Paris Times Eight Read online

  PARIS TIMES EIGHT

  Deirdre Kelly

  GREYSTONE BOOKS

  D&M PUBLISHERS INC.

  VANCOUVER/TORONTO/BERKELEY

  Copyright © 2009 by Deirdre Kelly

  09 10 11 12 13 5 4 3 2 1

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For a copyright license, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  Greystone Books

  An imprint of D&M Publishers Inc.

  2323 Quebec Street, Suite 201

  Vancouver BC Canada V5T 4S7

  www.greystonebooks.com

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Kelly, Deirdre, 1960–

  Paris times eight : finding myself in the City of Dreams / Deirdre Kelly.

  ISBN 978-1-55365-268-7

  1. Kelly, Deirdre, 1960–. 2. Paris (France)—Social life and customs.

  3. Paris (France)—Biography. 4. Journalists—Canada—Biography.

  I. Title.

  DC705.K44A3 2009 070.92 C2009-903861-7

  Editing by Susan Folkins

  Copyediting by Eve Rickert

  Cover and text design by Ingrid Paulson

  Cover illustration © Terra Standard/Free Agents Limited/CORBIS

  Printed and bound in Canada by Friesens

  Printed on paper that comes from sustainable

  forests managed under the Forest Stewardship Council

  Distributed in the U.S. by Publishers Group West

  We gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the British Columbia Arts Council, the Province of British Columbia through the Book Publishing Tax Credit, and the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities.

  To my mother, who said,

  Because I know you can . . .

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  ONE · Au Pair, 1979

  TWO · Wannabe, 1983

  THREE · Material Girl, 1986

  FOUR · Daughter, 1986

  FIVE · Miss Lonelyhearts, 1990

  SIX · Fiancée, 1995

  SEVEN · Fashionista, 2000

  EIGHT · Mother, 2007

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I WOULD LIKE to thank Susan Walker, recently dance writer for The Toronto Star, and Carol Toller, a trusted editor and steadfast colleague at The Globe and Mail. Both read early versions of the manuscript, and their constructive criticism and enthusiasm helped guide me forward at the beginning.

  Cameron Tolton, my former professor at the University of Toronto, served, as he has selflessly done for the last thirty years, as mentor and confidant, even going as far as to confirm that I was right in wanting to celebrate the enduring allure of Paris when he offered at the Royal Ontario Museum a miniseries of public lectures on Paris films.

  A heartfelt thank-you also to Salah Bachir, president of Cineplex Media, whose longtime friendship and generosity of spirit helped see me through much of the writing process, Jeffrey Sack, the lawyer who took my case at The Globe and Mail; Dr. Vera Victoria Madison for her invaluable advice; and Arline Malakian, Franco Mirabelli and Jackie Gideon for their eager support of the project.

  My gratitude also to my agent, Hilary McMahon of Westwood Creative Artists, who tirelessly encouraged me. And to Bruce Westwood, a committed Francophile who said writing well is the best revenge.

  Thanks also to Jennifer Barclay and Amy Logan Holmes, who published my first exploration of Paris as a literary subject in their jointly edited book, AWOL.

  Rob Sanders and Nancy Flight of Greystone Books were the biggest supporters of this book. They never stopped believing in me, even when I didn’t, and gave me all the time and hand-holding I needed to get it completed.

  They were also responsible for introducing me to Susan Folkins, a gifted editor whose expert eye and highly attuned ear helped give the book a heightened clarity and shape. I thank her for all her hard work and passion. The next kir’s on me!

  Thanks also to my younger brother, Kevin Kelly, who played audience to my first stories when we were small. And to my mother-in-law, Desanka Barac, for always wanting to lend a hand.

  Finally, thank-you to my husband, Victor Barac, who listened and empathized and suggested and nodded in all the right places. He is my beacon, the one who showed me that one true journey is the journey of love. To him I give thanks also for our two beautiful children, Vladimir and Isadora Barac. The perfection of them, their precious sweetness, inspired me to want to create something everlasting. Something to make them proud.

  PROLOGUE

  “LIFE IS A process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.” I cupped my palm around these words in hopes that my mother, sitting next to me in the car, hands hawkishly grasping the wheel, would not see what was making me open my eyes in wonder. I didn’t have to worry. Her mind was on her driving, or rather speeding—we had less than five hours to make it to Montreal, and we were racing against the eastbound Highway 401 traffic.

  My mother isn’t what you would call a bookish person. She doesn’t entirely respect books and has never understood my passion for them. “You’ve always got your nose stuck in some book,” she would say. Or, “Stop reading so much and go outside. You’re pasty-faced.” Or, “You think everything’s in a book? Get real.”

  But books were my salvation, an escape from my family, which included a runaway father, a volatile mother, a wayward brother, an emotionally vacant maternal grandmother, and a grandfather who, my mother alleges, molested his own children, including her, while drunk. Not exactly a fairy tale, unless we’re talking the Brothers Grimm. I found kindred spirits in books. They were the one place where my mother couldn’t intrude and where I could escape my loneliness and sadness, forget my hurts, conceal my fears, and rise above my shame.

