A View From a Broad (13 page)

“M
iss Frank! Miss Frank!” I shouted, looking out my bathroom window for the first time and feeling a thrill run through my body, “Guess where we are!”

“Paris, dear,” the impossible woman replied as she struggled to clean up a particularly vivid room-service mess left over from the night before. “We’ve been here for two days.”

“Don’t be snide,” I said. “I meant we’re right next door to Les Galeries.”

“Oh, how nice for you, dear.” Miss Frank was unimpressed. “Why don’t you get dressed and go look at some paintings?”

“Les Galeries, darling, is a
department
store. The biggest in Europe.”

“Really?” said Miss Frank, her eyes lighting up a bit. “Do you think they have panty hose?”

Poor Miss Frank: hers was an endless quest for panty hose to replace the ones I was destroying at the rate of two or three pairs a night. “Oh, yes, I’m sure they do. Shall we go?”

It took us exactly three minutes to be dressed and out the door. I was especially excited not so much by the thought of purchasing underwear as by the thought that I had finally found a place in Paris where I could buy one of those beautiful French baskets for the back of my brother Daniel’s bike. Of course, I had seen many fancy shops on the Rue de Rivoli where I could have bought one, but I was, if the truth be known, scared to death to go in them. Only two groups of people intimidate me absolutely: salespeople and the French. So imagine my terror of having to face a French salesperson! I would be mortified—unable to remember even my name, let alone what I wanted to buy. Once,
on a previous trip to Paris, I had gone into a shop by the Louvre to buy one of those wonderful plastic replicas of the
Venus de Milo.
But as soon as I stepped foot in the store all I could think about was whether I had brushed my teeth, and if I had half as much class as the counter display. When the perfectly coiffed saleswoman, dripping with pearls and pretension, turned and asked if she could
“vous aider,”
I fled.

But a department store! That I was sure I could handle. After all, I had been to Bergdorf’s and triumphed. Certainly I could deal with Les Galeries, which would be, with all its French signs stripped away, nothing but a glorified K-Mart. As soon as we arrived, I sent Miss Frank off to Lingerie and strode confidently by myself into the basket department.

Oh, what a heavy sigh of relief I breathed when I saw that the salesman in Baskets wasn’t wearing a single piece of gold anywhere on his body and was definitely
prêt-à-porter.
There’s nothing he can do to me, I thought. I can stay on top of this. Then, taking a moment to form the sentence in my mind, I spoke.

“Bonjour, monsieur,”
I said proudly.
“Avez-vous un paquet pour les bicyclettes?”

“Excusez-moi,”
the salesman replied, “but could you speak a little slower? I don’t speak English too well.”

“But I was speaking in
French,”
I said, my bubble of confidence beginning to burst.

“Alors. Je regrette. Encore, s’il vous plait.”

I began all over, this time just a little slower to make sure of my pronunciation.
“Bonjour, monsieur, Avez-vous un paquet pour les bicyclettes?”

“Excusez-moi,”
the salesman said again, exasperation creeping into his voice, “but now what language are you speaking?”

“I’m speaking
French!”

“I’m sorry, but what you were speaking was definitely not French. Perhaps it was some other language you
think
of as French.”

“It was French! Perhaps you weren’t listening.”

“Only two groups of people intimidate me absolutely: salespeople and the French.”

“I listened.
All day long I listen to people who say they are speaking French, but unless they
are
French, they aren’t.”

“What you mean is they’re not speaking perfect French.”

“Anything not perfect is not French. And now shall we proceed? In
English.”

“Why don’t you speak French?” “I am speaking French!”

I couldn’t believe it. Only in the store two minutes and already I was feeling inadequate and upset. Nevertheless, I did want one of those baskets, so I decided to go on. Things could only get better.

“I would like a basket for a bicycle. Nothing too big.” I hoped that was a fairly neutral statement.

The salesman held up a lovely dark cane basket for me to inspect. “Perhaps something like this?”

“Oh, that would be perfect,” I said, “but would it fit on a boy’s bike?”

“Ah, mon Dieu!
Boys’ bikes! Girls’ bikes! We have no such things here,” he almost shouted. “Only in America do bicycles have gender. It’s just another part of your obsession with sex!”

“Oh, really?” I said, incredulous that we were going at it again. “The French ain’t exactly slouches in that area.”

“Ah, but for us sex has always had its time and place. Love-making is an art and, like a great painting, should have a frame around it. You have lost that notion in America. It spills over into everything.”

