Stalker

The Stalker’s name is Saul. As you might guess from his name, Saul is of the Jewish faith. He actually calls himself the Stalker, and is quite open about his habit of chasing young women. The walls of his apartment are adorned with tastefully erotic black and white photos of his conquests.

Saul lives alone in a loft apartment on the East Side of Manhattan, with panoramic views of the East River. He’s fairly typical of the young upwardly mobile class that have moved into the area in the last twenty years, completely changing the demographic, and in the process bringing hip and trendy cafes and bars into existence.

Besides the fact that he is a Jew from the Lower East Side, there are other similarities with my father. Like Krantz, Saul is a photographer, only in his case he has diversified into cinematography. He is often on location elsewhere, but New York is his spiritual home.

We’re here ostensibly because he invited me to come, to get a feel for the area my father grew up in. He explains that a lot of it has changed since the Sixties. Some of the old haunts like Les Deux Megots, the famous coffee house where the poets congregated, have now disappeared. Saul likes the fact that he and Krantz have so much in common. He suggests that women often fall for men who remind them of their fathers. I tell him that there is nobody who is anything like Krantz – he was unique.

I have to hand it him though, Saul does have good taste. His loft is immaculate, testimony to the fact of his avant-garde credentials. As we listen to cool jazz wafting across the room, sipping a cold glass of champagne, I can tell this man is a serious serial seducer. And he makes it clear that I’m his latest adventure, a real challenge, as he puts it. I didn’t come here to be an object of desire, but so what. Helen had already warned me about his arrogance, his conceit, and I can live with it.

I ask if he managed to find out anything about the Krantz family. He shrugs his shoulders. Ruth, the eldest sister, got married and left New York many years ago. Rachel, on the other hand, also seems to have disappeared, although there is no record of her marriage. Both grandparents died in their eighties. That’s disappointing, I say. He strokes his chin.
There is one consolation, he says, you remember the Kellermans’ daughter, the one that went to LA?
You mean Esther, I say.
Sure, he says, well she stayed out west, changed her name, made a living in hollywood.
You managed to find her?
I’m in the business, he shrugs, I’ve got contacts. It wasn’t that hard.
So where is she now?
On her way to New York. She’s quite excited about meeting you. I guess she was rather fond of your old man.
I ponder this for a moment. If things had turned out differently, maybe she’d have been my mother, and I’d have been American, not French.
Now that would’ve been a shame, he says.

The next morning, we go for a walk in the neighbourhood. He takes me to Katz’s Deli, which is the oldest deli in NYC. It’s also, he says, the place where they filmed that scene from the movie When Harry Met Sally. He asks if I ever fake it, with a guy. It depends, I tell him, on the guy. He tells me I’m the most beautiful French Jewish girl he’s ever met. How many have you met, I say. Well, admittedly only the one, he says, but that’s irrelevant. He can be quite charming, this man, sometimes.

The sky is quite grey and I tell Saul it reminds me of that glorious film Manhattan, Woody Allen’s monochrome paean to the Big Apple. Saul nods in agreement, he loves Allen’s films of that period, Annie Hall, Hannah and her sisters – great Jewish NYC films. He asks if I’d meet him in Paris, in the spring, a return visit. Like a school trip, I giggle, a student exchange. He doesn’t like me laughing at him, I can tell. Paris, I tell him, is a city full of colour, as epitomised in the film Amelie.

It’s also the city of romance, he says. We’re sparring, but it’s fun. He enjoys the chase, I enjoy flirting. Saul is interested in the result, whereas I just like the game.

We're talking about movies again. Saul is obsessed, but then it's his way of life.
You know where we are right now? he asks.
I yawned. We're stretched out on his sofa, draped across each other. It feels comfortable.
Tell me, I say.
We're in the zone. The place where your most cherished desire will come true.
I stare at him. That's very profound, I say. It's a quote, right?
From the movie, Stalker, the zone.By Tarkovsky?
I'm nodding. Didn't he make Solaris too?
Very impressive. We'll make a film buff of you yet.
Maybe I could be the French Connection?
If it involves French kissing, then definitely yes.

Saul will definitely be looking to add my photo to his gallery, I can tell.

The Mysterious ET

First of all, I don’t have any family. If you’ve been keeping up, you already know that. Instead, I have ET. They’re his initials – and sometimes he does feel alien.

After the accident, I had to live with my grandmother [Sandrine’s maman]. But within a year she had died - possibly from the strain of coping with a rebellious teenager. So, enter ET, my distant, but nearest relative. Apart from some Americans, but they don’t have anything to do with me.

