Hem and Ho: A Conversation Kendric W. Taylor

Hem and Ho A Conversation Or An Afternoon in Paris: A Fable

Paris is mostly a city of memories, left over like the abandoned steamer trunks in the cellars of the great hotels -the Ritz, George Cinq, the Crillon . . .

By Kendric W. Taylor

The old man at the corner table had been watching for some time. I had noticed him earlier because of the likeness to photographs I recall seeing of Lloyd George, the British prime minister during the Great War. It was as if George had stepped out of a quiescent rotogravure from the 1920’s into this Parisian bistro. The place itself was a relic, aged, dark, smoky with the reek of too many Gauloises, an oldfashioned zinc-topped bar in the rear. A white mustache and van dyke beard adorned the old man’s face; a halo of white frizzy hair touched the dark fur collar of

his overcoat. He wore an old-fashioned, wide-brimmed, black hat, almost like that of one of the many artists who had once frequented this arrondissement. He sat quietly sipping his cognac, leaning forward occasionally, his hands gripping the cane between his knees, almost as if he were gently exercising. Finally he spoke in English across the tables:

“Colonel Lawrence?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Of course. You resemble him but slightly. The late Leslie Howard did more so.”

“The movie actor from the 1930s?”

“Yes,” the old man replied. He paused, then asked: “May I join you?” motioning to my table.

I could hardly refuse. I had nowhere to go in particular, and for once felt less like being alone.

“Thank you,” the old man answered. “Do you mind?” He rose slowly and moved his glass to where I was sitting, gracefully shrugging his overcoat from his shoulders and placing it carefully over the wire back of the wood-bottomed chair next to me.

Our voices echoed softly past the vacant clutter of the afternoon; the doors of the establishment tightly shut against the chill on the avenue outside. We were alone, except for the propriétaire, sitting in shirtsleeves on a stool at the bar, working over an account ledger.

“I am grateful for the company,” the old man continued, “and you speak English. Usually at this time of day, it is quite empty here.”

I nodded back with a slight smile: late afternoon had always been a favorite time to drink. It generally led to headache and an early evening, but I liked the feeling the alcohol provided, and how good the music sounded playing on the jukebox.

“Were you speaking of T.E. Lawrence?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Lawrence of Arabia? You knew him?”

The old man leaned back, his glass empty, a subtle hint that a refill would be welcome. I caught the eye of the owner for two refills and waited for my new companion to continue. “Yes, I knew him at Versailles in 1919 at the peace conference. I was a junior diplomat. He was here with Prince Faisal. Lawrence wore his army uniform and an Arab headdress. He looked exemplary, although the British delegation were restrained in their enthusiasm.”

I sat looking at him. He sipped slowly, wiping his billowy white mustache afterward with great care. His hands were long and tapered as they fluttered over the long silver handle of his cane; his nails were clean. An exquisite looking signet ring adorned the little finger of one hand. A pair of yellowed kid gloves was folded exactly on the corner of the table next to him. He wore an old-fashioned high collar with a narrow black tie, which only added to his aura of an ancien boulevardier. I wondered if spats completed the ensemble, but it would have been impolite to look under the table.

The owner brought the new drinks, adding two small dishes to the few he brought from the other’s table, completing to what now seemed to have become my

accounting. “Ah monsieur, you cannot imagine the excitement here in Paris at the end of that terrible war – the crowds in the streets, the rejoicing -- even well into 1919. Some say, it lasted even into 1929. At the same time, of course, the wounded, the blind and maimed, they were with us, and yes, and even those who would never return.

“I read once,” I said, “ that, later, in England, in the 1930s, after Lawrence had renounced fame, he would sometimes turn up under his new name at fashionable cocktail parties. Of course, everyone knew who he was, and he knew they did.”

“And they knew he knew it, “the old man replied. “I’m sure he quite enjoyed it. Brilliant mind, though bizarre. I had forgotten he had passed on. He did bear a resemblance to Leslie Howard. Or possibly I mentioned that.”

I looked across the table thoughtfully, my mind adding and subtracting dates. Was he fooling with me, I wondered: “Have you been reading Hemingway by chance? There is a story where an elderly man discusses Lawrence with an American, at a railway café. Do you know Hemingway?”

