Chapter Three
As my train pulls into Paris, a part of me can’t believe that I’m here, that I actually did it.
I’m exhausted. And terrified. There’s a kernel of excitement in there too, I think, but it’s being mostly crowded out by the terror.
Today has been a lot. A lot of travelling. A lot of people, noise, just a lot. But if I think Paris is going to be some sort of a break from the relentlessness, I’m sorely mistaken. If anything, it’s dialled up.
Outside the Gare du Nord, I’m hit with such a potent dose of, well, life I suppose, that I think about turning straight round and getting back on the train to go home.
There are people everywhere. Horns beep, and the lights of the row of cafés opposite the station are bright in the early evening.
It’s affronting. People try to sell me cigarettes, mini key rings of the Eiffel Tower; someone tries to hand me a bottle of wine.
Everyone is laughing, smiling, and talking so loudly.
A woman on a bike almost mows me down on her way into the station.
I can’t go home. I wouldn’t survive the journey back, so instead I start wheeling my case towards the taxis lined up at the edge of the station, doing my best to dodge people as I go.
I run over a woman’s foot with my suitcase.
‘Sorry, sorry, désolée,’ I tell her. She blows smoke from her cigarette in my face and shrugs.
Her lips are the reddest lips I’ve ever seen.
I scuttle onwards, towards a row of taxis lined up by the kerb.
A taxi to my hotel won’t be cheap, but I need to be on my own, somewhere quiet, somewhere that isn’t here.
Plus, there’s the very simple fact that if I don’t get a taxi, I won’t make it to the hotel.
I’ll just collapse on the street, a pique of Parisian drama.
Mae will ignore all of my rules and start a GoFundMe to repatriate my corpse.
I pause by the taxis, just for a second, breathing in the warm evening air, full of dust and fumes and so different from home.
It’s late now and dark, and I might be out-of-this-world exhausted, but I was once an artist, and like a homing pigeon, Paris is my ancestral homeland.
I do my four, four, four, breathing, and feel my shoulders drop, just a fraction.
I show the driver at the front of the taxi queue my phone with the address of my hotel on it. I’m staying near the MAM gallery, so I can just walk there in the morning.
He nods and I clamber in the back. We aren’t moving yet, but I still feel like I’m moving. That’s how much travelling I’ve done today. It’s a bit disconcerting.
I WhatsApp Mae.
Me: Made it!!
I send a quick picture of me in the back of the taxi.
Mae: Are you in a taxi? Why? Are you tired? We never get taxis. Fuck that fringe.
Me: I’m fine, honestly. Just been a long day. I’m excited to be here!
Mae: I’m excited for you!!!
The driver starts the car, and we’re setting off; he has the window rolled down and he’s resting an elbow on it. He seems to share my feelings when it comes to the need for chit chat, and we drive in silence.
Sweet merciful silence. I rest my head against the window of the taxi and take in the streets of Paris as they pass by.
When I wake the next morning, it takes me a short moment to remember where I am. And then it all comes back to me. I’m in Paris.
I twist my head to get a good look at the room; I can barely remember stumbling in last night. I just vaguely recollect a very chatty receptionist who I was possibly quite rude to, and several flights of stairs that almost finished me.
My case is still propped by the door in the corner of the not-at-all-square room.
It’s tiny. I fill the space in a way that’s quite disconcerting.
There’s a bathroom, which is also tiny. Despite this, the ceiling is high, and I’m not used to existing in a space where I can’t reach up and almost touch the ceiling.
It’s dizzying, and it only adds to the sense that I’m completely out of place here.
A huge vertical set of doors with windows opens onto a small balcony.
You can see the tip of the Eiffel Tower over the top of other buildings.
I lay, staring at the tip of that tower and thinking about all of the people who probably died building it.
It’s a morbid thought, but I find it strangely comforting, the reminder that literally everyone who ever lives will die.
I’m not special. It doesn’t matter that I feel all displaced here in Paris, because I don’t matter.
Just saying that I don’t matter relaxes me.
I feel my chest loosen and my hands unclench.
I don’t matter. See, there, I feel better now.
After the chaos of yesterday, I revel in the silence as I rummage through the clothes Mae and I packed, feeling nostalgic and missing home already, which possibly isn’t that normal as I’ve been gone less than twenty-four hours, after all.
