Ron and I moved to Princeton, New Jersey, in 2004. I’m now working on a new novel, set in a fictitious town. I spend a good part of the day discovering the yearning of my characters, drawing maps and dreaming up a history. I’m a fairly early riser for a writer; I get up at about seven o’clock. Cup of coffee in hand, I start work by eight-thirty. I work a regular “business” day, a discipline that I suspect is the result of many years spent as an office worker. If I’m writing a novel it must go forward by 500 words each day. Often, of course, I write more than that, and since I start every day by rereading previous work and deleting a great deal of it, it’s probably more like 1,500 words each day. Writing is a practice, like meditation or prayer. You have to keep at it, day after day, even when it seems like absolutely nothing good is happening. Perhaps especially then.
About the book
Lauren B. Davis’s Paris
Paris is a city for wanderers. There are thousands of guide books that will give you all sorts of ideas and guided walks. But, should you actually go to Paris, I encourage you to get lost, be a flâneur. Let yourself discover the city, and perhaps a part of yourself, as you twist and turn through unfamiliar streets.
The city is designed in a series of neighbourhoods, or arrondissements, forming a nautilus shell pattern that spirals out from the 1st arrondissement and circles round to the 20th. So, you can step from the 1st into the 8th, from the 5th into the 13th, resulting in a sort of glorious confusion, if you just accept the fact that you will, of course, get lost. (If that notion truly terrifies you, go into a bookstore and get yourself the indispensable little book called Paris Pratique, which gives you detailed maps of each arrondissement, the Metro stops, bus maps and places of interest. I still have mine in my desk drawer.)
I found Paris a city of contradictions, as I have mentioned elsewhere. This is true, I suppose, of most cities. Rich and poor, glamorous and squalid, safe and not so, dark snaking side streets and grand sun-drenched boulevards: a metaphor, no doubt, for my state of mind. I have friends who say that Paris was their home from the moment they set foot on the cobblestone streets. This was not true for me. Paris never really fit me, in that instantly recognizable way that some places do. I have wondered a great deal about that, about why it might be so. Interestingly, when I first went to the wild and ragged shores of Bretagne, in northwestern France, where the language is so close to Welsh that if you speak Welsh you can make yourself understood, I felt as though I had come home. My mother’s people are Welsh-Irish, and I wonder if finally this immediate connection is something in the blood.
Whatever the reason, I felt like an outsider during my time in Paris, which is an odd position to be in for over a decade, but not without its benefits. I became more of an observer there, and more aware of what I believed and what I didn’t. Since I was often confronted by people whose perspective of the world was very different from mine, I found myself having to justify why I believed such and such a thing, or why I did not. I was surprised, I must admit, by my lack of clarity on a number of issues, and coming in contact with so many different kinds of people, with so many different ideas, forced me to think more critically than I had done back at home, surrounded for the most part by people who thought pretty much as I did. This fresh perspective is a wonderful gift of living in a foreign land, although not always a comfortable one.
There were places in Paris that made me more comfortable, and to which I returned time and time again looking for connection and sometimes solace. You will, however, notice a great lack of bistros and cafés. I am afraid that a horrible allergy to tobacco meant I wasn’t able to hang out at the Café de Flore or Les Deux Magots, had I been so inclined. My haunts of choice were more often gardens and little tea rooms where no smoking was permitted. (I must admit that there is every possibility that I would have felt more at home in Paris if I had been a smoker!)
“Built in 1248, Sainte-Chapelle is like the heart of a stained-glass jewel.”
Lauren B. Davis’s Paris
Sainte-Chapelle, 1st arrondissement, in the Palais de Justice on Ile de la Cité. Built in 1248, this chapel is like the heart of a stained-glass jewel. Because the scale is smaller, it pleased me in a way that Notre Dame’s grandeur failed to. Sainte-Chapelle is perfect Gothic architecture. The upper chapel was the royal family’s place of worship and where they married. It’s a tourist spot, sure, but it’s worth visiting, especially on those days in January when the unending rain and grey skies are getting you down and you need some reviving colour and magic. When you’re done there, wander over to the Place Dauphine, one of the best kept secrets in Paris. It is quiet and utterly residential in the midst of central Paris’s madness. And then, if it is sunset, you can go over to the Pont-Neuf (the oldest bridge in Paris: 1578) and join the rest of the idlers who bring a bottle of wine, some bread and cheese, and sit to watch the sun go down along the silver ribbon of the Seine.
