Monday night 8 February 1988
Cher Jean-Marc,
Though I write that it is Monday night, it is Tuesday morning now, but hours before dawn. You’re no doubt up and about your business on the other side of the Atlantic. Here, it’s another of these long, sleepless nights of closing my eyes and my brain is unwilling to slow down, jumping up to put the television on, only to turn it off again, tossing under the layers of couvertures and never warm enough in winter, staring out the small window at the yellow brick façade next door.
You remember, don’t you? You remarked that even the view of Parisian walls was better, and we laughed because I admitted that you were right. Then you tested me on my memory of metro stops along Ligne 1: Etoile, Georges V, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Champs-Elysées Clemenceau, Concorde.
Then I was stumped and you teased me. And we made love.
Sometimes when I can’t sleep I pull out my Plan de Paris and retrace my steps on the very first trip, or the year of my studies when I fell in love with the city and yes, then I could have recited every stop on three or four lines. But it’s been too long. And that saddens me.
Oh – today I took a personal day. Unusual, I know, but I needed it badly. I walked around the Square, browsed the Russian books at Schoenhof’s, then got a coffee and sat outside at Au Bon Pain as long as I could stand it. It’s been bitterly cold, and you know I’m not cut out for this weather. But that was where you first kissed me. Do you remember? Do you realize how powerful you became with that one tender act?
I skidded all the way back to my apartment – nearly fell twice. Admettons, I was distracted and I’m more restless than ever. Some of it is my father’s death – I feel adrift and I can’t explain it. But it’s more than that. It’s you there, and me here. Even if there wasn’t a you, it’s me here – this me here, and I can’t help thinking I’m out of place.
I ask myself where I belong and I don’t belong which of course is the problem. But I’ve never belonged and I think I’m okay with that, though I would like to live somewhere that seems more comfortable and that would be Paris.
I remember the first time – at fifteen and alone, waiting for a stranger to meet me. I was too tired from the flight to be afraid or to worry about remembering the names of her children. I was too tired for anything at first. The fear came after the jet lag had subsided, struggling with the language and the newness and then the fear subsided, too – as words began to parse themselves into something comprehensible, as the mosaic of streets became more familiar, as I accustomed myself to sharing a room with her two daughters, as my hosts were kind and I began to feel strangely at home.
But this sleeplessness, Jean-Marc. It’s getting worse and you tell me that I work too many hours like all Americans, that I don’t take the time to appreciate what really matters – to taste my food, to savor my wine, to linger in our lovemaking. You tell me I busy myself and I deny it, but tonight, I can’t pretend your words don’t carry truth.
I’m a little lost in winter, Jean-Marc. Or maybe I’m a little lost in the ways we all are when we let down our pretense, when we’re falling in love, when we’re disoriented, when we’re grieving, when we don’t need convention but we do need something, when something forces us to look inside at what we want and what we think we want, and then consider the enormity of the consequences. Of doing. Of choosing. Of not choosing.
When we’re together, I can’t stay busy in blindness. But when we’re apart, it’s easier, except for the restlessness. Sans repos, sans repos, sans repos.
So I get up and walk to the kitchen. Thinking it will help, I try to focus on what is concrete. The floor is faux-parquet. My kettle on the stove is red. The table at which I eat and write is white laminate. My drapes are not drapes at all. They are blue and white sheets from Marimekko that I stitched together because I loved the pattern and color.
I go back to bed and write you a letter. I write you letters and then I don’t mail them. Oh, I mail some but not all. I fold them neatly and tuck them in a book – the same book where I place the letters that you write to me. And I don’t know why I keep them rather than send them. Although I write, I think I do it for me. Even though I do it for me, I arrive at no conclusions. I go around and around in my head and you know it when we’re together. You see it when I disappear and you tell me, like that first night at the Blue Parrot.
But then we make love and always in French and it’s another sort of disappearance and it helps. But it doesn’t last and here I am again. You’re so far away. But worse, I’m so far away.
I could blame it on winter but that would be an excuse. I have my dreams but they seem impossible. I stare at the brick wall outside my window. I lie awake and wonder when there will be consolation, certitude, a decision – right or wrong.
