Читать книгу Beyond Homer - Benjamin W. Farley - Страница 6

The muggy air had finally begun to cool. I could feel its dampness tingling on my face and hands. My glass of beer had long since turned tepid, but the pale libation had helped me endure the warm and limpid evening. Now it filled me with a pleasant and lazy languor.

It was April, 1970, and the brightly lighted café off the Jardin de Luxembourg was beginning to fill with patrons. A fashionable couple had just arrived by taxi and were escorted into the luxuriant bistro noted for its escargots, aperitifs, and dark oak paneling. A slight buzz erupted as a waiter seated the couple at a small, round, elegant, black table, pulled up against a screen of velvet green wall covering bordered by dark paneling. Heads turned in their direction and voices whispered: “Alors! C’est M. Gibert,” or something to that effect, but his name escaped my minimal knowledge of Parisian celebrities. I had seen the man earlier at an avant-garde theatre up the street, where an array of speakers had been allotted twenty minutes each to vent their respective grievances: namely, their anti-Vietnam War sentiments.

What had struck me about the Frenchman, however, was the contradictory nature of his character. On the one hand, he displayed an aristocratic bearing in his fine-tailored, black suit and foppish red scarf; yet, on the other hand, there was a casual demeanor about him, seasoned with just a modest hint of Gallic aloofness and disdain. The strikingly beautiful woman in the café had been at his side. She was wearing a light burgundy, leather jacket, matching leather pants and beret, and pearl-covered, high heel shoes. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall.

The first speaker had been a youthful, unruffled Vietnamese, dressed in Viet Cong garb. He delivered an impassioned speech in French on behalf of the “libération de mon pay,” or the liberation of his country. He was followed by a young hippie in blue jeans who wore a white Russian tunic and whose long blond hair flopped in his face the entire time he waved his arms and ranted knowingly about American imperialism, injustice, and jingoism. He concluded by quoting lines from Whitman’s Leaves of Grass:

Welcome are all earth’s lands, each for its kind.

It was the rhetoric and theme of the last speaker, however, that captivated my own imagination. The pudgy, red-bearded man (probably in his mid-forties), with a receding line of rusty gray hair, took to the podium as if by habit, and, taking off his watch, laid it against the folder-rest of the stand. After a brief pause, he adjusted his glasses. He was accompanied by a lithe, light-skinned black girl, with long black hair and hazel irises, set in the whites of large soft eyes. She had glanced back at me, just before her partner had struggled on stage, and smiled. I returned her engaging overture with ample recognition and interest of my own.

“I am Carl Sullivan,” the big man introduced himself, “a Harvard graduate and Alabamian, whose field is, unfortunately, everything,” he stated with a gruff voice. “I am currently here on sabbatical, from an ivy league school near Chattanooga, whose name I need not divulge. I teach a variety of humanities courses,” he boasted, with a toothy air, “but the classics are my definitive love, my quintessential joy. If I seem overbearing or a little imperious, forgive me. Let me retell a famous story, and you draw your own conclusions. And yes, it does have to do with our purpose here.” He cleared his throat.

“Phaeton was the son of Apollo and Clymene, a lovely nymph. One day a fellow schoolmate laughed at Phaeton’s reference to his divine parentage, so the lad begged his mother to provide some proof of his celestial birth. She implored him to journey to India, where the sun rises in the East, and to entreat the Sun to own him as his son. The youth listened with delight and hastened toward the eastern horizon. Upon arriving, he made the ascent to Phoebus’s palace, where it glittered behind lofty columns of gold and precious stones.” Then, for the next twelve minutes or so, Sullivan retold the entire story of how Phaeton managed to coax his father into allowing him to drive the sun-god’s chariot across the sky. Only the task was too daunting for the boy. Thereupon, seeing that Phaeton had lost control of the steeds and that the whole of Mesopotamia, Arabia, and Africa were turning black to a crisp—along with its people, Sullivan said: “Thus did Zeus take notice, call the gods to council, even grieving Phoebus, and, seizing a spear-sharp thunderbolt, hurled it at the youth. A bright flash filled the heavens and spread across the seas. Down fell Phaeton in a fiery plume, as his ashes drifted softly in the shifting winds and hot breeze. Phoebus leapt into the falling chariot and, fumbling for the reins, brought the glowing vessel back to night and evening’s soft decline, against a golden sunset in the silent west.”