  Now—ironically, with my mother as chauffeur—I was physically in flight. It was the summer of 1979. I had just graduated from high school, and to mark the end of what seemed an interminable childhood, I was departing Canada for Paris for my first visit there, at the invitation of Jenna and Nigel,* a Canadian couple who had asked me to help look after their two young boys. I was anticipating a reprieve from all that tormented me—my mother’s complicated love and my own deeply sorrowful self. But the book in my hand, Anaïs Nin’s study of D.H. Lawrence, was making the break difficult.

  Nin’s unhappy family life made me think of my own. My mother was always in the driver’s seat. But though she might be driving, I was fiercely driven, determined to define myself in opposition to a person who was always telling me I was just like her—a chip off the old block. This notion mortified me.

  When I was growing up, my mother wore hot pants and orange fishnet stockings, walked with a wiggle in her step should we go to a restaurant with one of her paying boyfriends, and ordered frosty mint-green grasshopper cocktails with paper umbrellas. She was a hot tamale. Men wanted her, I knew. She often told me that the husbands of her girlfriends would hit on her and that she would have to put them in their place. I didn’t want to know this, but she said she had no one else to tell. And so I understood her to be a sex kitten but not a floozy. Still, seeing my mother in any kind of sexual light nauseated me. I couldn’t articulate it at the time, but I wanted a mother who was nurturing, not naughty. A mother who was present, there for me, instead of the other way around.

  She wore h
er streaked brown hair short now, with a chunk of bangs falling over one eye like Natalie Wood’s (her favorite actress since she was young and saw Marjorie Morningstar). She cut it herself, often with a razor blade, slashing away at the back of her neck to correct what some idiot hairdresser had done. No one ever got it right with her. She had hazel eyes that she frequently narrowed to a piercing glare, and a prominent Presbyterian nose that, as she might say, was frequently out of joint. She wore too many gold rings at a time, one, sometimes two, to a finger, even though her hands weren’t her best feature. She picked at them, tearing at the skin around the nails until it was raw. I never knew her to wear nail polish or eye shadow or perfume. Lipstick she liked, shades called Chiffon and Pearl Praline. The colors complemented her fair, flawless complexion, making her beautiful in her own way, I thought as I watched her hunched at the wheel, driving with her chest practically thrust upon the steering wheel—like a battering ram wheeling down the highway.

  Partly she drove that way because of her height. She was five-foot-three to my five-foot-six and couldn’t see out the window without propping herself up. But it was also a style of physical combativeness that she had perfected over the years. She was a jock, a field hockey player to be precise, whose bellicose ways with a stick had enabled her to hold her own.

  Her bald independence and aggressive behavior had given her alpha-female ways some harsh masculine coloring. Even on the highway she was not exactly acting like a lady. “Get the hell outta my way!” she screamed at a driver in front of her. “Goddamn man! Did you see that?”

  She leaned heavily on the horn and waved her arms angrily. I retreated into my book, trying to shut her out.

  I had friends with more traditional moms who thought mine cool for seeming to be so liberated. But they didn’t know what they were talking about. I hated having a single mom, hated being left alone at home while she was sleeping around, going out dancing, staying out without calling home. I waited and read and worried.

  When she had spent all her money, she came to me for a loan. She said she was exhausted, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and needed all I had to buy a ticket to Bermuda. Doctor’s orders. I was devastated.

  I had been scrupulously saving for months to get to Paris and away from her, doing any number of low-paying jobs after school and on weekends just to make sure I had enough. I had read Gertrude Stein’s The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas and imagined Paris as a place where art was king and the only rule was being true to yourself. I imagined aimless strolls down wide avenues and dapper Frenchmen bowing to kiss my hand. I imagined Paris to be a city where I would, for once in my life, feel free. It was no accident that for my dream city I chose a place that was physically and culturally as far away from my mother as possible. But when she asked for the money, how could I refuse? Of course I needed to help her. It was my responsibility. I was the kind of daughter who did as she was told. I put Paris on hold. I told the Canadians that I wouldn’t be able to make it. They’d have to find a new babysitter.

  But then my mother surprised me.

  Instead of paying me back, she bought me the ticket to Paris. That was why we were now driving to Montreal. It had been a cheap fare, about $100 less than flying from Toronto—cheap on paper anyway. She hadn’t factored in the cost of gas or the time spent driving such a vast distance to save a few dollars. But that was her—always looking for a bargain, but impulsively, erratically. She chortled that we were having an adventure. I read on, or pretended to.

  But the book in hand was leading me down the thorny path of sex, sex, sex—sex in Paris, to be precise. Sex was usually something I tried strenuously to avoid. I wasn’t entirely a sexual person; I was too consumed by fear to give myself up to the call of the wild. Sex was something that could lead to pregnancy, and pregnancy meant disaster, the end of your ambition and of your life. My mother had taught me that. She had become pregnant with me when she was nineteen, the same age as I was now.

