The Mime

The Louvre was not far from the hostel at 6, rue de Fourcy. She walked along the quai, past the massive, regal Hotel de Ville and along the Quai de la Megisserie. Paris was raining its January drizzle in the courtyard of the Louvre. It was all made of stone except the sharp, daunting prism. She came to a peripheral arch under which a mime stood, moving slowly and carefully. Walking closer she saw that he was dressed as Charlie Chaplin. He played with the air, fraying it delicately with his fingertips, plucking flowers.
While she watched she thought of her lunch the day before and how over-anxious she had been. She'd panicked, allowing herself to be aspersed like some stupid American at a sidewalk cafe, which is exactly what she was. For 125 francs she'd gotten rid of the hunger and of three days' worth of money. For 125 francs she'd been treated like a little princess with pate and a big bottle of laxatavious water, only to be made fun of as she was paying the check, as she walked out the door. Today she'd had an apple. She thought the mime could probably understand her sudden feeling of poverty.
He watched her out of the corners of his eyes while he stumbled drunk under the arch. It acted as an umbrella; the one resting on his shoulder was full of holes, as was his tuxedo overcoat. She stepped toward him like a little girl to a clown. He became a hobo begging for change. When she caught his eyes directly he stopped, setting his invisible cup on the ground. “Ca va, mademoiselle?” he looked at her through the mist.
“Oui, ca va. Et vous monsieur?”
“Oh la la, une Americane princesse. Tu es en vacances, missssss?” The informal “tu” was an insult, or an attempt at concocted familiarity.
“Non, j'etudierai a Cassis.”
“ah oui, cest bien ca. Tu admires Charlot?”
“Oui,” she took some change from her pocket and placed it almost soundlessly into the bowler in front of him. He said he had no family. and that he was depressed and was a street performer because his wife had died. He had a plate in his head and took her by the wrist to have her hit it. “It doesn't hurt, don't worry,” he said.
He put two fistfulls of change and a few bills in his pocket and the bowler on his head. “Would you like to walk?” he asked. They walked along the Rue de Rivoli to a cafe on Rue Saint-Bon. The district was busy with tourists, business people and celebrities; celebrities being those who carried themselves around primarily to be looked at, stopping to pose in front of a window or particularly attractive corner, sauntering through a collection of tables in front of a brasserie or marketplace for show. They were there for everyone else's benefit, selfless animals of flesh longing to be dissected as art. Outside the Marceau he bought grilled chestnuts from a street vendor. They came in a paper cup, carefully overflowing into her hands. “Fait attention, ils sont chauds.”
“Merci bien.”
They sat in the smoky cafe. The waiter came and they ordered cafe and crème, with little chocolates on the side and a crowded atmosphere of people in and out creating an illusion of purpose. He told her about his wife. She was beautiful. Black hair and an enormous figure. She was sure he meant voluptuous.
“We had a son also. He ran away when his mother died.”
“It's so sad. I'm sorry.”
“Oui. Have you experienced something so sad?”
Not at all.”
“But Charlot, he drew you in. You sympathize with him?”
“He was a genius at expression. He had a universal way of communicating ... through his face and eyes and movements. His themes are sad. Everyone has felt sadness of some kind.”
“You could be a mime.”
“You think so? I don't know,” she smiled. “I'm pretty shy.”
“I teach people to be mimes,” he said. “I have taught the best mimes in the city.”
“Really?” she was getting tired of him.
“For you I will charge nothing for the first lesson. If you don't like it, you don't have to come back.”
“Do you have a card?”
He searched his pockets and patted his jacket front. “I have none with me. ... I am out of them.”
“Well, do you have a phone number where I could reach you?”
“I could make you dinner, mademoiselle, and give your first lesson.”
“Do you live near by?”
“No. No. We must take a taxi.”
“But taxis are expensive.”
“Do not worry, mademoiselle; Char-lie will pay!”
She decided to do it only for the free meal. She felt bad using him but a little sinister, too, like the girl in “The Little Thief.”
The taxi took them through the building-walled streets to the outskirts of Paris. She hoped she'd be able to find her way back. His apartment sat above a white wall in the Montrouge. She was careful not to step on what lay in the stairs, though it was only trash and broken things.
as she looked around the main room of his apartment she felt a sense of self in all that lay or hung about. a few framed photographs and prints placed delicately on the walls, a vase of plastic flowers and a deck of cards. a record player sat alone in a corner. The flimsiness and sparseness was frail as a paper flower. She imagined herself as one of the decorations, resigning herself to sitting perfectly silent and watching with still eyes. She stared for a moment at a print of a woman lying on her back. at first she thought her hands were by her sides, then, focusing carefully, realized one of them was between her legs.
“Seule,” he told her. “alone, like me.”
“What's for dinner?”
“anything, mademoiselle. For you, so much of anything.” He touched her shoulder. She was so hungry her stomach hurt. He turned to put on a record while she looked out the window. “J'ai deux amour ...” sang the chanteuse, “Mon pays est Paris ... J'ai deux amour ... mon coeur est ravie.” He took her by the waist and spun her around. She followed as the trees and sky flashed by out the window, as the woman on the wall kept the same expression. He pulled her close to him and through his baggy black pants she felt a small hardness. Something in her went suddenly out of place. She dropped out of his arms and onto the couch. He stood above, looking her in the eye. “No need to be nervous, mademoiselle.”
“are you going to make me dinner?”
“You are so tense. Come in and lie down,” he tried to pull her toward his bedroom.
She remained rigid. His expression was lurid and sweaty, the pancake makeup running down his face. She stood up and ran to the door.
He stood staring at her, a suffering lump of black and white.
It took her a moment to undo the latch, and she felt herself start to panic, as though someone were chasing her, and very close behind. In the closet she noticed wire hangers holding two large and sloppily-placed blue suits and one rumpled red tie. The record was over and the needle hung on at the center. The sound would have been relaxing over dinner. One of them could have gotten up to change it. “You relax, mademoiselle,” he could have said then.
Two days later she sat on a red tour bus with other students from the American school. They had already seen the Eiffel Tower, Jardin de Tuileries and Notre Dame. The driver stopped for lunch on Rue Serpente, just off the Boulevard Saint-Michel. On the corner of Saint-Germain and Saint-Michel a small crowd had gathered around a mime. Brian, a young man in the group, pointed him out to the rest. “He's good, check it out, he's dressed like Charlie Chaplin.”
“I know him.”
“You know him?”
“Well, you know ... I met him outside the Louvre.” Like a voyeur she watched him work -- a slot machine doling out wooden nickels. He became a temporary and surreal part of the scenery, then disappeared into the nightshade of a turning corner.

Cristen H. Jaynes