Sullivan shifted his weight from one foot to the other behind the podium. The audience appeared stunned. A titter of light laughter crept across the room. I found myself smiling, too. I had read the story myself, but couldn’t remember when or where. Suddenly, it dawned on me that I had read it in Sullivan’s own book, that this was the man whose work on the classics I had admired for the past ten years, alongside Nietzsche’s and Dickinson’s.

“Merde!” said the hippie. “I thought you said your remarks would be relevant.”

“Ah, but they are!” interjected the Frenchman, as he turned and frowned sardonically at the young man.

I was about to lift my wrist to order a second beer, when I noted another couple arriving, this time on foot, down the slight hill from the theatre. I rose to my feet. It was Sullivan and his young wife, or paramour.

“Bonsoir,” she smiled, recognizing me. “Vous-étiez à la petite conférence, nes’ pas?”

“Yes,” I replied, in English. “I enjoyed the story. It’s one of my favorites.”

“Mine, too,” groaned the sweating Sullivan.

“Still, you retold it with fascinating effect.”

“Except on the hippie. Plus, I borrowed generous snatches from Bulfinch; and I was reciting it from my own book: From the Minoans to Homer: The Immortal Gods and Mortal Man.”

“I’m familiar with it. I have it back home, in my own library.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Clayton Rogers Clarke, from Virginia. I’m on sabbatical, too. Perhaps you’ve heard of my college—The Shenandoah University.”

“Ah, yes! One of those ‘Harvards of the South.’” he smiled painfully. He extended his clammy hand.

An embarrassed smile slipped across the black girl’s mouth. “He’s not always this pleasant,” she grimaced. “We know a number of faculty members from your school. One’s directing my graduate program, along with Grumpy, here.”

“I need to sit down,” said Sullivan. “May we join you?”

“Please, do!” I noted that the girl’s fingers sparkled with several rings, but none on her wedding-ring finger. She caught me staring at her hands and smiled.

The professor plopped into the nearest, wire-back chair, opposite mine, while I assisted the girl, whom I seated to my right.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Sullivan glared. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve plenty of time. Qu’ est que, le temps? Anyway?”

“Don’t get philosophical,” he frowned. “What do you teach?”

“Philosophy and religion courses. I was a minister once, but returned for a Ph.D. in philosophy.”

“Why’d you get out?”

“That’s a long story, too.”

“Well, we’ve got at least an hour,” he looked at this watch. “What about you, Sugar?” he put his hand on the black girl’s right thigh.

“Oh, Lord, you still treat me like a slave, don’t you?”

“No. Maybe your great-grandparents were. But you’re not. Besides, Professor Clarke doesn’t know about our Alabama laws. Or do you?” he looked squarely at me.

“About what?”

“Incest.”

“No. Your secret’s safe.”

They both smiled, as she put her hand over his. “It is a long story,” she emphasized.

“Mademoiselle et Monsieur! What is your wish?” asked the waiter.

“Jack Daniels! You do carry it, don’t you?”

“Of course, Monsieur! Et vous, Mademoiselle?”

“White wine! Something from Bordeaux. Sweet, but not too dry.”

“Bon! But the wines from le-Midi; they are so truly superior.”

“She said, ‘Bordeaux!’” repeated Sullivan.

The garcon appeared offended, but held his head aloft, as if to signal that he was above such boorish reproach.

Just then Monsieur Gibert came out of the bistro and approached our table.

“Please, won’t you join me and the Madame inside,” he gestured with a gracious arc of his hand. “I was—shall I say—mesmerized by your speech. It would be an honor.” His English was close to impeccable. “I’m Jacques-Maria Gibert, with Le Miroir Français, one of its feature writers.”

Sullivan looked slightly shocked, if not annoyed. “Please, Monsieur, why don’t you and the Madame join us. I’m tremendously tired. I apologize, but I am.”

“And stubborn,” added the black girl.

“Eh, ma petite, may I ask your name, Mademoiselle?”

“Well, at least, there’s one gentleman in France,” she replied. “Julene Sullivan. Professor Sullivan and I are cousins.”

“Remarkable! I thought perhaps you were his wife.”

“Not by Alabama law,” she patted Sullivan’s hand. “I can’t speak for Virginia,” she looked coquettishly at me.

“You know the answer to that. Cousins are always marrying cousins in Virginia. At least, second and third cousins.”

