Monsieur S

Cinnamon crêpes with sautéed pears. We usually have these for dessert, but whenever I have batter left, I use it for breakfast the day after. I followed my recipe for Swedish pancakes (here) but added sugar and cinnamon to it, to make it more dessert like. I served the crêpes with pears sauteed in butter, cinnamon, and a pinch of nutmeg.

I once knew a man who said he could hear God in the sound coming from church bells. His name was Monsieur S and he lived on Rue Lhomond, just behind Panthéon in Paris. Every morning at 8, a certain Jeanne Damas arrived there via the métro at Censier Daubenton. Jeanne was his secretary, his cook and his femme du ménage. She poached his Sunday eggs, watered his plants, sewed his loose buttons, turned down his glamorous invitations, and in general took care of his correspondence. For Monsieur S was a famous author.

When he was in his fifties, his novel Une Femme Sans Peur (it was translated into English as The Reel Woman, since much of it took place on movie sets) caused a sensation in France. Within months there were articles, essays and treatises on the subject. Mayhem erupted at Paris’ many institutions. Here at long last was a book to discuss, to dissect, to analyze, and to thrash out until only the bones of it remained. TV quickly hooked on, and Monsieur S was invited to talk with Bernard Pivot on the stylish program Apostrophes. Unfortunately that’s where he started babbling about hearing God in church bells.

Goethe once observed that all geniuses are "short, weak, and hunchbacked", and Monsieur S was certainly no exception.

He had three lovers, suitably scattered over Paris. First, it was Suzi Cadiot, a prima ballerina with the Opera Ballet. Suzi was a gum-chewing vision in pink who never ate. Second, it was Mademoiselle Nguyen, a Simone Weil scholar with hair like a little shiny black helmet, tweed skirts, and matching cardigans. She always drank tea. And thirdly, it was my friend Edith, whom I have already written about here. In my mind, Edith was the only one, who was anything resembling normal.

Edith and Monsieur S met one rainy day at the Sainte Genevieve library. And she quickly figured out most of his bizarre tics (he breakfasted on a lemon and practiced yoga, which in those days was unheard of). But she loved him and he loved her and love was, as the song goes, all around.

Who knows what thorn was stuck in his heart? Who knows what tragic event caused that, which was to follow? When prying reporters began to gather at the entrance of his apartment building, Monsieur S began to fear for his life. He began to sweat and to shake, and he hid behind the curtains. One day he decided he could not go out. Not even for his daily stroll around the neighborhood.

Nothing helped. No herbal brews, no admonishing, no pills, no amount of lovemaking, and certainly no voices from God in church bells. The house doctor told Jeanne that Monsieur S was going through “une crise de nerfs”.

At night he lay listless in bed, smoking one Gauloise Blonde after another, looking at the shadows playing tricks on his eyes. Hours went by like that. He thought about his writing. What of all those sentences that he had so lovingly tied together? Now they floated around aimlessly, without goal, and he could no longer anchor them. He could no longer put them on paper. And if Monsieur S could not write, what was the purpose of his life?

Spring came, but somehow Monsieur S was left behind this year. Like a toy forgotten in the park. The reporters outside his door left, and his lovers moved on. Only Jeanne Damas remained, spoon-feeding him baby porridge and mashed banana and reading to him from his favorite authors: Balzac and Dostoyevsky.

Spring turned into summer, and summer cooled into fall. And there he was – Monsieur S – still lying prostrate on his bed.

Then one day, right before Christmas, he turned his face towards the window and saw snowflakes falling outside. Softly. And the stark light of the winter sun shone in on him and he looked at his hands and he felt his hands again. He put them up to his face and he felt his face. And a verse from the Bible came to him: “Take up a harp, walk through the city, O prostitute forgotten; play the harp well, sing many a song, so that you will be remembered.”

“Jeanne!” he called out from bed with a coarse voice. “Jeanne!”

“Oui, monsieur!”

“Give me my notebook, Jeanne! And quick, quick!”

The urgency in his voice sent Jeanne Damas flying.

Propped up in bed, with the notebook resting on his knees, the good Monsieur finally put pen to paper again. And as he did so, the snow continued to fall outside, and the bells rang from the nearby Eglise Notre Dame du Liban.