Et cette nuit, il n’y en a pas. J‘en ai terriblement besoin – des consolations, des certitudes, des décisions.
You tell me I’m young and I have time. I tell you I’m impatient to begin again, and you tell me I’ve barely begun.
But I feel stuck, and if I feel this way now, how will I feel in five years or ten when I am no longer as young? Am I a coward that I want to change my life and I do nothing? Am I coward that I find the thought of loving you a terrifying prospect? Am I coward knowing that we will never be right together, but hanging on?
I wonder when the courage will come for me to act, to find a place in my world, to speak to you more honestly when we are together, to do more than stay afloat and then motor myself in the direction of something acceptable. When will I move beyond this paralysis which I hope is only winter – and feel alive again? My father is dead. Shouldn’t I give myself to feeling alive?
I miss you. I miss us. I think I miss me, maybe more, but I’m not sure I can explain that.
Je t’embrasse.
More Jean-Marc letters.
Wolf Pascoe says
I want to read the rest of this novel.
paul says
Great writing, and what is interesting for me is to compare this with letters that I have written to past loves. Of that small set, three were professional writers in one way or another, and their letters to me were their release to be the writers they wanted to be and not the writers required by their employers.
Our letters felt different, and I’m trying to figure this out. One thing is that I would suppose you wrote this letter now or edited a past letter for current use (artistic license is fine). Our letters were intimate, full of vignettes (the two southerners wrote beautiful novellas), plus things were much more sexually explicit than “and then we made love.” Incredibly romantic at times, but frankly, there was relatively little love sickness expressed, if that is the phrase for it. Some of the stories were hilarious. I tried, but couldn’t hold a candle to their writing.
I think this may say something about the differences of who we are and the people we choose as partners (if “choose” is the word for it). Distance and marriage (to others) tend to make for romanticism. My partners were all quite brave. And Fran is the most courageous of all. We’re back from walking part of the way to Pittsburgh for an action at PNC bank headquarters against mountain top removal coal mining (they finance it). Fran walked from Harrisburg, while I arrived somewhat later due to other commitments such as semester grades, action at Aqua America’s annual meeting, and overseeing a Quaker wedding.
BigLittleWolf says
I understand what you say about letters by writers, Paul, especially if the words allow for expressing what isn’t part of the professional domain. And this is an actual letter from 1988 (name changed) – slightly edited, though less than you might think. I’ve been looking through boxes and drawers of writing going back 30 years – curious to see what is there. I found this and was surprised at the themes that emerged which aren’t so different from what I might “journal” today – for myself.
But 24 years ago I would not have dared to be sexually explicit – at least, not in English. With age, some of us become more audacious (or more open).
As always, I love the way you speak of Fran, your relationship, and the life you two share. I find it heartening in a world that makes your sort of commitment and admiration difficult to find, and more so to hang onto.
paul says
The real thing — Wow. And yes, it is amazing how our themes tend to be life-long themes, whatever they may be. I can’t bring myself to dump the best of my received letters. They are just too good, except that I’m not an unbiased source. I met these ladies through the Personals of the New York Review of Books, so you can expect some of the world’s best writers. Their life histories could be the basis for the protagonist in a Thomas Hardy or Charles Dickens novel.
Re “But 24 years ago I would not have dared to be sexually explicit.”
There was a lady who specialized in writing erotic literature. Absolutely the best I have ever read. We got so involved in our story writing that before we could actually meet, she met someone else.
BigLittleWolf says
And WOW back atcha, Paul!
Robin says
Teary-eyed. So beautiful!
Driza says
Amazing… how i wish i had a lover just like the writer. 🙂 Well written from the heart!
BigLittleWolf says
Thank you, Driza! I hope you stop by and read again.
Privilege of Parenting says
We look back at ourselves and see how much we had going for us, and the charm of not really seeing it. Perhaps the you that you are now needs to not only realize that she got the you that you were then through, but that the you that your are becoming will help you fully live, and write, and sleep now if you soften your gaze enough to see her sitting with you right now, always with you… the love that was always there much as you have been for your beloved(s).
Beautiful writing from a beautiful soul—perhaps a soul crafted in part by words, and touch, and scent, and color, and memory, and longing and desire and a luminosity emerging as what you do not need drops away like walls and curtains.