  She had never been interested in my father except for the fact that he had nice dark hair and strong eyebrows, qualities that she had hoped would pass on her to child. “And you do have nice eyebrows, you know. So I wasn’t wrong about that.”

  He was what today is known as a donor, except he hadn’t a clue. He had married my mother for love, she told me. He loved you too, she said. But he was gone by the time I was six.

  “Aw, he just loved you too much. That’s why he left. It hurt him. He loved his kids.”

  Her words left me completely bewildered. He loved me but had to leave me.

  Love and desertion, love and hurt. I would always make the connection.

  Now, as we raced to get me off to Paris, a city she had never been to yet imagined to be wonderful, full of promise, my mother screamed at me, “You are living my dreams! Don’t ever forget that!”

  Her voice clanged in my brain like a gong. I was paying attention to her now. She had pressed her body even tighter into the steering wheel. Her hands were fists, white at the knuckles. Suddenly she leaned on the horn. She began raging at a passing driver. But this time she apologized for her outburst. This shocked me; she never said sorry to anyone.

  She rooted in her handbag on the floor next to her and pulled out a small packet of pills. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice sounded frantic. “It’s a Valium. I have to take it.”

  She had never revealed a dependency to me before. She prided herself on never having touched a drink before she was twenty-eight, of never having smoked and having stayed away from drugs. But here she was now, sedating herself. She was strong! She was in control! And so her pronouncement unnerved me—the more so because she was still driving.

  We had crossed the border into Quebec some time ago. The signs said aéroport instead of airport. The distance was now just twenty miles. I suddenly became aware that this was it, the end of our journey together. I wondered if I would miss her. But I didn’t want to think about that now. I closed the book that had been sitting on my lap for hours, mostly unread. My mother was also strangely quiet. Maybe it was the pills she had just popped, or maybe it was the realization that I was finally going.

  Approaching Dorval airport, we suspended our ongoing family drama to focus on the more mundane matter of getting me to my flight on time. Where was the exit for international flights? Where was the gate? My mother didn’t want to pay the steep airport parking fees and so screeched to stop outside the terminal’s sliding doors. We yanked my baggage out of the trunk and ran. We found the counter easily enough and were panting as I handed over my tickets. The agent told me where the departure lounge was and to be quick. Mother and I ran to the security wall and then, suddenly, it was time to part.

  We looked at each other awkwardly. Who would reach out first? Neither of us was good at this anymore, not like when I was a little girl, eagerly flinging my arms around her neck and crying, “Oh, mommy!”

  I think she, like me, was biting back tears. I had that panicked feeling again. What if I never saw her again? She was my tormentor, but she was the only family I had. “See Paris,” she said, her voice strained. “Have fun. Have fun for me.”

  On that point, I thought, I won’t let her down. Away from her and her suffocating ways, Paris was where I would find freedom. Even happiness. I already envisioned it as my dream city. The light at the end of my road. I willed myself not to cry, and stepped forward, past two uniformed men with electronic wands scanning my body for hidden weapons. They couldn’t detect my breaking heart. I feebly waved to my mother and walked on, with Paris, my destination, before me, and my life in Toronto at my back. When I looked around again, my mother was gone.

  * Most names have been changed.

  ONE

  Au Pair

  · 1979 ·

  ON THE PLANE I shoved my face against the window and hoped that no one would see the tears streaking my face. I took out my journal, my constant companion since I was ten years old, and started scribbling. I tried reading Anaïs Nin again, he
r tales of desire and debauchery in Paris. Oh, I would never measure up.

  A couple had settled in next to me. Their coziness, their two against my one, made me withdraw even more deeply into myself. Eventually I slept, but fitfully, and stirred only hours later when the captain announced our descent into Paris.

  Deplaning at Charles de Gaulle airport, I desperately sought proof of the city’s uniqueness, its enviable otherness, in the faces of every one of the baggage handlers, customs agents, and custodians buzzing around me. Was this the national character? I scrutinized the unsmiling faces, the black and bushy eyebrows knit in consternation. And then, waiting for my baggage, I saw the women, real parisiennes, a unique breed. They might have been wearing security badges and regulation uniforms, but they had natural flair. Their neck scarves were jauntily tied, their lipstick was bolder and their eyes more defined than what I was used to. They walked from the hip, the rolling, self-confident stroll of the born-to-it femme fatale. I will perfect this walk, I said to myself.

  But at that moment my steps were hesitant. I had five years of high school French under my belt, but I was nowhere near being bilingual. I could conjugate verbs very well on paper, and I had a memory filled with French words. But coming from Toronto, where it was rare to hear any French spoken outside a classroom, I had little experience with the language in real time. I still struggled to piece sentences together to have a conversation. And so, in the airport, I walked in circles until I understood what door to exit from.

  Adding to my confusion was my quest for a woman I had never met before. The plan was for me to stay with her in her apartment for a week, after which Jenna and Nigel were expected to arrive in Paris with their two sons. I would then move in with them in the large Left Bank apartment they had rented for July and August. I was told we would live there en famille, as a family, until I flew back to Toronto at the end of the summer to begin classes as a new-bie undergraduate at the University of Toronto.