Love, Death, and Banking
All three have their challenges, especially in Paris.
I FOLLOWED UP a close brush with employment — Paris bureau of ABC news, mais non! — by visiting Credit Commercial de France, which had an opulent office at 115–117 Av. des Champs Elysées. I know this because, on my scrap-book/calendar, I preserved the card of one Monsieur P. Porlier-Pagnon — the bank officer designated to help deposit a small bankroll I inherited from my grandfather.
M. Porlier-Pagnon was a supercilious, skinny noodle, with a pencil-thin mustache and watery eyes. He may have regretted being the only English speaking staff member, and hence having to deal with a scruffy skinny-noodle American without beard to speak of.
He spoke English with Clouseau-like contortions (my attempts at French were equally ridiculous I’m sure); I had difficulty suppressing laughter as I followed his instructions. I made no journal entry that day, and failed to note it on my calendar (aside from preserving his impressive business card, with my bank account numbers).
I didn’t yet know that such encounters were the content of life, rather than the merely amusing sideshow I assumed them to be. I was looking to fulfill my Big Destiny with Grand Plans and Deep Thoughts, so I underestimated M. Porlier-Pagnon.
Only connect, remember?
WHEN I FLIP HIS THE BANKER’S CARD OVER, I see the handwriting of the first major crush of my Paris days, one Diamant K_____, who wrote her name, address, and telephone number in girlish script on a scrap of notebook paper, also preserved in the strikingly fresh leaves of my calendar.
I’ve just done surgery on that piece of paper, and on the backside I’ve found a remnant of my own handwriting: “Looking at the larger-than-life woman on the billboard,” I wrote, “I realize that it is so much easier to love the picture than the person.”
How did that note come to share this particular piece of paper with the next, imagined love of my life? And did she read it before she copied down her particulars? I have no idea.
But I was onto something: Love wouldn’t be easy, ever.
I did manage to over-analyze it in an entry I made in early June, before I left for Paris. I was still writing philosophy papers in my mind, but at least I was taking a turn toward the personal: “The battle between Romanticism — the trusting of intuition — and Intellectualism — reliance on an unfettered intellect — rages because the Romantics perceive their opposites to be incapable of love, while the Intellectuals fear the extremes in irrational, emotional behavior.”
Know any other 21-year olds who write shit like that? I don’t. But most 21-year olds are wiser than I, and simply keep their philosophical treatises to themselves.
Continuing, from my journal: “The sentence ‘we must not hate, but rather, love,’ offers the intellectual choice between alternatives, guiding the soul — channeling its burning light. The intellect is too ponderous and unfeeling to guide a man to his salvation, but it is strong enough to steer him from his damnation in hate. That is the hairline of hope that runs between the opposing poles, and each of us toes the line at birth in hope of running aloft, in spite of fierce winds that rage at such a height. There are mounds of rotting flesh at the base of each stanchion; the stink of death permeates even the air of the wire. Don’t look down, the line moves but your feet can be trusted to find the way. Concentrate. Love.”
I might have benefited from more naked ladies, and less high-wire analysis.
But how could I know that, at that age?
