Chapter 18: On the Town

The Bar de l'Automobile stood at the end of the Rue de Lourmel, directly across from Garages Étienne Blafard, S.A., whose ouvriers ate lunch and drank red wine and pastis at the little café every day.

One morning Maggie suggested she and Olney relive old times and have breakfast there. He greeted the idea dimly, saying that he was more of a dinner person when it came to eating out; mornings were too iffy--one bad move on somebody's part could ruin the entire day. No, unless he was traveling, he preferred breakfast at home.

He loved eating breakfast in France more than anywhere else in the world, especially when he prepared it himself. Each morning he consumed a huge bowl of the best Jacques Vabre café au lait, along with most of a baguette from his favorite boulangerie--one of five within a few minutes walking distance. Upon the sliced baguette he would spread butter and apricot jam in copious amounts. Olney worked hard eating this breakfast; his jaw often ached afterward. Then came the best part: another bowl of coffee and a sacred Gauloise. Now there was a breakfast worth fighting for. Indeed, what better reason to get out of bed?

Of course, they would be eating the same thing at the café, but the coffee wasn't as good and the owners didn't care where they got their baguettes. "Why should I give up the comfort of our cozy nook to eat an inferior breakfast elsewhere at twice the price?" he fumed.

"Relax, live a little," prescribed Maggie, dragging him down the street.

"Not all memories need resuscitation," he mumbled, holding the door open for his beloved to enter, once he was inside.

After appropriate words of bonjour et d'accueil, they ordered tartines and grandes tasses of coffee. They sat smoking while the owners, a small man and his plump wife, scurried to the task.

Olney whispered with a sneer: "The woman is from that other France, Bretagne. A friend of mine married a Bretonne. A lovely woman, but really, they're more Celt than French. Now I would have married a woman from the Midi. Mediterranean women have such beautiful, mysterious faces. Even the ugliest has burning almond eyes, burnished skin, high cheekbones, tight fesses, tantalizing--"

"Your cigarette stinks worse than ever," said Maggie through her teeth, boot finding a shin under the table. "And those middy women would fry you in your own sweat, pipsqueak."

Olney cocked a squint at her from behind his smokescreen. Affecting a seedy French accent he said: "And you, Canadienne geerl, why you all time smoke szat blonde sheet, hein?" He tapped her State Express 555's with an arrogant finger.

"Why do you smoke horse shit? Admit it, those cigarettes smell like horse shit."

"Thees-uh Franch tabac fine ees too good for you barr-barrian nez, foreign geerl."

"Don't slit your eyes at me like some old Jean Gabbin tugboat captain.'

"Jean Gabin? He neverre sleet hees eyes, he open beeg to eat you all up. You also tell me, please, why you like come here, thees plah-ce." He held the cigarette rigidly against the webbing between his ring and middle fingers, while sucking in smoke through the tiny aperture formed by thumb held against fingers, all four of which were curled down to meet the palm of his hand.

"Get off it, Olney."

As he looked around at the simple decor of the one room café, his expression changed from that of a seedy back alley hatchet man to an unctuous and effeminate poseur. "Enfin, j'adore tout simplement l'ambience si excitante de votre choix, chère mademoiselle."

"Will you stop it, before they hear?" What was the matter with that man? She tried to change the subject. "Let's go to the zoo today."

"The zoo!" Now he was trying to sound flabbergasted.

"Yes!" she found herself nearly yelling, "the zoo. What's wrong with going to the zoo? You'd think I was asking you to sacrifice an arm. I'm sick of museums and those screeching, booming cathedral organs. Not once have you agreed to a walk in the park or a trip to the zoo." The look on his face alternated between incredulity and obstinate refusal. "Honestly, Olney. You're so selfish. Let's go to the Luxembourg Gardens, then."

"What'll we do there?" he whined.

"Well, we can feed the -- I mean, we can walk and look at people and sit in the sun. After all, it's a weekday. You won't go to the park on the weekend. You have to do something for me once in awhile."