Gibert motioned for his wife to join him. She appeared exasperated at his beckoning, but, clinching her purse in her left hand, she rose misgivingly from her chair and came toward the doorway.

Several waiters quickly brought two extra chairs to the table.

The maitre d’ came out. “I’ll be in charge,” he informed the waiters. “Monsieur Gibert, do you wish anything to eat. Non?”

Gibert glanced at each of us. “Mademoiselle? Messieurs?”

“No, thanks,” I said.

“Ditto!” remarked Sullivan.

“Non, Monsieur,” replied Julene. “But thanks.”

“Ah, bon! Then champagne for everyone,” suggested Gibert. “The night is too young to waste. Darling, you do remember these fine people, je crois?” he directed his comment toward his wife, who had just arrived by his side and was trying her best to act pleasant.

“Certainly,” she smiled, extending her right hand, first to Sullivan, as he struggled to his feet, then to me. A curious little pout formed across her mouth. She reached up and adjusted her beret. Her dark red hair glistened with strands of silver and platinum. She pursed her lips for me to kiss. It was all very charming, if not a tad affected.

I leaned down and kissed her cheek. She, in turn, kissed my neck. “Enchanted,” I managed to whisper. “Thank you for joining us.”

“Did I have a choice?” her eyes searched mine with a hint of a tease. “And you, Precious,” she turned toward Julene. “You’re not Française, I believe.”

“No. I’m not from one of your former colonies,” Julene stated, with abruptness.

“Now, now, Sugar, let’s be civil,” interrupted Sullivan. “C’est la France. Not Alabama.”

“Oh, I rather love it,” rejoined Mme. Gibert. “Really, I do. But I’ve never been to your Alabama; only New York and Washington,” she looked inquisitively at me.

“Well, you haven’t missed a thing,” growled Grumpy.

“How can you say that!” retorted Julene. “He doesn’t mean it, truly. We’re just northwest of Huntsville, a beautiful area, like you’ve seen in the movies, or Southern Living, if you’re familiar with our magazines.”

Mme. allowed the closest waiter to seat her. I couldn’t help but stare at her. Her skin was smooth, but ashen and pale, with a delicate hint of rouge; her lipstick glowed a green iridescence in the bistro’s neon sheen. “I edit the fashion page of Monsieur’s paper, here,” she nudged Gibert. “We’re quite familiar with your Vogue, but not your Southern Living, as you call it.”

She had turned toward Julene, but I could tell that her eyes and voice were intended for me to observe, for me to hear, if not to admire. Gibert noted her behavior, but seemed more interested in Professor Sullivan than in either Julene, his wife, or me.

“Can we talk about your Phaeton and your interpretation of the myth? Would you care to know what I think?” he said to Sullivan.

“I hate to interpret my own comments. But, certainly, I’d like to hear yours.” Sullivan took his spectacles off and cleaned them with his tie, then pushed them back on over his squat nose.

“Ah, Monsieur. Where to begin! Hubris: individual and collective! Mortal pride and immortal sorrow! An eternal balancing act that not even the gods can reverse. A miring down in the consequences of ones own undoing. N’est-ce pas?”

“That’s as good as any,” replied Sullivan.

“How France has paid that price across the centuries! ’Tis our national pastime, I regret to state. A glory in blood, revolution, empire, colonialism, grandeur and demise.”

“Don’t mind him,” laughed Mme. “He’s just building up to tell you about his own book.”

“How sauvage !” Gibert retorted with a glimmer of pleasure that she had mentioned his book.

“Which is?” I asked.

“Well, it’s still several weeks off. Actually, it won’t be out till June or later.”

“And?”

“Le Futur d’un Grandeur Passé. It’s a commentary on where we French have been and what still lies ahead, politically and culturally for us.”

“Sounds worthy,” Sullivan remarked. “I might need to see it.”

“Hopefully, you shall.”

“Too boring!” chimed Mme. Gibert. “Let’s return to Phaeton,” she said, with a peevish roll of her eyes. “I think it all has to do with the umbilical cord. After all, it was his mother who initiated the search. She knew it was time for the boy to grow up. Plus, she was irked at his father for abandoning her. Le batard had it coming,” she grinned mischievously. “Phoebus’s fake grief and all that! Parents can never predict or foresee the fate of their children. It is the way of all flesh. I think I’m right, non?”

“Valid. Equally valid,” smiled Sullivan.