I pull out a white shirt with enormous sleeves that makes me look like I walked straight out of the seventeenth century.
I also have a denim overall dress and my Doc Martens.
I set it all out on the bed and take a shower. I scrub away the grime of travelling and rub until my skin feels raw and tingly, and my stomach insists that I get out and go in search of food. I’m rarely hungry these days, so I plan to take full advantage.
I run the hairdryer over my hair. There’s so much of it that a full blow-dry takes an absolute day and age, so this will have to do.
I get my navy shacket, push my sunglasses into my hair, and pull my boots on.
I fill a bag with today’s meds and my credit card.
The blissful silence is a balm to my displacement nerves.
Going through the motions is sometimes everything that we need to do.
Going through the motions means that we’re still going, after all.
‘Madame, madame!’ the receptionist calls as I try to leave. It’s the same one from last night. She has deer-like brown eyes and a pencil behind her ear. ‘Bon matin, it is good to see you this morning.’
The obvious relief in her tone makes me sure that last night I looked like I was going to die in my sleep.
‘Yes, I’m fine now. Thank you, I mean merci,’ I say, feeling and being as awkward as humanly possible.
I remember again that I was possibly rude last night, and I’m not yet so far removed from polite company to feel like that’s okay.
‘J’ai besoin un croissant.’ I dig deep to remember some school-level French.
‘Ah, oui très bien, your French is very good.’
I mean, it’s a blatant lie, but I appreciate it nonetheless.
‘Merci,’ I say again, smiling stiffly, and wondering if I’ve done enough to seem like the friendly sociable person I was in The Time Before. ‘Well, I’d better…’ I make a strange hand gesture towards the door.
‘Oui, say no more. Paul’s on the corner is very good. Best croissants,’ she makes a kissing sound with her lips.
‘Okay, that’s good to know. Thank you, au revoir.’
‘Au revoir,’ she calls after me.
Outside, I take a deep breath, in and out.
I look up at the weak morning sun and let it soak into my bones for a second.
I can do this. Or at least I think (hope?) that I can.
I spot Paul’s straight away and hurry towards it.
The street is everything I would expect of Paris, with tall grey buildings and Juliet balconies.
I’m sure that half of the world is on this boulevard. People push past me, but I use my headphones to block out some of the hustle and bustle.
At Paul’s, I order the biggest croissant I’ve ever seen, with pistachio cream. There’s a small park opposite, and I settle on a bench to eat, pleased to have found somewhere quiet already.
The croissant is good. I snap a picture and send it to Mae.
Me: *image attached* I wonder if all my Deathers would be quite so morbid if they were eating pistachio croissants on the regular.
Mae: She’s alive!! That looks so good.
Me: It really is.
Mae: Have you recorded anything yet?
Me: No, too tired yesterday. I might do a quick intro while I’m sat in a park. There aren’t many people around.
Mae: Go for it! And send a pic of the painting please.
I also fire a quick message to Mum explaining what I’m in Paris for and reassuring her that I’ll be back in a couple of days.
There’s only an hour until the exhibit opens.
On the journey here, I’d thought long and hard about what Mae said, about doing a Spencer special for my blog.
In a way, it makes perfect sense. I did know Earl’s art better than almost anyone on the planet.
I could let people know about the man behind the paintings.
The Deathers would get it; they’re the ones who understand.
I want to record right now.
Except I’ve never recorded in public. Is it a bit of a wanker move? Does it matter?
I pull out my selfie stick from my rucksack and hook it up to my phone.
I made some notes, things that I could say about Earl, during yesterday’s mammoth journey.
It’s less prep than I usually do; I typically write and practise a script beforehand, but it’s better than nothing.
I set a smile on my face and hit record.
‘Good morning, Deathers, and welcome to the Art of Dying. This week, I have something special for you, a mini-series if you will. You see, I’m in Paris and I’m going to be looking at the work of Earl Josef Spencer.
I know what you’re thinking: what’s Spencer got to do with death and decay?
But fear not Deathers, I think you’ll like this.
You see, a new Spencer has recently been discovered, and I’m something of an aficionado on his work.
I’ll also hunt out some death art, just to keep you all sated.
I’ll be vlogging daily, direct from Paris.
Stay tuned to see why this painting might be especially important to yours truly. ’