Paris Noir: Capital Crime Fiction by Dominique Sylvain, Michael Moorcock, Jerome Charyn, Jason Starr, Cara Black, John Williams, Barry Gifford, John Harvey, Scott Phillips, Stella Duffy, Maxim Jakubowski, Jean-Hugues Oppel, Dominique Manotti, Sparkle Hayter, Jake Lamar, Jim Nisbet, Romain Slocombe
Authors: Dominique Sylvain, Michael Moorcock, Jerome Charyn, Jason Starr, Cara Black, John Williams, Barry Gifford, John Harvey, Scott Phillips, Stella Duffy, Maxim Jakubowski, Jean-Hugues Oppel, Dominique Manotti, Sparkle Hayter, Jake Lamar, Jim Nisbet, Romain Slocombe
Tags: Fiction / Crime
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yes, of course, I was that soldier. But its emptiness was really the thing, drifting through this grand house full of weird paintings midway between kitsch and powerful, in our bubble, sealed in our bubble. Did we kiss in front of… Did we… No, too much recall.
Afterwards we drifted south, walked down St Denis and goggled at the whores, found some little second-hand shops at the southern end and bought a ‘50s shirt we both liked. Skirting Les Halles, not going anywhere in particular, just putting off our return to the
forêt
, I took us into Parallèles, an anarchist bookshop Ifor had shown me one time. And there, reading a copy of
Actuel,
was Laurent.
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘
mes amis’
‘Hey,’ we said right back and we got to talking. We went to the bar a few doors down and Laurent bought the drinks and we talked some more, then he asked what our plans were.
‘Not much,’ I said, ‘we have to go out to St Germainen-Laye.’
Laurent looked disgusted. ‘But why? There’s nothing there, it is just… bourgeois.’
I explained that we were camping in the
forêt
and he laughed at that and said, ‘OK, but go later tonight. I’ll take you some places that are not so… bourgeois.’
Beth and I looked at each other, and I mumbled something about money and our lack of any, but Laurent brushed it aside. ‘I have money, don’t be so bourgeois.’
Well, neither of us wanted to be bourgeois, that was for sure, so we looked at each other again and smiled and said, ‘OK,
merci.’
It was full dark by the time we left the bar. Time to eat, said Laurent and led the way up to Chartiers, off the rue Montmartre, a big old Toulouse-Lautrec place with mirrors and moustachioed waiters and cheap decent food. It’s a bit of a tourist classic, of course, I know that now, but right in that moment it was wonderful.
We sat down and looked at the menu, and I translated what I could. Beth wrinkled her nose up and said, ‘Don’t they have anything for vegetarians?’
Laurent heard her, laughed and said, ‘You are in Paris now. We do not have this vegetarian shit.’ And then he ordered snails and entrecotes and red wine for all of us.
Beth looked at me and said ‘Oh God, please don’t tell Yaz.’ And then her foot found mine under the table, and when the steak came she ate it with all the relish of a pale girl who hadn’t seen red meat in a year.
Did we go to La Tartine next, to drink the black wine of Cahors, sitting on the same banquette once perched on by Lenin? My memory wants to say yes, but common sense says that must have been the next night, because the club was in the other direction from Chartiers. Whatever, we went somewhere and drank a
verre
and Laurent asked if we would like to go dancing, and we both said ‘yes’; then, ‘What about the time, we must get to the
forêt
,’ and Laurent gave us the look that said we were in danger of becoming bourgeois again and sighed and said, ‘Maybe you have time to catch your train. If not you stay with me,
pas de problème.’
So we went dancing. I never found the place again. By day I suspect it looked like a hundred other restaurants along the boulevard Sebastopol, one of central Paris’s least charming thoroughfares. By night, though, it was African. We were amazed. This was before world music was invented, you understand. Reggae was as exotic as things got, as far as we knew. Yet now we were in Africa.
Up till then we – well I at least – had barely registered the city’s African population, and now we were surrounded by them: fresh-faced young guys in suits, women in smart dresses. I felt shabby and pale, but I didn’t care, I was too busy trying to take in the music. There was a band playing, I’d like to think it was someone legendary, Dr Nico perhaps. Whoever they were they were great, the circling guitars and the ease of the bass and drums. I was intoxicated three times over: by the music, by Beth next to me, her feet starting to measure out the
Afterwards we drifted south, walked down St Denis and goggled at the whores, found some little second-hand shops at the southern end and bought a ‘50s shirt we both liked. Skirting Les Halles, not going anywhere in particular, just putting off our return to the
forêt
, I took us into Parallèles, an anarchist bookshop Ifor had shown me one time. And there, reading a copy of
Actuel,
was Laurent.
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘
mes amis’
‘Hey,’ we said right back and we got to talking. We went to the bar a few doors down and Laurent bought the drinks and we talked some more, then he asked what our plans were.
‘Not much,’ I said, ‘we have to go out to St Germainen-Laye.’
Laurent looked disgusted. ‘But why? There’s nothing there, it is just… bourgeois.’
I explained that we were camping in the
forêt
and he laughed at that and said, ‘OK, but go later tonight. I’ll take you some places that are not so… bourgeois.’
Beth and I looked at each other, and I mumbled something about money and our lack of any, but Laurent brushed it aside. ‘I have money, don’t be so bourgeois.’
Well, neither of us wanted to be bourgeois, that was for sure, so we looked at each other again and smiled and said, ‘OK,
merci.’
It was full dark by the time we left the bar. Time to eat, said Laurent and led the way up to Chartiers, off the rue Montmartre, a big old Toulouse-Lautrec place with mirrors and moustachioed waiters and cheap decent food. It’s a bit of a tourist classic, of course, I know that now, but right in that moment it was wonderful.
We sat down and looked at the menu, and I translated what I could. Beth wrinkled her nose up and said, ‘Don’t they have anything for vegetarians?’
Laurent heard her, laughed and said, ‘You are in Paris now. We do not have this vegetarian shit.’ And then he ordered snails and entrecotes and red wine for all of us.
Beth looked at me and said ‘Oh God, please don’t tell Yaz.’ And then her foot found mine under the table, and when the steak came she ate it with all the relish of a pale girl who hadn’t seen red meat in a year.
Did we go to La Tartine next, to drink the black wine of Cahors, sitting on the same banquette once perched on by Lenin? My memory wants to say yes, but common sense says that must have been the next night, because the club was in the other direction from Chartiers. Whatever, we went somewhere and drank a
verre
and Laurent asked if we would like to go dancing, and we both said ‘yes’; then, ‘What about the time, we must get to the
forêt
,’ and Laurent gave us the look that said we were in danger of becoming bourgeois again and sighed and said, ‘Maybe you have time to catch your train. If not you stay with me,
pas de problème.’
So we went dancing. I never found the place again. By day I suspect it looked like a hundred other restaurants along the boulevard Sebastopol, one of central Paris’s least charming thoroughfares. By night, though, it was African. We were amazed. This was before world music was invented, you understand. Reggae was as exotic as things got, as far as we knew. Yet now we were in Africa.
Up till then we – well I at least – had barely registered the city’s African population, and now we were surrounded by them: fresh-faced young guys in suits, women in smart dresses. I felt shabby and pale, but I didn’t care, I was too busy trying to take in the music. There was a band playing, I’d like to think it was someone legendary, Dr Nico perhaps. Whoever they were they were great, the circling guitars and the ease of the bass and drums. I was intoxicated three times over: by the music, by Beth next to me, her feet starting to measure out the
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