“No. Proust.”

“I mean did you know of Hemingway,” I attempted to explain: “wait -- excuse me -- you knewMarcel Proust?”

“Oh yes. He would dine often at the Ritz. Book a chambreand have his meal served there. He was quite eccentric you know. He would send his man over from his apartment for a bottle of Ritz beer, which he liked.”

“Well, Paris isa literary Mecca,” I conceded. “So I guess it’s possible; but so long ago. How could you . . .”

“Yes,” the old man continued without stopping: “I introduced them.”

Now what, I wondered: “Who? You introduced whom?”

“Lawrence. Proust. We sat in this same bistrolate one afternoon for an apéritif. It was a fashionable location at the time. It was very crowded. Lawrence caused quite a stir. Proust was nervous and did not look at all well. Our waiter was a slim Tonkinese, who obviously knew who Lawrence was. He kept trying to catch his eye, but Proust was immersed in complaints about his health, dominating the conversation. This was no easy task, as Lawrence always demanded his share of attention.”

I was getting the hang of it now, and settled back in my chair: “Don’t tell me about the waiter: Ho Chi Minh.”

The old man’s countenance brightened: “I amimpressed. I forget what name the waiter went by, but exactly so. Ho lived in Paris in the ‘20s. Two pure revolutionaries from opposite sides of the globe and cultural spectrum as well. I often wonder if they had been able to converse -- Lawrence of Hanoi, perhaps.”

“Who left the tip?”

“A jejune point,” the old man smiled, “but I did. Certainly not those two.”

“Your English is excellent,” I said, overwhelmed by all of this.

“As is yours, “he replied, nodding slightly.

“Hah, well, I have the advantage: it’s the only language I know.”

“Just so. Of course, my mother was English,” the old man explained, “although I have not lived there for many years.”

“Do you remember much of England -- as it was?”

“My great-grandmother once told my mama that hergreat-grandmother’s most luminous memory during a long life was as a young girl seeing Charles the Second walking with his spaniels through the streets of Oxford. The child would curtsy, and the dogs would swirl around her for a moment, before chasing off to follow their master in his progression down the thoroughfare.”

“My God,” I said, having trouble with this one, “that was the late 17th century.”

“Exactly so. Your knowledge of history is excellent -- for an American,” he offered kindly. “It is said you are a people with no history, and, as I have heard as well, no appreciation of history.”

“Well, I’m English by heritage,” I explained. “Anyway, it looks like you’re a living link to Charles the Second -- so to speak.

“Actually,” I continued, “I had a relative, who had a relative, and so forth, who was widely known as the last living person to have shaken hands with George Washington.’

“Formidable! Another living statue, I see,” the old man nodded toward me with a small smile.

“Yes, our link to the past.” I was all in on this now: “Beg pardon, but back to your encounter with Lawrence and Ho: could it be possible in the kitchen that day, George Orwell was there arm deep in dirty pots and pans,” referring to Orwell’s description in his book, Down and Out in Paris and London.”

The old man’s eyebrows rose quizzically above the white moustache: “Hardly. He would have been still a schoolboy at that time, wetting his bed at night. But in the same book, he describes living rough here in Paris in the Latin Quarter, although he probably makes it sound worse than it was. He relates seeing Joyce sitting outside at LesDuex Magotone day, but was too shy to approach him. “

This was perfect: my imagination couldn’t let this one go by either: “Wow, imagine Joyce, Proust, Orwell, perhaps Hemingway, even Ezra Pound, all at one table, your own good self there as well -- a literary frieze.” I was tickled pink conjuring this: “And there’s our friend Ho, waiting on them, trying to coax a tip out of the bunch,” I added excitedly.

It was the old man’s turn to peer sharply at me: “Do you often get carried away thus: you have a vivid imagination; even for an American.” He shifted slightly to gaze thoughtfully through the open white curtains of the large, plate glass window, the late afternoon sun burnishing the brass rods into gold.

He slowly turned his attention back to me: “But it is true, soon after the war, in the ‘20s, artists and writers and composers of all stripes from all over the world began coming to Paris, attracted by the cultural and sexual freedom, and not incidentally, the low cost of living. In those vibrant days, it was possible to attend a ballet or opera, with music by, say, Stravinsky or Ravel, librettos by Colette, and sets and costumes by Matisse or Picasso.

