Rue Vieille-de-Temple. That’s the kosher place where you can get overboiled beef with horseradish, just like in New York or Warsaw. I didn’t want him to catch me watching him, because Alex is a little funny about that sort of thing. I had a falafel sandwich at one of the Jewish places nearby and waited. And I wondered, because this really wasn’t his sort of place. Alex went in for places like the Crazy Horse Saloon, or the Tex-Mex place on the Boulevard Montpar-nasse. And he loved to go for tea at the Café Deux Magots on St-Germain. The place where Sartre used to have his famous quarrels with Simone de Beauvoir.”
Juanito’s mention of Deux-Magots reminded me of a story an American girl had told me about how she met Jean-Paul Sartre.
She said she had been having a Coke in Le Café Deux Magots because it was so famous, and she had recognized Sartre from a smudged reproduction on the back of one of the American editions of L’Etre et le néant. She told me that Sartre looked like a toad dressed in black, but beautiful.
She was a California girl. It was second nature for her to go over to his table and ask for his autograph. Sartre asked her to join him and Miss Simone de Beauvoir. My friend said she didn’t like to cause Miss de Beauvoir pain, as her joining the table was very obviously going to do, to judge by the martyred expression Miss de Beauvoir put on when Sartre made the invitation. But what the hell, this was going to be a world-class anecdote and Mr. Sartre and his lady friend probably had this sort of problem all the time. She sat down and Sartre bought her a Coke, and asked how she was enjoying Paris, and groped her under the table, so she thought he was kind of sweet and considered hanging around long enough to ball him so she’d have a super world-class anecdote. But she wasn’t really as tough as all that; sometimes she just liked to scare herself, and besides, she and the other kids were bicycling to Tours in the morning and she needed her sleep.
Her story had great point for me. It’s what I call the human side of philosophy.
Juanito was saying, “Alex came out of Goldenberg’s after a while and caught a taxi. I caught one immediately after. It was a day made for surveillance. ’Follow that taxi!’ I said to the driver.
“ ’There’s a twenty franc surcharge for following people,’ the driver says to me, swinging away from the curb. Like he was reminding me of a local statute.
“ ’Done!’ I said, and away we went.
“We followed him to the Gare Montparnasse. There I lost him. That’s all I can tell you.”
I thanked Juanito, then asked Marcello whether he knew of anyone else I could speak to concerning Alex.
“Sure,” he said. “The obvious person to contact would be Gerard Clovis.”
“Who’s that?”
“The film director. Surely you’ve heard of him?”
“Oh, that Gerard Clovis,” I said.
“It’s true that he’s not too well known outside France, but he’s got a lot of prestige here. Clovis is picking up where Goddard left off, so to speak.”
“What does he have to do with Alex?”
“I thought you knew. Alex was working for him.”
“As what?”
“An actor. He and Clovis met at a party, and Clovis thought he’d be perfect for a part in his new film.”
ARNE
13
It didn’t take too long for me to find out that Gerard Clovis worked out of the Gaumont movie studios in the north of Paris. I telephoned from a street corner phone booth. No answer. I had forgotten it was lunchtime in Paris, the sacred hour. I decided to ask a few questions around Beaubourg-Les Halles. This was Alex’s turf, a city within a city. I was bound to find someone who knew something.
I left Rachel in a café near the entrance to the Beaubourg, where she had a good view of the fire- and glass-eaters who perform in the sunken flagstoned courtyard at the front of the museum. She planned to lunch there, then spend a few hours in the Beaubourg to see the Dali
Juanito’s mention of Deux-Magots reminded me of a story an American girl had told me about how she met Jean-Paul Sartre.
She said she had been having a Coke in Le Café Deux Magots because it was so famous, and she had recognized Sartre from a smudged reproduction on the back of one of the American editions of L’Etre et le néant. She told me that Sartre looked like a toad dressed in black, but beautiful.
She was a California girl. It was second nature for her to go over to his table and ask for his autograph. Sartre asked her to join him and Miss Simone de Beauvoir. My friend said she didn’t like to cause Miss de Beauvoir pain, as her joining the table was very obviously going to do, to judge by the martyred expression Miss de Beauvoir put on when Sartre made the invitation. But what the hell, this was going to be a world-class anecdote and Mr. Sartre and his lady friend probably had this sort of problem all the time. She sat down and Sartre bought her a Coke, and asked how she was enjoying Paris, and groped her under the table, so she thought he was kind of sweet and considered hanging around long enough to ball him so she’d have a super world-class anecdote. But she wasn’t really as tough as all that; sometimes she just liked to scare herself, and besides, she and the other kids were bicycling to Tours in the morning and she needed her sleep.
Her story had great point for me. It’s what I call the human side of philosophy.
Juanito was saying, “Alex came out of Goldenberg’s after a while and caught a taxi. I caught one immediately after. It was a day made for surveillance. ’Follow that taxi!’ I said to the driver.
“ ’There’s a twenty franc surcharge for following people,’ the driver says to me, swinging away from the curb. Like he was reminding me of a local statute.
“ ’Done!’ I said, and away we went.
“We followed him to the Gare Montparnasse. There I lost him. That’s all I can tell you.”
I thanked Juanito, then asked Marcello whether he knew of anyone else I could speak to concerning Alex.
“Sure,” he said. “The obvious person to contact would be Gerard Clovis.”
“Who’s that?”
“The film director. Surely you’ve heard of him?”
“Oh, that Gerard Clovis,” I said.
“It’s true that he’s not too well known outside France, but he’s got a lot of prestige here. Clovis is picking up where Goddard left off, so to speak.”
“What does he have to do with Alex?”
“I thought you knew. Alex was working for him.”
“As what?”
“An actor. He and Clovis met at a party, and Clovis thought he’d be perfect for a part in his new film.”
ARNE
13
It didn’t take too long for me to find out that Gerard Clovis worked out of the Gaumont movie studios in the north of Paris. I telephoned from a street corner phone booth. No answer. I had forgotten it was lunchtime in Paris, the sacred hour. I decided to ask a few questions around Beaubourg-Les Halles. This was Alex’s turf, a city within a city. I was bound to find someone who knew something.
I left Rachel in a café near the entrance to the Beaubourg, where she had a good view of the fire- and glass-eaters who perform in the sunken flagstoned courtyard at the front of the museum. She planned to lunch there, then spend a few hours in the Beaubourg to see the Dali
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