Jardin du Palais Royal, 1st arrondissement. A lovely garden on a square where the writers Jean Cocteau and Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette lived for many years.
Place des Vosges, 4th arrondissement. Well, it’s not in the book, but I wish I’d found a way to work it in. Arguably the most beautiful square in Paris. Victor Hugo’s house stands at no. 6.
The Abbey Bookshop, 5th arrondissement, 29, rue de la Parcheminerie. Run by Brian Spence, the Abbey is well-stocked with Canadian authors. It’s cramped and piled to the rafters, as is the nearby rag-and-bone Shakespeare and Company Bookstore, but Brian often has a pot of coffee and maple syrup to soothe your nerves.
Shakespeare and Company Bookstore, 5th arrondissement, 37, rue de la Bucherie. There’s no place like this place. It is nearly mythological.
Square Tino Rossi, 5th arrondissement. Named for the Argentine singer (1907–83), it is here on the Quai Saint-Bernard that tango dancers gather in the evening. They begin about 9:00 p.m., weather permitting.
Notre-Dame du Liban, 5th arrondissement, 15, rue d’Ulm. I visited this Lebanese Orthodox church and set part of the novel there as the Ferhat family church. It’s a wonderful building with evocative portraits of the desert fathers and mothers.
Medici Fountain in the Jardin du Luxembourg, 6th arrondissement. This brooding and contemplative fountain was one of my pilgrimage places in Paris, evidence of the city’s shadowy side. The fountain, amidst the grace and good humour of the Jardin du Luxembourg, was like one of those bowers at the end of Victorian gardens, dedicated to Saturn and to melancholia. The statue, which I describe in the book, is tragic and brooding; the water is dark and still. When I visited the Jardin, which was often, I would go to the nearby café (there are two in the Jardin, but my favourite was the one near the fountain, once the hangout of the old-guard writers and philosopher-kings of Paris), the one with the marvellously cranky
“There is noplace like Mariage Frères, and I still bribe anyone going to Paris to go there and buy tea for me.”
Lauren B. Davis’s Paris (continued)
waiter who would bring me what he thought I should eat, even if it wasn’t what I ordered, and refused to bring me anything at all if he disapproved of my choices. He was inevitably right, and did much to improve my culinary education.
Mariage Frères tea room, 6th arrondissement, corner of rue des Grands-Augustins and rue de Savoie. There is no place like Mariage Frères, and I still bribe anyone going to Paris to buy and bring back tea for me. There are three Mariage Frères tea rooms in Paris, but this one is my favourite. Downstairs is a tea shop, decorated as a colonial tea house, with thousands of tea choices, and surprisingly helpful sales people dressed in linen suits. Tea-flavoured chocolate, tea breads, cups and saucers, pots, whisks, tea-eggs, spoons … anything you can imagine. Upstairs is the best tea room in Paris, and certainly the only place to go for scones. Paris is not a city where they know what to do with tea—lukewarm water, teabag hanging off the side of the cup—but Mariage Frères is paradise. Coffee is not served, thank you very much, and smoking is not permitted.
Église Saint-Sulpice. I love this church, and it is described in the book. True, the lady chapel is way over the top, but there’s something magical about the place. There is a good book fair occasionally set up in the square and the photography book described in the novel is actually one I bought in that very square. It’s a book of photos by Bill Burke, called Bill Burke Portraits, with an essay by Raymond Carver. Nearby, rue des Canettes, a little 13th-century street, is a lovely reminder of what Paris was before The Gap and Planet Hollywood moved in.
The area where I imagined Matthew living is in the northeast corner of the 8th arrondissement, where it meets with the 9th, the 17th and the 18th, behind the Gare Saint-Lazare. In researching the book I wandered from the Europe Metro to the Place de l’Europe and was struck, staring out at the imposing train tracks, by the harsh industrial nature of this part of Paris. Although the 8th arrondissement is also home to the Champs-Élysées and the flashy avenue Georges V, where many of the world’s rock and movie stars wander, this section of the 8th is where working Parisians live quietly and without the sparkle and glamour of the tourist spots. It seemed to me a place to which Matthew would be drawn, plain and slightly hidden, with the trains, those reminders of flight and escape, so near.
