I had stopped the other night for a while talking to the doorman or at least trying to in some broken French. We had spent an hour that night watching a young French prostitute soliciting possible clients walking by, laughing and shaking our heads at the success and failures she experienced.
My friend was there again. He greeted me, “Bonsoir, Chicago,” and I called out “Hey, Jack, how’s it hanging?” I’m sure his name wasn’t Jack, but that was the name on the sign above the door, and he seemed to understand my intent. Even though I was running out of Marlboros, it was an obvious choice to hand Jack one. An hour passed as we talked and watched an unbelievable assortment of unusual late-night characters walk past us. Michelle, as Jack had named the prostitute, was not having much luck. As he had the other night, Jack attempted to get me to spend some time with Michelle. At one point he even went over to her and seemed to argue with her. I think he was trying to get her price down for me.
Even though he was a doorman, Jack didn’t seem to care who came in and out until a big limousine pulled up in front, and several guys in black suits got out. He rushed over to them quickly. I was left alone, trying to imagine who these guys were. Were they hoods, were they celebrities, were they French or from some far-off land?
Just then there was a tap on my shoulder. Michelle was standing almost right on top of me. “Ainsi, vous avez peut-être comme moi. Cet homme affirme que nous devrions faire un deal.” I wasn’t sure what she had just said. Of course, she said it very fast and again, with my almost nonexistent French, I could only guess. However, as I was starting to be totally captivated by her perfume, I noticed Jack, still holding the door for the limousine occupants, motioning to me with one hand, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together in a circular motion, indicating, I believe, “negotiate with her.” With Michelle now standing so close, I noticed how young and attractive she was. I asked, “Combien?” As a new world traveler, I had learned how to ask how much for a bowl of soup and now, you see, I knew how to ask a prostitute her price. By now she knew I was American and probably able to speak very little French. She saw the doorman motioning to me and made a face in his direction, mumbling surprisingly in English, “Screw him” and proceeded to say, “Il vous en coûtera 250 francs pour être avec moi.” I only understood the 250, which she said in English. My quick math told me she probably wanted $50.
“No, no—no way” was my instantaneous response. She again made one of her faces and started to walk away. But after only five or six steps, she turned around and started to look me over, head to toe, seemingly trying to judge what to do next. I took out a pack of Marlboros and motioned would she like one. She smiled for the first time and walked over to me, taking one from the pack. “Merci.”
As she turned against a slight wind to cup her hands over my lighter lighting her cigarette, I again began to feel hypnotized by the fragrance coming off the back of her neck. I took the opportunity to put forth, “One hundred francs.”
“Non, ce n’est pas possible” came her quick reply. She turned up her nose and started to quickly walk away.
But then, again, she stopped and turned toward me. Quickly, sensing hesitation on her part, I immediately began a hopefully pity-producing monologue that went something like this.
“Mademoiselle, I have been on a long trip. I’ve had great adventures, met lots of interesting people and have seen many beautiful things around the world, but never have I seen anything like you. You are truly the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I leave tomorrow to fly back to America, and I have spent all my money.”
I’m not sure I looked sincere enough in my lie about leaving tomorrow, especially trying to fool a probably experienced and skillful, if young, working girl. I’m not sure how much she understood of my speech, but she seemed to grasp the essential meaning. Again, her facial movements and hands lifted in exasperation. Even at one hundred francs, about $20 US dollars, I was splurging. But I thought twenty dollars was doable, especially since I was shortly going to be a wealthy fashion entrepreneur. Although I had never thought about having a sure-to-remember experience with a French prostitute, some things just happen, and as they do you have to make decisions.
I continued, “All I have is one hundred francs, no more.”
She again stood there looking at me and then looking around, seemingly to check if there was anyone else, anyone with more money. I looked around also; there was no one.
She started talking to herself as she looked around. The more she talked, the more the conversation with herself became agitated. I wish I knew what she was saying, but on the other hand, I kind of did know.
After a minute or two she more pointedly vocalized in my direction, “Est-ce que je peux avoir un autre Marlboro cigarette?”—accompanied by raising two fingers to her mouth and intimating taking a puff. I didn’t have to understand French to know she wanted another cigarette. I took one out for both of us and struck my lighter as she put her hands over the flame to let us both inhale our protected first puffs. She was calmer now. All of a sudden, the atmosphere surrounding us turned from confrontational to relaxed. She even smiled a little as I blew a smoke ring or two, and the late-night breeze floated them past her and up into the air.
“OK, oui, one hundred francs,” she whispered and motioned for my hand. She took it in hers as we turned and walked down the avenue.
Orient Express
Could life get any more interesting?
Hanging on the handrail of the steps leading up to our train compartment on the world-famous Orient Express,
I searched for the exotic and fascinating characters
I hoped to meet in the days ahead.
Next stop, India and beyond.
Paris at Night
Untouchable women, eyes that stare
All the signs tell you to beware
Sky liquid pours at suspicious times.
Heels on broken sidewalks rhyme
Foreign menus move up and down.
The only talk is a foreign sound
Wicked women are your only friends.
You might pick one or two, but do they pretend?
Moving red dots glow on a damp lonely street
Who knows what a stranger will meet?
Frequent looks are but foreign stares
And one who hesitates is one who dares.
Dark streets can be an inviting sight
But how can a traveler measure where there is no light?
Written April 12, late one evening in Paris while walking alone
3.
Going East to Meet the Czar
10:15 PM, April 13, 1970
Our excitement and anticipation levels were off the scale as we dragged our bags through the train’s hallowed hallways. Funny, I thought, not the hallways or compartments that I had been imagining. “How ya doing, Doug? I’ve had enough; these bags sure don’t get any lighter the longer you carry them, do they? We’ve gone through about a thousand cars so far. I’m tired and, by the way, haven’t seen any of your movie stars or anyone who might look like a spy. I can’t go another step—how about this compartment?”
“Okay, why not,” Doug responded.
We collapsed into ornate-looking couch-sized seats facing each other. As we were about to experience repeatedly, even though our Orient Express was supposed to depart Gare de l’Est at some time in the early evening, we didn’t leave until closer to 11:30. For the last