Well, I couldn’t disagree too vehemently with
that.

“You know,” the salesman continued as if talking to a child, “In France we always make love. We never have sex. We can’t. We haven’t got a word for it. And besides, how can you
have
sex? Perhaps you can
make
sex or even
do
sex, but
have
sex? It’s very strange.”

“Well,” I replied, “just think of it like you have a meal or have a laugh.”

“I’d rather not,” he said. “And now to get back to the baskets.”

I was wondering if we ever could, when suddenly Miss Frank emerged from Lingerie, loaded down with what seemed to be hundreds of packages of red and black panty hose. “Oh,” she said as she approached, tottering under her load, “this store is wonderful. They have everything.”

“But how did you get them to actually sell you anything? What did you say?”

“Say? Who said anything? I pointed, like I always do. Now hurry up; we’re late.”

“But I didn’t buy the basket yet!” I whined.

“You’ll have to do it tomorrow. Come on.” And so saying, she threw half her load into my arms and began to walk towards the exit.

I looked back over my shoulder at the salesman, who was still holding up the basket and, for the first time, smiling. At first I thought it was a smile of triumph. But then I wasn’t sure. There seemed to be something warmer. Or maybe it was just my imagination.

Of course, I never got back to Les Galeries, but when three months later I returned to Los Angeles, a package was waiting for me. It was from Les Galeries, and stuck on top was a little envelope addressed to Miss Midler. I opened up the envelope and found inside a small black-and-white snapshot of the salesman I had encountered there. On the back a little note was scribbled:

Dear Miss Midler,

We French are an odd lot. And, I know, often disliked. But lest you mistake, as many do, our love for intellectual debate with cold-hearted arrogance, I am taking the liberty of sending you this.

Yours truly,
Jean-Michel

Astonished, I opened the package and there it was: the dark cane basket. And on the bottom of the basket lay a little card in the same handwriting as the note.
For Boys’ Bikes Only,
it said. And I know Jean-Michel meant it nice.

AT LE THÉÂTRE PALAIS •

L
afayette, we are here!

Ou est le docteur? Le gendarme? Je désire à téléphoner à mon consulat. Ma chambre est trop petite; trop grande. Avez-vous une chambre à deux lits? J’ai perdu ma valise. . . .
Ooh!
Excusez-moi,
but I only got to Page Two in my phrase book.

Ah, but it is wonderful to dig our spikes into the beloved soil of La Belle France. Truly,
mesdames et messieurs—les
tits,
c’est moi!
And Paris! Paris! City of Light. City of the tough customer. City of the First Class Subway Token. What a thrill to
épanger
these cobblestones. The moment I got
off
the plane I knew we belonged here.

Check the
demoiselles a ma gauche.
And I do mean
gauche.
Look at these girls. Talk about Gaul. You see, it really is divided into three parts. Ladies and Gentlemen, a hearty Parisian welcome to three items I picked up on discount at the Common Market—Les Harlettes Formidables! Show them Paris when it sizzles, girls! Aw righty, girls. Enough sizzling. Strike a Gallic pose. (HARLETTES DO.) Not garlic—Gallic. Oh, my,
c’est
difficile de trouver des domestiques, n’est-ce pas? Mais ooh,
là là! We are thrilled and delighted to be here in the town where good taste was born. And—judging from the front row—died not moments ago. Really my dears, you are the Poor People of Paris, And this place—the Théātre Palais. It’s so . . . French. Honey, zee have played some toilets in our time. This isn’t exactly a toilet. It’s more unto a bidet. . . . However, I have found in my travels that just as it is not so much the salad as the chef, it is not so much the theatre as the show. Ladies and gentlemen, was offer you this evening Service Compris! Yes, was are going to do it all for you tonight. Ami to begin, a touching little tune I’m sure you all remember . . . “La Vie en Rose,” Not to be confused with
La Viande Rosé,
or
The Red Meat . . .
an early but extraordinary film by Godard which subtly limns the superiority of Communist cows over Fascist pigs. Ah well . . . as Napoleon said while scuttling back from Moscow.— “The cheese stands alone n’est-ce pas?” Or words to that effect. It loses in the translation. Much as I myself am losing even as we speak. . . .

I will never forget it! I was in the woods last night with my boyfriend Ernie and he said to me, “Soph! These woods sure are dark. I sure wish I had a flashlight.” I said to him, “So do I, Ernie. You’ve been munching grass for the last ten minutes!”