Pont Alexandre III, 8th arrondissement. Surely this is the most beautiful bridge in Paris. From here you can go down the stairs and stroll along the houseboats moored up on the Seine.
Cimitière de Passy in the 16th arrondissement juts out over the Place du Trocadéro. The entrance is on rue du Commandant-Schloesing. It’s a small cemetery compared to the giant Père Lachaise, for example, but it’s
“Le Jardin Shakespeare inside the Pré Catalan became the inspiration for Jack’s cave.”
Lauren B. Davis’s Paris (continued)
my favourite. Debussy, the Guerlain family, Édouard Manet, Berthe Morisot, Louis Renault, Marcel Dassault, Tristan Bernard, Jean Patou, Hippolyte Jean Giraudoux, Gabriel Fauré, are all buried here, but for me the highlight is the tomb of the Russian painter/poet described in the book.
I lived at 16 bis, rue de Passy, for a few years, in the heart of what is known as the Passy Village, and spent any number of afternoons in the cemetery—I am that kind of person.
Jardin Shakespeare, Bois de Boulogne
During our last three years in Paris we moved to 7, boulevard Flandrin, at the other end of the 16th arrondissement. Although I refused to enter the Bois de Boulogne during the evening hours (the time for those more sexually adventurous than I), I did spend a good number of hours walking there during the day. I especially enjoyed the Jardin Shakespeare inside the Pré Catalan, which became the inspiration for Jack’s cave. A sort of garden within a garden, it seemed to me a metaphor for the secret place within the secret place of Jack’s soul.
There is a favourite restaurant of mine in the neighbourhood. It is Le Relais du Bois, 1, rue Guy de Maupassant, 16th arrondissement. When Lucien, the owner, bought the space next door in order to expand, he found a completely sealed yet intact cheese shop. In brilliant good taste, he left it as is, complete with belle époque tiles and fixtures, and cheese cupboards. The only thing he removed, thankfully, was the old cheese. It’s stunning, and the food is simple and good as only Parisian home cooking can be.
If you like Lebanese food, of course you must visit the little neighbourhood spot where we ate out lots and lots. Run by the Medawar family, La Pinède Restaurant is at 10, rue Mignard. And please remember me to Khahil and Joseph and their family. They were invaluable not only for their delicious and reviving food but for the information they shared with me about Lebanon.
“The Goutte-d’Or (Drop of Gold) area, or Barbès, is a Paris that most Parisians avoid. This area is home to Paris’s immigrants.”
Chapelle Sainte-Rita, 18th arrondissement, 65, boulevard de Clichy. This chapel is mentioned in the book, and so I note it here. Sainte-Rita is the patron saint of prostitutes. Henry Miller also frequented this chapel. It is a place of simplicity and of desperation. Kindness and discretion are required.
The Sacré Coeur and Montmartre area, in the 18th arrondissement, is what some would call the heart of Paris, and they may be right. Surely this is a village in the heart of Paris and has an ambience that is unlike anywhere else in the world: cafés and tiny cheese shops, open air markets and winding streets, the Lapin Agile restaurant and artists harassing tourists in the square. Much fun is to be had there, but try to wander away from the most tourist-infested areas and discover where people really live. It’s worth it.
On the other hand, the Goutte-d’Or (Drop of Gold) area, or Barbès, which lies east of and downhill from Montmartre, bordered by boulevard Barbès, boulevard de la Chapelle and the railway tracks running from the Gard
Lauren B. Davis’s Paris (continued)
du Nord, is a Paris that most Parisians avoid. Like Belleville in the 20th arrondissement, this area is home to Paris’s immigrants and is the area where much of the action of The Radiant City takes place. I will quote my Fodor’s guide here: “For a long time the Goutte-d’Or was famous for its ‘slaughterhouses,’ sordid hotels where prostitutes often entertained 60 to 80 clients a day. Tolerated by the public authorities for many years, the hotels were finally closed at the end of the 1970s.” Closed to prostitutes perhaps, but I know people who have lived in them, and believe me, this is a long way from the glamour of tourist Paris. It is here, on rue Sainte-Bruno, where you’ll find Saint-Bernard-de-la-Chapelle, a church that was occupied from June 28 to August 23, 2005, by illegal immigrants threatened with deportation.
