A Copy of Swann’s Way

Further Adventures in Love, Literature, and Other Misapprehensions

Monsieur Moreau was neither a happy man nor an unhappy man. He wasn’t exactly a man of equanimity either. The word was not part of his vocabulary. It had an unattractive eastern flavor to him, something vaguely incense-filled and suspiciously serene. He took life the way it presented itself to him. In a calm manner. In a moderate manner.

He could get quite angry in the morning reading Le Monde and he abhorred cruelty and unfairness. Such as when the Parisian public bathing establishments barred people from the banlieues during the recent heatwave. But he also was too phlegmatic to do much about it. He shrugged and moved on.

He was a bit of a hedonist at times. He loved a good bottle of Sancerre and a generous wedge of runny cheese. He took care with his clothes. He preferred owning and frequently wearing bespoke clothing rather than wasting money on things from a rack. He read but not too much. He was fond of a few books he’d read to shreds.

Moreau was a romantic. He believed in love although it had not been reciprocated since he was about 7 years old and a girl he adored let him walk her home from school. Once, she had given him a soft kiss on the forehead and said: I like you. He had been ecstatic but soon the girl’s family moved to Switzerland. He thought that when he grew up, he would find her there. But somehow he never managed to go.

He didn’t travel much, in fact. One of his favorite places was Monet’s garden at Giverny. He had also planned to visit Tahiti and follow the footsteps of Gauguin, but he never got around to it. He was fascinated by one of the women Gauguin had painted. He was also fascinated by the women Chagall painted, the ones who flew away, the ones who escaped just out of reach.

He thought about it this morning, as he pondered what to do with the rest of his day. He couldn’t get the image of Julia out of his mind. Tomorrow was Thursday and he would visit Madame Dubois. He was hoping to spot the American girl there. He planned on going early and catching her before she was ringed by the frivolous fire of annoying admirers. He imagined their trite proclamations. Especially from that insufferable bore Thierry with his irritatingly carved cheekbones. So very now. So pathetically au courant.

Moreau was wondering how Julia was getting along in Paris and how she spent her days. He would love to bring her a book. A copy of Swann’s Way. Although she had nothing in common with Odette. In fact, he wasn’t sure who she did remind him of aside from perhaps Chloë in Boris Vian’s “L’Écume des jours.” Julia was in an intriguing universe of her own.

He decided to open the windows and do his calisthenics. Several knee squats, trunk bends and toe raises. Just as he was walking to one of the large windows of his dining room, he was assaulted by an absolutely abominable image of Julia on her back with her legs wrapped around a man who was probably Thierry. Thierry was glistening with sweat and saying pornographic things. Julia was moaning.

Disgusted, Moreau decided to skip his exercises and decided to head out and buy some orchids to bring to the salon tomorrow. He tried to think of a quote to supplant the pornographic image, and all that popped into his head was Oscar Wilde, something about those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. If anything, Moreau considered himself charming and believed he saw beauty in everything.

At around the same time, Julia was just kicking the duvets off her legs and planning on getting a croissant almonde at the local bakery, even though the cranky café owner corrected her pronunciation of croissant almonde saying she didn’t have any German croissants.

Then she would go buy a silky long Halston-esque dress for the salon tomorrow. She would make a grand entrance and make sure everybody saw her, then speak to no one— except for the strange little man she had found surveying her so furtively. She checked her phone and there were several messages from that tedious Thierry. Asking her to dinner, asking her to drinks, asking her to send him a sexy selfie at three in the morning. The audacity.

She would have to have a stern word with Madame Dubois for having given him her number. Maybe she would stop going. Maybe she should find a Pilates class. Maybe she should get an orchid and try to keep it alive.

The truth was simpler. She was lonely. If she decided to stay in Paris, she would get a white cat. She missed her Maine Coons back home in Woodstock. Enough with this morose little drama. She would figure out how to overcome her ennui. At least that was her plan. She couldn’t think further than that.

THE SALON SERIES:

Part I: A Small Romance - Monsieur Moreau is desperate
Part II: Almost Midnight - Julia flees and fantasizes
Part III: Fresh Meat - Thierry’s Take