“Of course, that was long ago,” he continued. “At my age now, Paris is mostly a city of memories, left over like the abandoned steamer trunks in the cellars of the great hotels -- the Ritz, George Cinq, the Crillon. One unlocks them both with care, each one releasing a remembrance of youth, of love, adventure, disappointment . . .”

He had me again: “Steamer trunks?”

“In the grand hotels of Paris, these items were once labeled consigne -- how do you say – ‘left luggage,’ because of the wars. Now they stand guarded by chicken wire and covered with dust, deep in the hotels’ catacombs, like lost magnums in forgotten wine cellars: ungainly artifacts from another age, ghostly sepulchers of mémoire.”

Now it was my turn: “Your gift for ripe metaphor, matches my imagination,” I said, not unkindly.

“Ah, you’re a writer,” the old man offered.

“I have a small literary magazine, yes,” I demurred. “ But please, how did they get there,” I urged, “the trunks?”

He leaned back in his chair, the polished handle of his cane resting against his waistcoat: “There were many reasons. In August 1914 the Germans were only 20 miles from Paris. The government and the tourists had fled in panic, the latter abandoning their bagage, likely forever. Our salvation came in the form of the Paris taxis, when the Poilus were rushed out of the city in taxicabs to halt the invader: “The Miracle of the Marne,” it was called.

“Then, in June of 1940, the same thing occurred, only this time the Germans did arrive (one admires them for their deadly persistence), and again the tourists fled.”

I took a moment to visualize the trunks, keys lost, and locks rusted, stacked neatly and forgotten, some sitting undisturbed for decades, their peeling stickers the last hurrah of the grand hotels, the fashionable spas, the luxury ocean liners that no longer existed.

“But wouldn’t the owners have sent for them later?”

“Improbable. These were not people who worried about old clothes. They would merely purchase new wardrobes. Assuredly they took their valuables with them.”

“But the hotels -- why didn’t the hotels dispose of them?”

“A good hotelierdiscomfits no one; certainly such elevated guests. And, perhaps the patrons might indeed one day return.

The old man paused suddenly: “There is one that will never be reclaimed. One that belonged to my one true love. Inside, along with her wardrobe, were my letters, and a modest pearl necklace,” he continued, “but expensive, of good quality,” he added.

I was almost afraid to ask.

“Whose trunk was it,” I inquired in a small voice.

He looked at me silently for a long while, his brow furrowing, his breath halting. A small eternity passed: then the name came whispering across the table, each word seeming to carry immense pain; divulged sadly, as if the old man had not spoken them aloud for decades: “Mata Hari.”

He paused. I sat there – speechless for a moment: “The spy? From the Great War?”

“She betrayed many people. Still, foolishly, one hoped . . .”

My nose itched terribly. My mouth opened, then closed, unable to form an intelligent question in the face of such a drama -- true or not. I could hear every sound outside on the boulevard, while all was still within the café. I looked down at my drink, sipped from it, then replaced the glass on the damp tabletop. Finally, I

started to speak, but the old man raised his hand, not impolitely. I knew there would be no further explanations.

“But what of you,” he asked. You have been to Paris before, if I may observe. But you do not seem to be enjoying it.”

“Yes. No. Paris once was magic for me, but I made the mistake of sharing it with someone whose interest had moved on, without bothering to mention it to me. ”

“Ah, une affaire de coeur,” he nodded sagely,

“Yes, it was a messy ending -- it took its toll. So I thought perhaps a change of scenery, as they say, might help . . . The first glimpse I ever had of Paris was arriving at the Gare du Nord. It was March, and stepping outside, the trees were already green. I didn’t expect that. It was beautiful, the streetlamps shining through the leaves down the avenue.”

“Yes, quite so.”

“It’s funny,” I said, “a private investigator told me once that every hour somewhere in the world, there is always someone screwing someone else over.”

The old man smiled in reply, sipping at his cognac.

“So you are alone now?”

“Yes.”

“But there will be someone else, no doubt?”

“Oh yes, I would hope. Maybe I will be smarter next time. Or if not, I’ll come back for the trees.”

“There are worse reasons.”

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