At the funeral – a sky full of thunder; crazy cold weather; everyone in black – except for the girl in the white dress. I’m introduced to a charming young man – immediately in awe – he’s so accomplished, as an artist, as an intellectual presence. Then there are his handsome good looks. And something dangerous and otherworldly about him. Entranced, by a man ten years my elder. Yet he seems totally disinterested in me, a pubescent teenager.

My education is entrusted to ET. His knowledge is amazing. A door has opened into another world, one I never knew existed. Under his tutelage I make rapid progress. I learn about painting and sculpture, architecture, fiction, cinema, theatre, and above all poetry – I discover Eliot, Blake, Keats, Dante, Goethe. Suddenly I find my inner voice. Soon I am attending university at Montaigne, in Bordeaux, sharing a flat with Helene, a fellow lit student.

ET is a struggling artist. But now I become his inspiration, the muse that sets free his creativity. He paints me obsessively, over and over, often in the nude. Naturally we become lovers – to the disapproval of Helene. It’s the start of our downfall, she warns. I soon discover the dark side of life – alcohol; drugs; group sex; even the occult. I should be scared, but ET has a hold over me. I drop out of college, never finish the course.

In one day it all changes. ET exhibits a painting – of me – in Bordeaux, sells it for a large sum. Suddenly he is legitimised, decides to return home – to the south – to set up a studio. Helene’s counsel prevails, to stay with her. Anyway, I am now in love with Helene. What a crazy life!

The portrait by ET here is of a younger me, during our time as a couple. ET is now back in my life, since last year. He’s offered me a partnership in his wine business, at some stage, once I learn the ropes. Although he's now married to Frankie, I guess he still carries a torch for me. But we’ve both changed somewhat. I don’t like looking back, but neither do I look forward. The accident taught me that, to live for the moment. This day, this life, will never happen again.

Krantz - A True Story

As Krantz himself would no doubt tell you - this is a true story.

Krantz was from the Lower East Side of Manhattan. His family are descendants of 19th century Jewish immigrants. His father fought the Japs in World War 2 and survived to tell the tale - he believed that the H bombs were just retribution for their deeds. Krantz wasn’t so sure. He reckoned the civilians in those cities didn’t need to suffer for the sins of their masters.

I guess he was always known just as Krantz. Even Sandrine called him that. Of course I know his first name, but I’m not going to reveal it here. What’s the point?

The Krantz family lived in an old apartment block on the Lower East Side, a real melting pot. There were many other Jewish families, such as the Kellermans, who were neighbours. His mother had warned him that there was something odd about them. Despite this, Krantz became good friends with Daniel, until fate intervened.

Krantz was the youngest in the family, with two elder sisters. They were born in quick succession, in the period just after the war, the boom years. America was prosperous, and everything seemed to be going just fine. The 60’s began with a mood of optimism, with man in space.

When Krantz was fifteen he came home to find his mother sobbing. The president had been assassinated, and things would never be the same. Then the war in the Far East started, and Krantz started to feel politically motivated. The Beatles arrived, and Bob Dylan was in Greenwich Village. As Dylan stated, the times were changing. By now Krantz had taken up the vocation that would be his occupation, that of photography.

At sixteen his feelings for the Kellerman’s daughter, Esther, began to grow stronger. His mother warned him about getting involved, but love, as we all know, is blind. Soon it was the summer of love, and Krantz decided it was time to see America. He and Esther set off in an old Pontiac headed for the West Coast. Esther stayed out there and ended up in Hollywood.

By 1968 the war in Vietnam was going badly, and the military decided they would extend the draft to students. Danny Kellerman was one of those selected. For Krantz this was almost the final straw. He foresaw the end of the American Dream. In April Martin Luther King was assassinated and Krantz decided enough was enough. By the end of the month he had found a job on a ship headed for Europe.

In May he found himself on the streets of Paris. He was in the right place, at the right time. As a freelance, he followed the demos everywhere, and got many of the best shots. Soon his photography was appearing in Time, Le Figaro, and the Herald Tribune.

There was plenty of violence at this time, with police charging the students, and so on. But what Krantz recalled years later were the fervent political discussions in the cafes of St Germain. It was during one of these exchanges that Krantz found himself drawn to a radical female student from the University of Paris. She in turn was fascinated by the American photographer, and they formed a close bond.

The rest, as they say, is history.