"Again ze duck," he sighed, resuming his dubious French, possibly North African accent. "Why you so much love zeze bad leetle animals? Better to cook zem, you. We eat and aftair we make ze love. I full you bod-dy weeth ze seed uv my native, non?" He flicked a long ash from the cigarette by snapping his fingers.

"Très smart," she snapped in return.

The Bretonne brought their breakfast. "Voilà, monsieur-dame," she said, backing away quickly. "Bon appétit."

Maggie smiled while Olney mumbled "Merci". He regarded the tartines with the combined disdain of a world famous chef reduced to slumming with gauche friends and the popeyed hunger of someone lost in the woods for weeks with only berries and bark for food.

"Olney, control yourself. Remember this is a restaurant, so please don't eat that thing like you do at home. Try to behave like a civilized person. Have some pride."

But Olney succumbed to his usual breakfast time feeding frenzy.

"It's your habit of dunking," Maggie felt called upon to explain, perhaps to the café's owners. "The way the butter and jam ooze down the bread from having been soaked too long is positively revolting. Then there's the coffee dribbling down your chin. And finally, there's all that muck floating in the bowl. Why are you so disgusting, Olney?"

"I really don't know."

"God!"

"You're the one who likes to open her mouth and stick out a tongue covered with masticated food," he said over a mouthful. A chunklet of breadpaste flew from his lower lip to the floor. Maggie squished it to inexistence with her boot.

"That's you down there," said she.

"Is it!" he hissed crisply.

"I hate it when you try to sound like John Cleese."

"Hey, I know what we can do." His turn for a subject change. "Let's go to a sex show. Nature's ok if you like that sort of thing. Me, I'd rather see two girls going down on each other."

"You're provoking me. Quit it."

"No, I'm not."

"Don't you ever think about anything but perverted sex?"

"Rarely."

"Well, I do and it's my money we're living on. I'm going to enjoy a day outside and I don't care what you do."

"Ok, ok," Olney gave in. "What about the Botanical Gardens? They have animals there and its not too far." An inch of bread fell into his coffee, breaking apart instantly. He spooned out a few soggy bits and tried to eat them, but they fell off the spoon and on to the paper tablecloth, by now a natural disaster area. Indeed, his half of the table looked like lunchtime at the St. Vitus Infirmary. Rivulets of breaded coffee were slowly spreading to Maggie's side.

"Clochard," she spat, to the silent approval of the galled Celts. "Can we go soon?"

With the loss of that inch of bread, Olney suddenly found himself with only a couple of bites left. "This tartine isn't big enough," he mewled, "I'll have to order another. Or you could give me yours. Yes, that's what we'll do. You never eat much anyway, and look, you eat so slowly you've hardly touched it. Why bother to go on? Save yourself the heartbreak of messy fingers by just handing it over. Come on, give it to me."

"I won't."

"Oh, my God! Look at that!"

She turned in a panic to follow his trembling finger. "What is it?" she nearly shrieked, searching the wall behind her for evidence of mutant spiders. Olney grabbed her tartine and tore off a huge piece.

"Ha, ha, ha. Fell for the oldest trick in the books."

"You greedy man. Give it back. I'm hungry too."

"But you're too delicate to be hungry." His elbows sank in muck as he leaned across the table to whisper: "Any woman who gets as hot and creamy as you do and then likes to fuck like a Maltese rabbit--"

"Olney Garkle," she hissed. "They'll hear."

"Ok, sweetheart," plopping the stolen morsel back on her plate, "it's all yours. But now I've got to have more coffee and another cigarette. You know I can't just leap into the day from a dead sleep." He called to the Bretonne's husband for two more coffees. The man nodded pleasantly, while throwing an eye-rolling oh, là là to his wife.

"You might have asked me if I wanted more coffee," Maggie said crossly. "It just so happens I don't."

"Well, I'll drink it then."

