Rainy Days in Paris
Magnus Williamson
As I write this in a cafe in Paris in the rain I am thinking of another such rainy day in Paris in the late nineteen-seventies when I and Paris were both that much younger; of sitting in a cafe similar to this one, in the morning, in the warmth, in the smell of coffee. Just like today, I watched the windless solid stream of rain; the hurrying overcoats under splashing umbrellas; the moisture condensing on the cold glass, forming droplets and streaking down the inside of the window as the torrents streamed down the outside.
It was October and I had, on an impulse, come to Paris to spend a few days. It had rained heavily since I had arrived. I hadn't been able to find a hotel which I could afford which was not 'complet' and I had ended up sleeping outside the Gare de Lyons under the broad eaves of the building which provided some shelter from the rain. A number of other travellers were using the same accommodation. That morning I had awoken with a feeling of well-being and lightness, glad to crawl out of my sleeping-bag and start a fresh day in the magical city. Even the rain seemed an old friend by now. I'd put on my boots, stuffed my sleeping-bag into my rucksack, folded up the sheet of cardboard I had been lying on and tucked it into a corner - hoping that it would still be there in the evening; and checked my rucksack at 'left luggage' in the station. Enjoying the feeling of freedom I took the Metro to Les Halles. While I sat in the cafe taking time over coffee and croissants I was thinking of Hemingway sitting in cafes in early Twenties Paris, watching the rain and meticulously writing - maybe 'Big Two-Hearted River', or some other story of America. I hadn't noticed the girl come in but she was there at the next table, her coat hung on the back of her chair close to the heater. She took off her cap - a black, peaked cap reminding me of Oliver Twist - and shook loose a torrent of very wavy brown hair. Shaking the cap she looked up at me and I said, 'Il pluie, un peu!' She smiled, said, 'Oui', and the waiter took her order.
I returned to watching the street, blurred through the streaming glass.
When I looked again towards her she was reading. Her book was by George Bataille. I asked her what she thought of it and we talked a bit about it and another book by Bataille which I happened in my random way to have read. My French was quickly overstretched and we switched to English.
She was pretty. Her face was round and freckled. Humour lit hers eyes and she smiled and laughed easily. Her name was Laurence; when she said it I heard 'Florence' and she corrected me. She was from Brittany, studying English at Nantes. She'd spent a few days in Paris and was catching a train west that evening.
Neither of us had a plan as to what to do with the day so I asked her if she had been to the Musee de Cluny - one of my favourite places in Paris. She hadn't and we decided to go.
I carried her rucksack and outside in the rain, heading for the Metro station, I took her hand and we ran together, dodging puddles, flooded gutters and umbrellas. It seemed natural once we had touched to continue to hold hands or link arms.
Musee de Cluny is a relatively small museum on the Left Bank with a wonderful collection of medieval art: stylised sculptures in wood from ecclesiastical buildings, many of them blackened with age; pale and delicate carvings in alabaster; devotional paintings. The breath-taking centrepiece is a room housing six huge tapestries known as 'The Lady and the Unicorn'. We lingered here admiring the meticulous craftsmanship and trying to puzzle out some of the obscure symbolism of these beautiful pieces.
We had lunch in a cafe near St Michel. The rain still drummed on the street, ringing the sheets of water which the drains could no longer cope with. Cars sent showers of spray up on the pavement. People hurried to find sanctuary in cafes and bars. We spent the afternoon drinking coffee and talking. We talked of books - Camus, Alain Fournier, Boris Vian, Beauvoir and Sartre - many of whom I had not read, and the Beats: Kerouac, Ginsberg, Gary Snyder and Lew Welch, who were new to Laurence. We talked of films and I owe a debt to Laurence for suggesting I see the films of Marcel Carne; later I hunted them out and fell in love with them. We talked of travel and politics and living in the world.
And it was time for Laurence to catch her train. We parted at the top of the Metro steps. We kissed; streaming, cold faces and warm lips in the rain â?" and she bobbed down the steps and back into her life. At this point in my life this is how things seemed to work out for me: I would only ever meet someone I was attracted to in situations in which parting was imminent and inevitable.
Back at Gare de Lyons, streetlights and neons spilled colours across the shining streets. I stretched out in my sleeping-bag, my boots and damp jacket for a pillow. My feeling of well-being remained. I knew I would leave the city next day. I felt at home in the rain and at home on the planet turning beneath my back. The rain was a curtain just beyond my feet.
