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Chapter 16: After a mere six weeks, their budget sat on a window ledge threatening to jump. "No one listens to me!" it would have cried were it more than a foolish column of figures drawn up by two skilled fritterers. To be fair, Maggie was a thrifty soul who could stick to the meanest spreadsheet. Her problem lay in misplacing what she saved. With Olney-stunning frequency she reported sizeable sums gone missing. Together they would search the highs and lows of each room in the apartment. One blue moon a 100 franc note turned up in the bedroom waste basket, wadded up like a used Miss Helen. Where was her mind, Olney hair-tore while asking, when she lobbed it straight in, no doubt congratulating herself for scoring? Well! Not even her Shadow knew. Our Maggie was the sort of person who would happily volunteer to drive her girlfriends downtown for a night of carousing, and then, in the wee hours, when each sozzled whoopee-maker was ready to go home to the comfort and safety of her own bed, subject each of them to heart-sledging anxiety over whether she was going to find the car keys or not. While the swiftly sobering girls confronted their fear of suddenly being stranded in what earlier had been familiar territory, Maggie would search frantically in her handbag, on the seats, under the seats, under the car. On one humiliating occasion, she suffered a round of white wine abuse when she actually came up empty handed. By contrast, Olney had no trouble following budgets as long as they could be adjusted to include impulse buying and plenty of cognac. Maggie often pulled at the roots of her own hair over his senseless spending, especially the day he came home with the news that he'd spent the week's grocery money on records. She shuttled straight for the ceiling. "I can't believe you spent all that money on ... on ..." "Léo Férré, sweetie pie." Olney was sweating. "Wait'll you hear him. No, really, imagine! Four records of one of the greatest singers of all time interpreting France's three greatest poets." Maggie continued to fume. "And look," producing a handful of change, "there's enough money left to finish the week's food budget with canned raviolis. Hey, the Monoprix's got 'em on sale." Maggie continued to fume. "How can you be so selfish," he cried, "think of the starving people in China." "The starv--but you're the one--" "I know, I know," he interrupted with all due haste. "I meant--" "You couldn't care less about the starving people in China. But while you're at it, dig a hole and join 'em." "Wait, wait, my darling Poot." Olney suddenly remembered his distaste for canned ravioli. "Uh ... we'll put the raviolis over mashed potatoes. I used to eat 'em that way all the time." "When was that, dare I ask?" "When I was a vagabond." "When haven't you been a vagabond, you bum." "Now sweetheart, a little belt-cinching is worth it in the name of art, especially for these records. Wait'll you hear." He rushed to the record player. "Do we have to hear them now? I've got a splitting headache, and I was just going to--" "What?" he cried indignantly. "I've wanted these records for years, and now that I've finally found them you would refuse my soul's long sought-after nourishment just as its hands are within inches of the turntable and ecstasy?" "Oh, crap. What about my soul? That stuff you like drives me bananas. And who's this 'Verlin,' 'Rambo' 'n' 'Bodelear?'" "But this isn't bananas music." Boy, was he incensed. "How, with such wan languidity, can you reject great art for sloth? What were you going to do? Sit there and push the walls into outer space with your catatonia?" "For your information, I was going to fiddle with myself. Until you barged in and ruined the mood." "Well, heh-heh," taken a bit aback, here, "you should be thrilled that I bought these records, then. They'll bring you to an intense orgasm. I'll just put them on and watch." He pulled the albums from a yellow FNAC sack. "Big poop." "Pootie, we're talking eternal stuff here. How can you be so doggedly negative? I don't know what the French think of him, but for me these records portray the heart and soul of France. But don't let me twist your arm with my opinion. Here, listen for yourself." "Gee, thanks." Maggie flopped on a sturdy chair, pouting helplessly. Heavy strings introduced the lush baritone of Férré. He sang: Quand le ciel bas et lourd pèse comme un couvercle. "This is one of Baudelaire's most depressing poems," Olney enthused. "It's called 'Le Spleen'. Fantastique, non?" Maggie groaned. The music, orchestrated by Férré himself, would have driven the most cockeyed of optimists to despair. "Enough," Maggie cried, as the longs corbillards started to file miserably through her soul. "'Life is hard, then you die,' I've heard all about it. But you're not going to ruin the rest of my day with that gloomy stuff. No!" "But Poot, it's so beautiful and tragic." "Bury it." "Ok, I'll play something else." He skipped to 'L'Etranger.' A solo violin soared over a lilting rhythm and breezy floating strings. "Baudelaire's poem is actually about social alienation, but the way Léo sings it, you hear two passing souls on a melancholy earth where mortality punishes all but those who love les nuages qui passent ..." "It is pretty," Maggie admitted, "but it's sad. Are they all so ... glum?" "This is art music," he boomed. "If you weren't such a hoser, you'd appreciate it. Férré is melodramatic, I'll admit, but it's all a sad business, this life, and he knows it. Sadness enters your life the minute you begin to love more than the clouds above and the flowers below. Sadness is loving people." "Other people are supposed to relieve sadness. How can you say that?" "Because other people always die. The more you love the greater the eventual loss. Which scares us to death all the while we're loving. Besides, we aren't able to love one another with the same freedom that we can love the clouds and nature. 'I love you' puts paid to freedom and here comes attachment." "I thought you weren't all that fond of nature." "I'm not. Speaking hypothetically here." "Play something a little lighter, ok?" Olney put away Baudelaire. "Let's try Rimbaud." He put on 'Mes Petites Amoureuses.' "Not sure what this one's about, but I think young Arthur is tumbling a couple of chippies in the woods. Don't quote me. But I love the music and that's what counts. People can respond to music, whether they understand the words or not. This 'song' is like a impressionist painting. It could be playing on a jukebox in the background of Renoir's 'Le Moulin de la Galettte.'" Olney listened more closely. "Wait a minute, I think Férré's sense of irony is in full force here. Sounds like Arthur is insulting the girls rather feloniously." "What's he saying?" "Never mind," Olney mumbled. "Haven't heard this in years." Yow, he thought, what's that about breaking their hips? "Anyway, Léo makes it all sound lovely." "But even this song is melancholy. Is it the music, the poetry, or both? All these songs make me want to cry." "Me, too. I first heard them with Xavier and Frédérique in Provence. They tried to explain what each song meant, but I never got past the music. Théo couldn't stand it. I think he was embarrassed to listen to such heavily romantic stuff. He tried to tell me the poets were turning in their graves whenever Léo opened his mouth. I don't know, maybe purists detest these poems being put to song. Maybe Léo Férré turns everything into melodramatic woe-weeping; I've done my share of blubbering listening to him. But I love what he does, whether it's decadent or not, and I've wanted to own these records for years. I suddenly remembered today and couldn't resist. They remind me of all those warm, nightingale nights in the south of France, the happiest summer of my life." "I agree the songs are beautiful and whatshisname has a powerful and moving voice, but, I dunno ... this stuff is too heavy. I like Piaf more. Her heaviness is hopeful." "Well, let's go on to Verlaine, then. He's no chirpy fellow himself, but 'Ecoutez La Chanson Bien Douce' is about the only pure smile on all eight sides." Maggie loved it immediately. A French accordéon from days gone by waltzed with an arpeggiating piano in the background of a delicate melody that called cloud and flesh together. Or so Olney thought. It was the only song Maggie would ever volunteer to play. "Just one more Verlaine," said Olney, "and then we'll eat. If you peel and cook the potatoes I'll open the raviolis, d'accord? Listen to this." "... de la musique avant toute chose ..." §§§ Chapter 17: The Boys-Own Boarder |