"No you won't. I'll have it, after all." Oh, he made her so mad. If only he'd stop embarrassing her all the time.

The corpulent Bretonne bustled over with their coffee just as Maggie was lifting a small fist to bring down on the table. Instead, the infuriated girl scratched the back of her head and looked away.

"Pardonnez-nous, madame," Olney apologized. The ample woman seemed ready to place a few well chosen comments on the weigh scale of social convention, but turned on a tile-covering heel and returned to the bar.

"I'm sorry," Olney said, dropping six cubes of sugar into his grande tasse. "I'm an asshole. Let's try and have a nice day, what d'ya say."

"I say you're crazy. And mean. You're always making fun of me." She was on the verge of tears.

Olney nodded. He knew he'd have to act fast to avoid the consequence of his relentless japery. Maggie usually took to bed for the rest of the day if he went too far. Why couldn't he be strong and eat those snide remarks?

"Your persona belongs at the zoo," she pursued, "reaching to bite at people from behind the bars of a baboon cage. I can't wait till somebody punches you for your insultive behavior."

"Maggie, punch me, throw coffee in my face, pee on me like an ape at the zoo, but let's not argue. I mean, not seriously. Sometimes I go too far. Like Molière, I just can't help it. Look, come on, let's drink up and go to the Botanical Gardens."

Won over by his pleading, she lifted her cup, nervously and too fast: a rogue wavelet of coffee leapt out to counterattack the aggressive trickles still on the move from his side. Olney's teeth nearly caved in from the air sucked hissingly between them as he watched Maggie's au lait suddenly overwhelm his own formerly invincible goo and head for an upset victory in his lap. Inches from the horror of a coffee-stained crotch, he whipped out Miss Helen-to-the-rescue and blotted the enemy to death.

"Not fair," cried Maggie.

But she wanted to save the day too. Squinching up her face in a comical Judy Canova way, Maggie laughed for the first time in days.

"I love you," he said, feeling foolish and two-faced. He meant it, but the needling was beyond control. He was helpless to fight the contempt creeping into his love like a squelching horror-film embryo, the "blob" of scorn that would sooner or later consume another doomed affair. That she could remind him of Judy Canova did not help.

They finished their coffee in truceful silence. Olney grabbed the bill and gave it to her. "Alors, blowons-nous ce popstand là?"

§§§

The Jardin des Plantes, as the Botanical Gardens was Frenchly called, was as close as they ever got to a zoo. Indeed, it was a zoo, though not a very big one. Certainly not as big as Vincennes, where Maggie had wanted to go since their first morning in Paris. Olney felt mean for rushing her through the exhibits of caged animals, but what else could he, a bona fide asshole, do?

On their way out, they stopped in the vivarium, where they were astounded by a Mexican axolotl.

"It's so cute." Maggie was delighted.

"It's a swimming cock!" Olney was astonished.

"Look, it's got a little ruffled collar."

"Look, you can see through its tail."

"I like it." She was delighted.

"It's a swimming cock!" He was astonished.

They discussed the eight-inch living dildo all the way to Pigalle. Maggie wondered if it bit. Olney thought it probably just wiggled a lot. Maggie flushed and caught her breath. Had he ever heard of anyone keeping them as pets? No, he had never heard of such a thing; maybe they were poisonous or conductors of electricity, like eels. Oh, that would be dreadful, she said. Did he really think they were dangerous? He would look into it, he promised. The next time he went to the British Library. Hah, she said.

A feeble sun greeted them with shafts of shadow-consuming light as they walked up the steps of the métro. The Boulevard de Clichy teemed with oddballs. Someone bumped into Olney immediately, the bumper's hand shooting for Olney's hip pocket where the wallet should have been. Curses in French faded into the crowd as Olney felt for the missing packet of Miss Helen. Maggie was about to say "Of all the cheek," instead shouting, "Hey!" to another disappearing throngster, who had just fondled her behind.