The famous Marché aux Puces is just on the far side of the 18th, outside the périphérique, past the Metro Porte de Clignancourt. A flea-market city unto itself, it is worth an entire day just to browse up and down the streets.
Villa des Tulipes is the street Anthony lived on. A tiny street near the Metro Porte de Clignancourt, it is a window to a different, older sort of Paris. Utterly charming, and home (as of writing this in late 2005) to my friends Lisa Pasold, poet, and her husband, Bremner Duthie, actor, singer and playwright.
Soundtrack to The Radiant City
Here is a list of music that I listened to as I wrote the book. Some songs you will find mentioned in the text.
Chapter One
p. 1 : “Ashes to Ashes,” Steve Earle
Chapter Two
p. 3 : Suite no. 6 in D Major for Cello: Allemande (J.S. Bach)
Chapter Three
p. 12 : “Paris,” Brad Mehldau
p. 15 : “Sideways,” Citizen Cope
Chapter Four
p. 18 : “Un Point Bleu,” Anouar Brahem
Chapter Five
p. 25 : “Follow that Man,” Boz Scaggs
Chapter Six
p. 35 : “Black Crow,” Joni Mitchell
p. 39 : “Caminito,” Carlos Gardel
Chapter Seven
p. 42 : “Octobre,” Francis Cabrel
Soundtrack to The Radiant City (continued)
Chapter Eight
p. 52 : “Ashes,” Paul Jacobsen
p. 56 : “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues,” Nina Simone
Chapter Nine
p. 61: “Any Other Name,” Thomas Newman
Chapter Ten
p. 67 : “Sad and Beautiful World,” Sparklehorse
Chapter Eleven
p. 71 : “At Last,” Etta James
p. 76: “Trouble, You Can’t Fool Me,” Ry Cooder
p. 79 : “Gnossienne #3,” Erik Satie
Chapter Twelve
p. 82: “Quartier Nord,” MC Solaar
Chapter Thirteen
p. 88: “Je m’ennuie” (Berg/François), Mark Adler
Chapter Fourteen
p. 97: “Foreign Affairs,” Tom Waits
p. 100: “You Don’t Know What Love Is
” (Joe Bushkin), Billie Holliday
Chapter Fifteen
p. 106: “Leila au pays du carrousel,” Anouar Brahem
Chapter Sixteen
p. 115: “Lush Life,” John Coltrane
p. 121: “L’ombre des arbres” (Claude Debussy), Dawn Upshaw
Chapter Seventeen
p. 125: “La mauvaise réputation,” Georges Brassens
Chapter Eighteen
p. 131: “Hell Is Round the Corner,” Tricky
p. 134: “The Prayer Cycle, Movement VI: Innocence,” Jonathan Elias
Chapter Nineteen
p. 141: “Desire,” Ryan Adams
p. 145: “J’ai fait tout,” Emmylou Harris
Chapter Twenty
p. 147: “Laila,” Onomatempo
p. 151: “Me and the Devil Blues,” Robert Johnson
Chapter Twenty-One
p. 155: “You Better Go Now” (Reichner-Graham), Jack Sheldon p. 161: “Bad Liver and a Broken Heart,” Tom Waits
p. 165: “Between the Bars,” Madeleine Peyroux
Chapter Twenty-Two
p. 169: “The Prayer Cycle, Movement IV: Compassion,” Jonathan Elias
p. 173: “I Come and Stand at Every Door,” This Mortal Coil
Chapter Twenty-Three
p. 176: “Everything Put Together Falls Apart,” Paul Simon
p. 183: “Le coeur combat,” Isabelle Boulay
Chapter Twenty-Four
p. 190: “The Second Time Around,” Red Garland
p. 197: “1999,” Prince
Chapter Twenty-Five
p. 200: “Protection,” Massive Attack
Chapter Twenty-Six
p. 206: “Pour l’Égyptienne” (Claude Debussy)
p. 211: “Lose Yourself,” Eminem
Chapter Twenty-Seven
p. 225: “This Woman’s Work,” Kate Bush
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Radiant City Page 31