A philosophic interlude at Le Fumoir
by David Benjamin
“Homer tells us also that Sisyphus had put Death in chains.”
— Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus
PARIS
— Something about this joint gets me to over-thinking. Maybe it’s the
art on the walls. My favorite is a painting of two gauzy and anorexic
art-deco women lunching with an adult male rhinoceros — both girls, of
course, blithely oblivious to the monster’s rhinocity.
Partly,
it’s the wait staff. They’re equally divided between male and female,
governed by a dress code firmly restricted to black and white. But the
waitresses arrest the eye. Invariably brunette and suggestive of Asia,
each wears a scoop-neck, skin-tight, long-waisted white leotard top that
caresses her every curve and presents a torso, in profile, that would
have plunged Rodin into his sketchbook.
They tempt me with the
heresy that, perhaps, for a certain period of youth — fast-declining
after 30 years — one’s physical self really does outweigh, as the engine
of social life and general esteem, the “content of one’s character.”
You have a lifetime to be wise and good, but barely a moment to be
beautiful.
Naturally, I resist this sort of decline-of-Rome
philosophy. But here at Le Fumoir, one of the smartest, trendiest,
hippest saloons in all of Paris — where Hotlips and I are at least a
decade older than the next most ancient patron — beauteous youth is a
prevailing ethos. And, for all their glint, hurrah and effervescence,
Jesus! They all seem to be working so hard. I think of Sisyphus.
When
I was their age — these brazen young sophisticates in perfect clothes
with hair that cost, what?, a hundred euros, or twice that much? — I
would’ve been afraid to venture through the doors. I was too rustic, too
rumpled, too reserved. I was D’Artagnan without the chutzpah.
Even if I understood French (but they all speak English! This is
Paris!), I would have been bewildered and intimidated by the intensity
of the unspoken rivalry here, the showing off, the forced hilarity, the
rubbernecking, the comparing, interjecting, interrupting and the cordial
but jugular one-upping.
Now, I’m way too old for this scene.
I’m invisible to them. A non-betting observer at a genteel cockfight, I
wouldn’t, couldn’t compete. I enjoy the tableau, its noise and colors,
the Christmas lights, the friendly ferocity of tipsy hipsters, the flash
of spurs and the sylphlike waitresses shimmering from able to bar and
back again.
But I’m on the outside of this, looking in — cool in
my uncoolness. I think, ah, life is easy when you don’t give a shit
anymore.
Okay, a cynical reverie — shattered suddenly by a clash
of voices, feminine both. They’re arguing, or maybe just sharing a
common grievance. It’s all French and fast, and I’m glad I catch only
the odd English cognate — “weekend,” “fou!,” “futbol”.
“Football?” They must be talking about men. But with such conviction
that I’m a little envious, even at the futile circularity of the
conversation. Camus said, “… the whole being is exerted toward
accomplishing nothing. This is the price that must be paid for the
passions of this earth…”
Pointless though their dialog probably is, I feel, in my chill dismissal of all this agita,
intimations of my own mortality. It would be nice to have such glimmer
in my eye, bounce in my step, lead in my pencil. Nice if I could clench
an unblemished fist and pound the table, toppling my glass and spilling,
in my pique over the iniquity of the other gender, five dollars of cote du rhone village.
But
I also think, my God, what a crap shoot it was (I remember) to be that
young and so absolutely promising. How easy for one mishap, misstep,
misjudgment to queer it all. So many small things can trigger a spiral
that can’t be unwound — a dead parent, a family battle, a failed test, a
forgotten interview after a drunken night, a crazy girlfriend or a
violent, vindictive boyfriend, a sudden decision to join the army, or
not to join the army, a bar fight, an insidious addiction, an
auto-immune disease, the wrong turn up a dark road, a few ill-chosen
words to a thug, or to a cop, an intemperate sentence written and sent
that can’t be brought back. A flash of impulse that limns a lifetime.
Youth
seems impregnable here, but — watching it crow its defiance and strut
its hour — I ponder how easy to cut it short, or how tragic to prolong
it beyond its time, with paint and chemistry, with denial and delusion. I
think of Norma Desmond.
Le Fumoir is two minutes from the
Seine. With a view of the Louvre, it’s situated scenically beside the
ancient church of St. Germain l’Auxerrois, first built in the 7th
century, rebuilt for good 800 years later. The delicately Gothic steeple
is bathed in a flattering electric glow unimaginable by the long-dead
workmen who stacked its stones in God’s direction. All these sublime
structures of Paris limestone are older than anyone in this saloon — or
the saloon itself — will ever be. I’ve gone from vaguely envying my
fellow drinkers here, their vitality and noise, their insouciance and
promise, to feeling their fleetingness and pathos. I see in them my own
disappointments and in the still unfulfilled hungers that stretch all
the way back to childhood. I see in them my dogged struggle to yet
prevail in this dubious career of scrawling words on paper (or, more
pathetically, projecting them into the cybervoid) while hoping to Christ
that someone — anyone — will pause a moment to read me, read me please…
… just as I, a moment ago, re-read Camus.
Life, I revise myself, is over when you don’t give a shit anymore.
Friday, December 30, 2016
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3 comments:
Oh, David, the taste of ashes in the mouth....
Totally with you. Rage, rage, and whatnot.
Can't keep up with you or come close to understanding it all sometimes (most of the time) but I love the sound of it ...and wondering what some of those words (too many of them) mean? I do appreciate your willingness to blog your feelings sometimes (almost every time) ...and I hope (pray?) your sense of giving a shit ("to" give a shit?) shall return... in due course.
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