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The Parisienne as Seen by an American Novelist

“They zigzagged across the city, in evening’s flattering light. Parisians looked good already; now they looked even better. The restaurant Claire took them to, in the Latin Quarter’s narrow streets, was small and hectic, the walls covered in Moroccan tiles. Mitchell sat facing the window, watching the people streaming past outside. At one point, a girl who looked to be in her early twenties, with a Joan of Arc haircut, passed right in front of the glass. When Mitchell looked at her, the girl did an amazing thing: she looked back. She met his gaze with frank sexual meaning. Not that she wanted to have sex with him, necessarily. Only that she was happy to acknowledge, on this late-summer evening, that he was a man and she a woman, and if he found her attractive, that was all right with her.”

—from The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides

The Simones

All Parisiennes have a Simone in their past. The city is divided into three distinct categories: the Simone Veils, the Simone de Beauvoirs, and the Simone Signorets. The three spend time together, talk, sometimes even like one another. But deep down each believes that they are from a different family, and prefer those who share a secret bond. However, they are first cousins all the same and this sense of clan is more snobbery than true rivalry. Let us explain.

THE SIMONE VEILS

This woman is first and foremost a survivor. Simone Veil was in the concentration camps of Drancy, Auschwitz-Birkenau, and Bergen-Belsen, and made it out alive. But her name became part of history the day abortion was decriminalized in France. Veil, then minister of health, fought to give women the right to choose. This fight earned her serious threats from the far right but, naturally, that didn’t stop her.

Simone Veil is the archetype of the intelligent woman who fights for her peers. A feminist, hotheaded, unwavering, she is a model for all politically aware women who yearn for a better world. She has rallied a myriad of educated young women to spend their weekends swelling the ranks of excited demonstrations (France’s national sport). For some, however, this engagement has mostly become a way of defining themselves, giving them a sense of style, akin to a teenager going goth.

MANTRA: “My demand as a woman is that my difference be taken into account and that I not be forced to adapt to the male model.”

THE SIMONE DE BEAUVOIRS

She embodies this very French way of loving, of being a “wife of” without disappearing behind a spouse’s name. Simone de Beauvoir may well have shared Jean-Paul Sartre’s life, but she left her own unforgettable mark, a writer renowned and much loved in her country. She too was a feminist, but she grew up with a father who would say—meaning it as a compliment—“You have the brain of a man, my girl.” Although she was a diehard Communist, she was a secret romantic who was always wary of yielding to her emotions. The book she wrote about her partner’s final years, La Cérémonie des Adieux (published in English as Adieux: A Farewell to Sartre), shocked readers with the bluntness of its details. De Beauvoir is the ideal for seductive warriors who like to please without giving the impression they care too much for that kind of thing.



MANTRA: “She did not try to make others happy; she selfishly delighted in the pleasure of giving pleasure.”

THE SIMONE SIGNORETS

She is the sacrificial heroine, who, like the Little Mermaid, would be willing to give up everything, from her legs to her voice, for the man she loved. For Simone Signoret, that man was Yves Montand, one of the greatest French actors of all time. Together, they exuded movie glamour. She was an actress and writer, with a searching look and scarlet lips. He was a playboy of Italian descent with a disarming smile. Though Signoret won the Oscar for Best Actress for her role in Room at the Top in 1960, that same year her husband was in Let’s Make Love and everyone knew, herself included, that he was having an affair with Marilyn Monroe. However, Signoret didn’t leave him. She waited, acting as though nothing was wrong, suffering in silence. She broke this silence only much later. After Yves came back to her, after Marilyn’s death. She would say about Marilyn, “My one regret was never telling her that I didn’t bear her a grudge.” All the hopeless romantics of the nation have at one point or another coveted her particular kind of courage, this martyr for love, whose tale has a happy ending: she and Yves rest side by side in the Père Lachaise Cemetery.

MANTRA: “The secret to happiness in love is not being blind, but knowing when to close your eyes.”

In the Countryside

As she climbs out of the car, she feels a slight sense of unease come over her. The Parisienne lives by only one sound: that of her heels clicking on the pavement, setting a steady tempo for her life. She knows the rhythm well, it’s the metronome of her days. However, no sooner does she set foot in the countryside than the sole of her shoe sinks into damp grass and she realizes she is on foreign soil.

Truth be told, she likes green meadows only in paintings, like those old canvases hanging in her parents’ living room—no need for more. With each step, she feels the unraveling of the electric wires that connect to her world. She loses reception: Internet, telephone. She’s hot, she’s cold, she’s at the mercy of the seasons, and dreads the smell of her own perspiration. She has now truly left her comfort zone. For her, the country is nothing more than the sum of its missing parts. Finally, she likes things natural, but not nature itself. If her cheeks are rosy, it’s only because she’s wearing blush. If she smells of flowers, it’s because she’s wearing tuberose-scented perfume. Yes, she’ll admit that her charm is somewhat artificial. Et alors?

With an already less assured step, she heads toward a building she recognizes as a farmhouse. Or maybe not. To be honest, she is no longer sure of anything. Slowly she becomes more aware of her surroundings. She can hear a swarm of wasps buzzing above her head. The terrifying soundtrack of this hostile wildlife reminds her of her own fragility. A fly flits across her shirt. As she takes off her shoes, she walks on a patch of stinging nettles. The Parisienne, who cherishes the civilized world above all, can’t help but be appalled by Mother Nature’s intrusive ways. Bien sûr, she is overreacting, but this is the only weapon she has left to defend her persona.

She sits down on a bench in front of the farmhouse and closes her eyes, letting the wind caress her face. When she stops complaining to herself for a moment, she feels an exquisite light-headedness rush over her. She appreciates the simplicity of these minutes alone. She even delights in the splendor of a hundred-year-old tree that could rival the grandeur of certain cathedrals. But she’d never admit to this. Defending the countryside would mean renouncing the city, changing religions, running the risk of being excommunicated, and becoming forever after the poor little Parisienne who got lost in a field of wheat.


Date: 2016-01-14; view: 864


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