Sexshops advertised peep shows at inflated prices. Porn club pitchmen called to passersby: "Life-show de couples!" "Spécial Hard!" SM entre femmes!" The famous Moulin Rouge, where José Ferrer drank absinthe to forget his rickety little legs, was taking the afternoon off.

"Olney! Somebody felt me up again." Olney wheeled around just as the culprit was U-turning for a second pass. The surprised fondler peeled off into a sexshop but not before scoring another petit peak experience. "Salope!" Maggie yelled after him.

"No, no, Poot. Salopes are women. He's supposed to be a salaud."

"Salaud," she screamed through the beads hanging in the doorway."

They turned up a side street leading to Montmartre. "Let's have a drink," Olney pleaded.

"Drinks," she corrected.

They found a bar hidden on the shady side of the tiny street. Beyond the window table where they sat, the café was nearly dark.

"Piaf might have come here," Maggie said, looking around. Olney followed her wistful glance to a corner table in the back. Two inverted sugars sat close together chatting and gesticulating. One wore a pearl-colored sateen blouse from whose dainty short sleeves burst two depilated Popeye arms. The other was dressed in a clinging black gown that followed the contours of a corrugated beer belly. Expressively, they emulated femininity from their dark corner in the dark bar, made even darker by the glare of pale sun spotlighting the window table. Even the barman was effeminate.

"Deux rouges," Olney ordered. The barman gave them a slight bow and minced away. To Maggie he snipped: "Well, here's another fine mess you've gotten me into."

"Me? It was your idea to--"

"Chérie, I'm just kidding. If you'd stop taking everything I say so personally, I could then without guilt let the ideas flow freely enough to get my book started."

"You torture me with your horrible remarks. You're always making me feel guilty, as if everything that goes wrong is my fault. So. Now it's my fault you haven't started your book, is it?"

"Not at all, my cherished dearest. I take full self-faulting responsibility. No one else under the sun is responsible for anything that has ever happened to me, least of all you. Each of us must remain entirely alone with the responsibility to accept that no matter what happens to us, it's our fault. Even should you murder me in cold blood for reasons totally unconnected with anything I ever did or didn't do to you, I accept the responsibility. May the Good Lloyd strike me dead if ever I should make a move or foster a thought with intent to lay the responsibility for someone else's influences on me on them, or on anyone else--"

"You're talking gibberish again."

"It's a gibberish-provoking subject. It's just that you're always so quick to deny your influence on me by shrilly yodeling that buzzword 'responsibility' every time I look at you cross-eyed or pathetically hint that you might have some input into my successes or failures."

"Name one success."

"Don't change the subject. I just might get started on my book if I didn't feel responsible all the time for keeping you entertained. You're always hanging around with nothing to do. Why don't you do something? You can paint, so paint. Go to the Alliance Française and learn French. Become an au pair, I don't know."

The barman brought the wine. Maggie hid her anger and resentment as she looked up to thank him. Olney looked out the window. The street was so small it was almost a lane. Two Fiat 500's climbed opposite sidewalks to pass each other.

"How mean you are," she said quietly.

"True," he said. "And I have a tendency to blame others when I should be blaming myself."

"You? Suddenly humble?"

"It's just that others keep fucking things up. If I were emperor of the world I'd farm them out to Pluto."

"Didn't think so."

"Anyway, here's a tannic toast to us, dearie," he said with a sudden gush of fondness for his lovely straight-woman. "May the vin de la Sainte Table drown our neurons with happiness."

"Cheers," she said, without much enthusiasm.

Just then a man with a long jagged face came in the door. He wore a fedora and a wide-lapelled pin stripe suit. He swaggered to the comptoir. "Ein schnappes," he said thickly. The transvestites quivered in their corner.

"He's dressed like a Turk," whispered Olney with much lifting of eyebrows and ears.

"Looks more like a gangster from the thirties to me."

"In a way you're right. Except that most Turks dress like gangsters from the thirties. Maybe he works in a tourist-oriented speakeasy. Looks like a Turk, I'd say."

