over the front page.” Robert gave a sly laugh. “It did take a bit of time till I recognized you. I have seen better photos of you!”
“It was a snapshot.” I grinned as I thought how dumb I looked in the photo. “The paparazzi never sleep.”
“And?”
“And nothing,” I said. “It was a very pleasant evening. And afterward we smoked a cigarette outside.”
“A cigarette afterward?” I realized that he was teasing me, but I still blushed.
“Yes, afterward,” I said. “After the meal. All the rest is just fairy stories.”
He sighed. “You’re destroying all my illusions.”
“I’m inconsolable. Have you ever thought of a career with Le Parisien? You seem to have the kind of imagination needed for a job like that.”
“I know.” He took it as a compliment. “But I prefer astrophysics. Will I see you for lunch?”
“No, no time. I’ll call you.”
“Aha. ‘Don’t call us; we’ll call you’—you’re already starting to sound like a bloody celeb.”
I laughed. “Absolutely, my friend. I’m famous now, you know.”
I swear it was meant as a joke, but when I got to the cinema that day, I learned better.
“Oh, Monsieur Bonnard! Just imagine what’s happened,” said Madame Clément, beside herself with excitement and waving a copy of Le Monde in my face. “A man from the paper was here asking for you. He wants to write about the Cinéma Paradis. Here … his card. You should call him right away, he said. And he thinks our old cinema is fabulous. I took him around and he looked at everything very carefully. Isn’t it all just too exciting? We’re famous!” She stroked her short gray hair and gave a self-satisfied glance in the foyer mirror. “Mon Dieu, just wait till I tell Gabrielle … Solène Avril and Howard Galloway in our cinema!”
Good God was what I thought, too. I had obviously totally underestimated the speed with which that sort of news gets around. In the Cinéma Paradis, at least, everyone was very clearly in the picture.
“Why didn’t you tell us about the film shoot, Monsieur Bonnard?” asked François. His voice was as calm as usual, and only the fact that he raised one eyebrow slightly betrayed his irritation.
My projectionist is a laid-back kind of guy who takes things as they come. He’s absolutely imperturbable. Even now, he only gave me a questioning look, while Madame Clément went on muttering, listing the people from her circle of acquaintances she could tell the great news to.
“I’ve only known for a couple of days,” I said a little guiltily. “In fact, the whole thing was only definitely decided on Sunday evening, and I was going to tell you both today anyway. And now it seems the gentlemen of the press have gotten in before me.”
I looked at the card the journalist from Le Monde, a certain Henri Patisse, had left. At the bottom he’d scribbled a note, asking me to call him. I frowned. I was already more than fed up with journalists. “What exactly did the man want? I can’t tell him anything about engagement rings from Cartier.”
“Engagement rings from Cartier!” blurted Madame Clément. “What do you mean, Monsieur Bonnard? Are you getting engaged?” She opened her eyes wide. Unlike my friend, she seemed to have heard nothing about the nocturnal incident on the place Vendôme.
“Don’t you read Le Parisien, then?” I said, sounding more cynical than I intended.
“Le Parisien—what do you think I am, Monsieur Bonnard?” Madame Clément was visibly piqued. “You probably think that because I sit in the box office and sell tickets, I only read the tabloids. I’m from a respectable family, monsieur. In our house, we read Le Figaro at breakfast. I haven’t always worked in a box office, you know. In the past, I even worked in a library, and it was only when my husband died and I had to bring the children up all on my own that I took the job in Bon Marché because it paid much better, and I’m sure that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Madame Clément, please!” I raised a reassuring hand. I’d obviously hit a sore point. “It was a joke, that’s all. Just forget it, okay? And as far as today’s concerned, I’m really glad you don’t read Le Parisien, because it’s full of total garbage.”
Madame Clément nodded, mollified.
“Now, what exactly did this Monsieur Patisse want?”
“Oh, he was a very serious gentleman.” An expression of great satisfaction crossed Madame Clément’s face. “And very friendly and attentive. He’s already taken some notes about the things I was able to tell him—that the cinema once belonged to your uncle, and that you took it over even though you were trained for a totally different profession.” She looked at me with almost maternal pride, and I couldn’t help thinking that my own mother had found my decision to give up the lucrative trade in bathroom fittings for the United Emirates to go back to the cinema to be a total “head in the clouds” move. “Have you thought it over carefully, son? Giving up such a great job for a stuffy old cinema … well, I just don’t know,” she had said in desperation, and my father had weighed in on her side with a grave expression. “Good jobs don’t grow on trees these days, Alain. Everyone has to grow up sometime.” Those were his words, and that was the first time I asked myself if growing up necessarily meant betraying your dreams to earn as much money as possible. Obviously, it did.
I gave an involuntary sigh.
“It was all right to tell the gentleman from Le Monde those things, wasn’t it, Monsieur Bonnard?” Madame Clément looked at me anxiously, and I nodded.
“Yes, yes, of course. It wasn’t a secret.”
“And he was very enthusiastic about our Les Amours au Paradis series, too. ‘My goodness—Jules and Jim,’ he said when he looked at the program leaflet. ‘I haven’t seen it in ages. I must come and see that.’” Madame Clément pointed at the old black-and-white poster in the foyer, which showed Jeanne Moreau in a baker boy’s cap and sporting a painted mustache as she laughed and ran across a bridge with her two friends. “He stood in front of it for a long time, then shook his head and—well, anyway, he wants to write an article about the Cinéma Paradis and about you, Monsieur Bonnard. About what it’s like to run an art-house cinema these days. It’s not always easy, is it? We all know that!”
She looked over at François, who growled an agreement, and then they both looked at me as if I were d’Artagnan. It wouldn’t have taken much to get me to shout out “All for one! and one for all!” Madame Clément and François had been there from the very beginning, but I still found the way they were standing behind me and the little cinema quite moving.
“Bon. I’ll call the gentleman of the press later.” I nodded to them both and smiled. In actual fact, it was not very easy to be the proprietor of a small cinema, but it had a charm of its own and could sometimes be quite exciting, as the last few days had shown.
But I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that the sudden appearance of a journalist had anything to do with me or the rediscovery of the Cinéma Paradis. For a paper like Le Monde, a story about a cinema like the Paradis was of very limited interest. Unless it was August and they were racking their brains for something to fill the summer gap until the rentrée brought people back to the city. Or it was April and an actress by the name of Solène Avril had, for sentimental reasons, declared a particular cinema to be her favorite.
Before vanishing into my office behind the box office, I turned around once more. “Oh, yes. And about the film shoot—we’ll be closing the cinema for a week at the beginning of May to make it available for the actors and crew. The performances for that week are canceled. Apart from that, nothing will change.”
One Evening in Paris Page 8