Writing

Now that he has been exercised, socialized, fed, and entertained, I am free to do what ever it is I do during the day.  I never know what it is that I’ll do on any particular day any more than he does.  I can only suppose that it’s the typical life of a writer, since I still don’t consider myself one.  There are many days when I wish we could trade roles.  However, even though we live in France, I still think the French would frown upon a 40 year old man running along La Seine in nothing but a collar, begging for treats at the patisserie and sniffing all the women on the Esplanade.  So instead, I shower, shave, get respectfully dressed and walk the streets of Paris in search of answers to life’s questions.

It was that time of year again.  It’s my birthday.  This is my day to do some big thinking about where I’ve been, where I want to go, who it is that I am today and who I wish to become when I decide to grow up.  I believe Socrates was right.  The unexamined life is not worth living.  Alone with my thoughts.  That is what my birthday has always been about.  No plan, no work, no Internet, no television, no cell …

Merde! I knew I forgot something.  I barely take ten steps down rue de la Baume when I hear a horrible polyphonic rendition of Piano Sonata No. 14 emanating from my jacket pocket.  Beethoven included “Quasi una Fantasia” in the title because Moonlight Sonata, as it is more commonly known, does not follow the traditional sonata pattern.  I hadn’t grasped the irony of using that song as my ringtone until exactly this moment.

“Bonjour, Mathilde.  Ça va?”

“Oui.  Je sais. Je ne serai pas en retard.”

“What time?  Who?  Non, Mathilde, Je suis désolé.  I don’t want to meet your cousin.”

“D’Accord.  I’m sure that she is beautiful, intelligent, funny and all of those things.  But, I have retired.”

“Oui, I’m sure that sounds ridiculous to you.  But you know what?  It is my birthday and I’m going to do whatever I want to do today and I don’t want to meet her.  It’s bad enough that for the first time in more than a decade, you made me make any kind of plans on my birthday.  I will be at the theatre before the curtains open.  Je promets. OK?”

“Bon. Ciao Mathilde”

Mathilde is my literary agent.  I first met Mathilde and her husband Henri at a fundraiser for the French-English bilingual elementary school in Boston.  The family was living in Boston while Henri was on assignment from his Parisian Company.  She and Henri have two very French children; Anne Claire 9 and Laurent 7.  If there is ever a day that I miss Madame Dutertre’s French lessons, Anne Claire and Laurent are quick to the rescue.   Mathilde treats me like her little brother and Henri and the children accept me as one of the family.  Mathilde made it a habit of integrating her latest protégé into her family.  Mathilde’s protégés tended to be literarily challenged creatives.  She believed that writing can be taught but imagination is a gift.  Mathilde had her own gift for discovering and encouraging the creative tendencies in people that she believed we all possessed.

She helped me publish two books and stage a play.  The play is actually an adaptation of my first book.  When Mathilde read the manuscript she said, “terrible writing but great idea for a play. And, who is this, Benôit Royer person?”  “A play?” I thought.  I didn’t know how to write a play.  I didn’t even know how to write a book for that matter.  I just sat down one day and started typing as was apparent from Mathilde’s assessment of my writing skills.  What I immediately realized was that I was writing my own unauthorized autobiography.  Since I wasn’t quite ready for the world to know the details of my intriguing life, I adopted the nom de plum of a character in one of my French textbooks, to protect my presumed innocence.  As I fumbled to fabricate Benôit’s identity, Mathilde astutely asked where I came up with the name.  She always seemed to be one step ahead of me.

Mathilde had a way of convincing me to do anything.  Henri often claimed that Mathilde demanded that he marry her and that it was just easier to agree with her than to find a way out of it.  She assured me that I would not have to learn how to write a play.  She promised that I wouldn’t even have to meet the playwright if I didn’t want to.  I thought she was crazy but I took Henri’s advice and let her try anyway, the result of which, I am attending the opening of tonight.

How did I get here?  Am I another lousy American over staying my welcome in Paris?  Have I become a cliché or am I living the dream?  There was no better day than today to ask these questions. It was only by chance that I moved to Paris.  Well, maybe it wasn’t all by chance.  After all, I had been talking about moving to France when Bush Part Deux was Part Un.  It took almost losing everything that I thought mattered to make me give up everything that I never needed…

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Through the shuttered windows I watch the sky begin to brighten.   I am seldom awake before either the alarm clock or the dog sounds that the day has begun.  This morning, however, I have been awake long enough to reverse-engineer the intricate stucco pattern on the ceiling.  I have determined that it took two men, two days with two hundred pounds of stucco to complete.  Restless Leg Syndrome is a walk in the park compared to a restless mind when it comes to lost sleep.

At 7:00 AM the alarm sounds and at 7:01, Milou is by the bed with his leash between his teeth, whining for his morning exercise.  He apparently has a lot to do today and can hardly wait to get started.  I can barely get my feet to the floor before he has darted the 20 feet to the front door of our one room flat in the 8^th Arrondissement.  The entire apartment is roughly the size of the very American-sized kitchen that we had back in the states.  I have to repeatedly convince myself that whatever we lost in size and luxury, we gained in utility and character.  Utility came in the form of the two out of four working stove burners and character came in the form of the 19^th century antique piano that the previous tenant determined was easier to abandon than relocate.  In Europe, less really does mean more.  In America, I repeated the “less is more” mantra as I continued to accumulate more of less.

Like any good personal trainer, Milou’s systematic barking instructs me to pick up the pace.  The only thing that will quiet him now is getting out for our morning run.  He is fully aware that unless I want to incur the wrath of our neighbors at this early hour, we best get moving.  He was not only mon fidele ami, but also the most affordable coach in Paris.  Food, bones, water and the occasional plush toy to destroy was all he required.  We run along La Seine until we reach Madame Dutertre’s Patisserie du Chiens.  Milou won’t move an inch before Madame gives him his treat.  He inhales his doggie energy bar and off he goes.  I’m left exchanging pleasantries with Madame as she attempts to improve my poor French pronunciation.  He must cross La Seine at Pont Des Invalides at approximately 7:25 AM so he can exchange sniffs with his girlfriend, Anjou, on the Esplanade before heading home.  Once we’re home, he demands his breakfast and recital.  After devouring his café et croissant, he settles in to the chair by the piano and signals that the performance can begin.  I play my usual repertoire and then whatever popular music that comes to mind.  The performance is barely over before it’s back to bed for him, it’s as simple as that.  All that whining and barking to get started was just so he could get right back to where he began a mere two hours earlier.   Every day we would obsessively complete this two-hour routine.  He seemed to be acutely aware of the importance of it and understood his role in it.  It would take me years to identify and accept that pattern in my own life…

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