"He doesn't look like a Turk." Maggie was determined not to lose this round.

"How do you know? Ever been to Turkey? I have, and I know what uppity Turks dress like."

"He spoke German, dumb-bum."

"A German-speaking Turk. They're all over the place."

"Well, German Turks don't dress like that," she said emphatically. She held her glass aloft as the table rotated ever so slightly.

"How do you know? Ever been to Germany?"

"No, and you haven't either."

"Look, why are you arguing with me? I'm telling you the guy looks like a Jerk from Turmany…I mean a…oh, for crying out loud."

"How can you decide where he's from by what he's wearing," she hissed, "when what he's wearing looks like it came from a costume rental."

"But he spoke German."

"He could be from Austria."

"Well, maybe he's an Austrian Turk. Jesus, you're acting like a pit bull on this subject."

"I'm saying you don't know everything, especially where he's from, and that's that."

"Why don't you ask him, then."

"Not interested."

"Jeesh."

They fell silent for a moment. "Of course," Maggie resumed, "if it can be determined where he comes from by what he's wearing, then it should be easy to spot where you're from."

"Oh, yeah? Just what is that remark supposed to mean?"

"It means that you dress pathetically à là mode passé, like most Americans abroad. In rags, actually. And not even designer rags." There was an audible click as the table moved another notch.

"For your information, I dress in these unfortunate clothes because I'm an unpublished writer." Olney bit his lip. Now that was a stupid thing to say.

"You dress like a bum because you're not attentive to how you look. For all your raving and ranting about 'esthetics,' you haven't a smidgen when it comes to yourself."

Click.

"Listen, I used to have charge accounts at the sharpest clothing stores in town. I was hot."

"And where was that?"

"Chinga TuMadre, California."

"That's what I thought. The first town in America to be declared a Third World disaster area."

Click-Click.

"Hey, where did you hear that load of crap?"

"Isn't that where you got jumped by a 'rat pack' of hopped up Pachucos?"

"Yeah, but they were from East L.A. Thought I had some dexies. Well, I did, and that's why they chased my ass for three solid blocks. But normally the streets were safe."

"Oh, yes, you did tell me that. But then, if I'm not mistaken, you went on to say that your 'home town' had the highest proportional crime rate in the country. And the reason the streets were safe was because all the crimes were committed at home."

"Aw, come on."

"Didn't you tell me your 'home town' held the record for more armed robberies than anywhere else, but they were mostly committed by family members against each other in the comfort of their own homes?"

"That was the next town over, Pinché Vista. Chinga TuMadre was a model American town."

"Well, you stole hubcaps, combed your hair in a ducktail and wore pegged denims and tanker jackets--you showed me the pictures. You looked mean and stupid and above all, American."

Click-click-click.

"Hey!" he cried, "how come my glass is in front of you now?"

The man at the bar ordered another drink and joined the she-men. They simpered with ham-armed ecstasy as he sat down with them. He kissed the girls' well-shaven faces, once on each cheek, and settled back. Olney and Maggie watched intently, in spite of themselves. One of the femmes coquettishly pointed toward the man's hat and coat. "S'il te plait," she-he said, slipping into a baritone huskiness. The man nodded obligingly and removed them both. Long, luxuriant hair fell over he-she's shoulders, while under each suspender arched two majestic breasts.

"Oh, putain," Olney blurted.

Maggie suppressed her giggles by gulping wine. "Oh, well, I guess Piaf wouldn't have minded."

"À elle," Olney toasted, fishing in his pocket for some of Maggie's money. "Enough of these popstands. Let's go home."

"Oui, chèrie, to our cozy apartment, toi et moi." She held on to him as they hurried down the street. "S'il te plait, s'il te plait," she teased, feeling his flat barren chest.

"Arrête!" he snapped with an irritable grin, as they joined the oddball throng.

§§§

Chapter 19: Brekkie with the Lord-Gagger

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