“I like the explanation about the Ethiopians turning black. Like we blacks have to be white or brown before we can be worth anything, but owing to some stroke of ill luck, we ended up turning color. Man, that is outrageous prejudice!” Julene averred.

“Now, Sugar, let’s not be so emphatic. There are frescoes on the palace walls in Crete, depicting brown girls frolicking on the backs of great fish and graceful green sea monsters, totally without any inkling of racial overtones. It’s your festering Alabama past, with all its lash-whipping frenzy, and torrid oral history that’s been your ambrosia too long.”

“Oh, Dr. Clarke, have you ever heard such a beguiling and devilish tongue!” chortled Julene. “‘Lash-whipping frenzy’ my ass! Blacks are the true children of Phoebus, the descendants of that abominable, but life-giving Sun. Every anthropologist knows that.”

“The poor child never sees it,” Sullivan grimaced with a feigned scowl. “‘Heaven and earth,’ ouranos kai gaés, are a unity, interdependent. Neither can strive to be the other; neither can substitute for the other, neither can take the other’s place. Zeus is lord of both. Even lord of the underworld and all its chthonic creatures. We have to peel back those mythic layers, if we’re ever going to recover our own ousia, the truth about our own beingness.”

“Ah, mon vieux! Now you are espousing existentialism,” complained Gibert. “Please, let’s not spoil the evening.”

About that time, the maitre d’ returned with two bottles of champagne, glasses, and a large white china dish arrayed with cheese, crispy thin French tea biscuits, and six petite lemon tarts. After a flourish with his towel and the uncorking of the bottles, he poured our drinks and placed the half-filled remaining bottle in front of Gibert.

“A toast to our new American friends! Salut to all!” Mme. offered.

We raised our glasses and touched each other’s. “Salut! A tout le monde, salut.”

For a brief moment, Mme.’s eyes met mine. Her subliminal message was unmistakable. Julene didn’t miss it either. Julene smiled as I clinked my glass a second time against hers. “To Mme. and Miss Alabama!” I said, with a celebratory gesture.

“Yes! I’ll drink to that,” affirmed Gibert. “C’est magnifique.”

“You romantics are all alike,” groaned Sullivan. “To the gods, those restless and fate-bound immortals, enchained in their own jealousies and limited powers—to them I lift my mortal cup, and bid, ‘live on.’”

“Hear, hear!” we agreed, as the soft night enfolded us in its restful ambience.

I don’t remember how much longer we talked, but after a third round of champagne, Gibert said: “Ah, Professor Sullivan” (only he pronounced it ‘Sue-lee-von’), “would you care to see our own archives, or let me run a special article on you. If you could come by my office tomorrow, say around eleven, we could have coffee, and talk and the like. I should love for all France, or at least Paris, to know how an American scholar views his country’s war through the lens of the grand classics. If only we had done the same before Dien Bien Phu, or relinquished North Africa decades before we did! Alors! Please, don’t say Non.”

“Well, I write every morning, but, I suppose I could forego that ritual, just once. Une fois. I accept.”

“And you, Mademoiselle? You are invited, too.”

“Merci, but no thanks. I’ll just sleep in, or wander about les Tuileries.”

“Please be my guest,” I volunteered. “We can wander together. I’d like to know more about Alabama and your own project, or dissertation, no doubt?”

“Watch him,” warned Sullivan, with a trusting smile, this time. “You can never be sure about a Virginia Cavalier.”

“Nonsense,” interjected Mme. Gibert. “I’d invite myself to go with you, but I’ve several deadlines,” she yawned sleepily.

“Why don’t I meet you near the entrance to the gardens, say around ten a.m.?” Julene suggested.

“Fine.”

“May I send a cab for you? Our own limousine?” Gibert asked the professor.

“No, I can take the metro.”

“Then here is my card,” said Gibert. “5, Rue de Forbage. The sixth arrondissement.”

“Very well.”

Mme. rose, smiled, and shook everyone’s hand, in typical French style. She presented her perfumed cheek for me to kiss. It was very soft and tender. I brushed against it gently with my lips.

“We must meet again,” she whispered.

“Yes. I agree.”

It was hard not to look into her eyes, but she was deliberately glancing away, as if to ignore any freshness on my part, which she had intentionally awakened. I thought of Goethe’s line:

I gazed into your eyes and lost my soul.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” I said to Julene. “Good night, to all.”