Place de Contrescarpe Friday, April 12, 2024, 10 am
In the square below our room, a film company had set up in the early morning hours. The crew of seven placed cameras and mic booms around a decorated table with a young man seated behind, as if he were holding court. It was a sun-dappled spring day in Paris.
Curious, I wandered around the set near the middle of the plaza. A young woman approached. She was part of the crew. I greeted her with my best “Bon jour,” and she replied likewise, continuing in French. I apologized, admitting to only speaking English. She smiled and replied, inviting me to take a seat at the table for an interview – an impromptu, man-on-the-street sort of thing. I hesitated repeating, “I only speak English.” She responded quickly, “He does also,” and escorted me to the table where I took a seat. The handsome, dark-haired host was conversing with an older French lady and after a few moments, turned to me and spoke.
He introduced himself as Jules and asked my name. Jules explained he was waiting for the love of his life to arrive. Her name was Charlotte and she lived nearby. With a penetrating glance, he inquired, “Do you believe there is one true love of your life?” I offered a fractured version of how I met Jennifer nearly 40 years prior. I questioned if Charlotte knew he was waiting for her, and where? Jules replied vaguely but hopeful she would appear.
On the tabletop before us were books, flowers, and various mementos that obviously spoke to Jules and Charlotte’s relationship. I pressed Jules on the various item’s meanings, and he spoke of poems by Baudelaire, favorite movies, and other keepsakes that filled his folding table.
Our conversation turned to songs that moved us, philosophies that inspired us, authors we admired and books we were reading. I explained the rationale behind my current novel, “Sometimes a Great Notion” by Ken Kesey, and how reading it was inspired by the recent death of a good friend. Jules dug deeper, so I offered my general philosophy of life – that every moment is a choice and one’s life is a compilation of those collected choices. For example, the choices that landed the two of us together in Paris at the Place de Contrescarpe on a Friday morning in April. I added, “However, the most important choices we make are how we react to events beyond our control.”
In time, Pasquele, the French woman seated to his right reentered the conversation in English. Pasquele took exception to a literary point I’d made that, “Men’s reading is comprised of 80% non-fiction and women’s 80% fiction.” Pasquele countered, “Not in France where men read far more fiction.”
The three of us enjoyed a pleasant discussion of literary habits before Jules re-engaged, asking about life’s meaning and where lies happiness. I repeated the wisdom passed to me by my high school humanities teacher, Mr. Worthington. He explained to the class that the rest of our lives would concern answering four fundamental questions: “Who am I? Where am I going? Where did I come from? and What is the meaning of life?”
All the while the camera whirled and the crew scurried about moving mic booms and filming our conversation from different angles. Just feet away, a drunk lay down near a grate where warm air blew, while those passing by paused to observe the happening.
I came back to Charlotte and questioned if he was certain she would show. Jules answered, “It depends on whether our love was meant to be.” I pressed him about where she lived and whether she knew he was waiting in the square. Jules replied that she lived nearby and was quite possibly aware.
We’d been speaking for more than 20 minutes, when I apologized for consuming so much of his interview and offered my place to another. But Jules insisted that I stay so we talked on, heart to heart. He asked what the components of a happy life were. So I offered Rod Stewart’s observation that a man needs an occupation, a sport, and a hobby. Then I continued with Somerset Maugham’s dictum that one must have sufficient resources for a comfortable living, “Money is the sixth sense without which you cannot make complete use of the other five.” Still, Jules dug deeper wondering, “What is a successful life?” I offered Tom Stoppard’s declaration: “The secret of life . . . is . . . this is not a drill.”
By 10:30 the Parisian sun beat down upon the square. Though two days earlier a biting chill filled the air, I began to regret the wool sweater I wore. Jules and I continued talking like two college kids at midnight. On my cell phone I played him one of my favorite French songs, “Les Bicyclettes de Belsize,” about two friends riding bicycles all through the day, wheels spinning round and around. Jules smiled in appreciation.
From the apartment window above came a call from Henry, his third in rapid succession. I’d felt the two prior buzzes, as my iPhone was silenced. I apologized to Jules, explained it was my son, and took the call. Henry needed a security code for two-factor authentication to purchase train tickets. I read back the code and returned to address Jules. I again apologized that we must soon be going for we had plans to visit the Rodin Sculpture Garden Museum. We would bicycle there to see Rodin’s masterpiece, The Thinker, and other sculpted art.
I offered Jules one final hope that Charlotte would indeed show and they would be united in love. Jules finally confessed – he was in fact an actor playing the part of Jules for the experimental film being shot. His real name is Raphael Dulcet and he’d recently accepted the role. The production was a staged happening, something like “Waiting for Godot,” an absurdist play by Samuel Beckett. While Raphael and the film crew knew the set-up, those they interviewed didn’t. They figured passersby would be more likely to share true thoughts on the nature of love and personal strategies for happiness.
Raphael is 26 and like many young actors, he’s often unemployed. He answered an online advertisement for the job. Though he wasn’t paid, this was an opportunity to meet others trying to get into the film industry, and form new connections. Members of the crew were similarly situated – post-graduates from a nearby film school, all trying to break into the business. I asked how long they’d be in the plaza and he replied, likely until early evening. We parted as friends and I promised to drop in when we got back.
After our bike ride and self-guided tour of the Rodin Garden, Jennifer and I enjoyed a late lunch at La Coupole, a famous brasserie in Montparnasse that writers and artists frequented in the 1920s. Each of us, Henry, Rachel, Jennifer, and I had chosen one special thing to do on the trip, and that was mine.
Forty-six years earlier, during five months of wandering through Europe, I periodically dined at La Coupole and always ordered the same meal – a bowl of French onion soup and a beer. It came with a demi-baguette and a reasonably cheap price that even a 24-year-old, budget-conscious traveler like me could savor.
Upon returning to the square, we locked our bikes and I spotted Raphael nearby, still playing the part of Jules. I yelled across the square, “Did Charlotte show?” and he smiled broadly. We greeted each other like old friends and continued our philosophical ping-pong match.
I felt like Owen Wilson in the fantasy comedy, “Midnight in Paris” cavorting with Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Stein. It happened to be one of Raphael’s favorite movies too. He asked about my day, so I repeated the phrase Tom Cerne and I regularly share with each other, “It’s the greatest day of my life . . . so far.”
Before exchanging goodbyes we exchanged our final thoughts. When all is said and done, I disclosed, the key to a good life is to cultivate thankfulness, and thanked him for coming into my life. Raphael suggested that fate may one day reunite us. I hoped so. Leaving the plaza, I climbed the two flights of stairs to our apartment and rested. That evening we visited the Arc de Triomphe, scaled the top, and enjoyed the gorgeous sunset. The day felt complete.
