LIFE IN PARIS
I
had started thinking more about God. Although I had decided at the age of fourteen that I
did not believe in him, and was no longer a churchgoer, my curiosity and my
enquiring mind had never let the subject drop altogether. I had decided to call myself an
agnostic, rather than an atheist
– I just did not know.
I
began going inside the Catholic churches, of which there many in Paris. Some of them had dim, dark interiors,
with perhaps one guttering candle penetrating the gloom, with a strong smell of
incense and dust; others were like
stage sets with a blaze of candles, statuary, gold, paintings and stained glass
windows, and again the smell of incense.
These made me catch my breath.
I felt I was in fairyland.
I looked at the people kneeling in the pews, listened to the chanting of
the priest and the congregation, and I was filled with the sense of devotion
which I felt was emanating from them.
I
decided to go and see a priest. I
chose a church near to where we were living. He was bald, with a large paunch, and looked as though he
did not see much of the outside air.
He listened to me quite kindly as I shyly confided my desire to become a
Roman Catholic. He told me that I
would need to receive instruction before I could be admitted into the
Church. I made an appointment to
see him again.
When
I told my mother, she was horrified.
“There’s
never been a Roman Catholic in the family!” she declared.
That
this was illogical did not seem to enter her mind, since she was an
atheist. My desire, however,
plummeted as quickly as it had arisen.
It was not, it seemed, based on any firm foundation. When I returned to the priest I told
him, with some trepidation, that I had changed my mind. His face immediately became very stern. He said, in chilling terms, that he
hoped “that Grace would not be
withheld from me forever.” With
these words ringing in my ears, I turned my back on religion.
---------------------------
I
must have met Jean-Pierre on one of my outings with Arlette. He was an Algerian, what was known in
those days as a “pied noir.” This
was a term given to people of European descent in North Africa, meaning “black
foot”, who returned to France after Algeria became independent in 1962. He was also a Jew.
He
asked me to go out with him. He
was small, dark, serious and intense, and some years younger than I was. I looked younger than my age, and in
terms of life experience I was much younger than my years. He was also ardent and passionate,
qualities which appealed to me, so I said yes.
---------------------------------
The
years went by. I became tired of
working like a slave for M. Woirin, with his endless dictation. Typing was never my favourite
occupation and I was not very good at it.
I applied for a higher grade and began working in the Political Research
Section for Mr. Newton. He was a
quiet academic man, very reserved, and there was little rapport between us. He had health problems, a rather red
face, and I knew he kept a bottle of whiskey stashed away in the drawer of his
desk. He liked to take a nap in
the afternoon, with a large white hanky over his face and his feet on the
desk. He did not like to be
disturbed. I had as little work to
do in my new office as I had had too much in the old, so I became very
bored. At least I had little
typing.
The
flat near the Arc de Triomphe was soon giving us problems. The only outside light we had came in
from the courtyard, which was surrounded by other flats and tenants, so we were
living in a permanent half light.
The adjoining streets were not very salubrious and my mother did not
enjoy doing her shopping there.
Once
again I began the search for a new home.
We found one in a quiet cul-de-sac, rue du Gènéral Clergerie, a stone’s
throw from NATO and near the fashionable Avenue Victor Hugo, which was in the
16th arrondissement. *
The owner was Belgian, which meant that the flat was in perfect order,
freshly painted, with all the proper accoutrements, cutlery, china, kitchen
equipment, in complete contrast to the French people’s more slapdash approach,
who rarely bothered over such
details.
But
it had one great disadvantage, which was that it was very tiny and not really
suitable for two people. It was on
the ground floor and was entered through a small garden, straight into the bed
sitting room. There was a double
bed, one armchair, a wardrobe and a dining table in the corner with two
chairs. This led into the
bathroom, with a wash basin.
Attached to a cupboard door
in the bathroom was a baby Belling electric cooker which folded away
into an alcove, where all the cleaning and other kitchen materials were
kept. It was a remarkably economic
use of a small space, and for this reason it was priced at a rent that we could
afford.
We
were once more seduced by its attractive appearance and location, and setting
aside our better judgment, we
decided to move in. There was
simply nowhere else available.
* ‘arrondissement’ means a district of
Paris