I’ve never even been to America, and I don’t feel any close links. Krantz died when I was thirteen, and I’ve never met any of my American relatives. Maybe one day I ought to go to New York and track them down. Through my friend Helene I know a guy who lives in Manhattan, who has extended an invitation. His name in Saul and he works in film production, so he’s often on location elsewhere. But maybe we could do that sometime.

Krantz was an excellent driver. He once drove his beloved Citroen DS from Paris to Athens and back. So don't tell me the accident was his fault. My own theory is that he got too close to an expose of some important people. In all the years since, I’ve felt Sandrine’s presence many times. But Krantz has never contacted me. I wonder why?

Forbidden Fruit

When I arrive at the house it’s Friday afternoon. It’s an old English hunting lodge, established in the 18th century. Fabulous place, as you can imagine. Absolutely reeks of money and class. And it all belongs to Alistair, the art and wine dealer I’d met on my last visit to London.

That visit was the genesis of this weekend. I’d been invited to stay by Alistair – he suggests we can mix business with pleasure. What he didn’t tell me was that it would also involve a family wedding.

Caroline, his wife, is charming, sophisticated and cultured. She’s giving me a guided tour of the house and its grounds. The house has been in the family for over 200 years – the deer in the forest have been protected for a thousand years – some of the paintings in the lounge are worth thousands – so she says. Then she shows me to my room, in the west wing, overlooking the courtyard. It’s gorgeous. I thank her most profusely for her generosity and hospitality – and for once I really mean it.

On Saturday morning I meet their daughter. After breakfast in the dining room – beautifully decorated in classic English style – I’m about to return to my room. As I pass the function room, where the wedding reception is to take place later that day. I can’t but overhear the raucous laughter coming from within - five young women chatting and giggling at something. The laughter immediately subsides and the group disperse, save for one. What are you staring at, she says, hands on hips.

For once I am lost for words, and hesitate before replying.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to..it’s just. You’re very beautiful.
The girl tosses her mane of auburn hair and laughs.
You’re the French lady, arent you? Daddy’s told me all about you. She holds out her hand. I’m Miranda.
I’m still staring. It’s hard not to. I’m looking at one of the most delightful faces I’ve ever seen. The eyes deep and dark like pools of ink. The teeth white and perfect, like her delicate cheekbones. Then there are the lips, full and pink. A slender neck, and the cleavage of her bosom stretching the fabric of her dress. The outlines of her erect nipples, almost piercing the surface. An english rose.

I step forward and we shake hands, then trembling slightly, brush both cheeks.
My name’s Sandrine.
She smiles, still holding my hand, starts to drag me toward her.
Come on, I’ll show you my room. You can help me get ready if you like. For the wedding.
Of course, I reply, why not.

I follow Miranda upstairs, along the gallery, through another corridor, to her room. It’s even more splendid than mine, with a huge four poster bed, views over the terrace and across the front lawn.
Miranda is at her dressing table in front of a large mirror, in her scarlet bridesmaid’s dress. I watch as she carefully brushes the glossy auburn hair.
So, are you having an affair. With daddy, I mean. She giggles again, like she did downstairs.
Of course not, it’s strictly business. I’m trying to sell him wine, on behalf of my company.
Bet he wouldn’t mind though. Shagging you, I mean. You’re a lot younger than mummy. Her voice, whilst very upper class, has just a hint of coarseness.
I’m sure it hasn’t crossed his mind.
She turns to look at me. You’re not married are you?
No, still single.
I wonder why that is, she says, returning to the brushing. I mean, you’re so chic, tres jolie aussi.
D’you think so?
She’s staring at me now, smiling. Well. I’d fancy you. If I was a bloke, I mean. She laughs out loud, and her bosom heaves.
I want to kiss her. I want to roll her panties off and slide my finger into her, make her come. I want to caress her body, lick her all over, thrust my tongue into her mouth. I feel hot and moist.

The thing is, I venture boldly, it’s not your father I fancy. I’m looking her right in the eye, but she doesn’t bat an eyelid.
Wow, she gasps. I mean, that is bloody amazing.
I find you very attractive.
I had sort of guessed that, she says. The way you’ve been looking at me.
You didn’t mind?
She shrugs. I’m pretty laid back. Its not like it hasn’t happened before.
You mean…
Oh no, I didn’t mean that. I meant, other girls have fancied me. It just never developed.
You didn’t want it to.
It didn’t feel right.
I swallow some wine, a lot. What about now?
I don’t know, she says. I mean, I like you, and everything, but it still feels strange.
I take a chance, run a finger through her hair, feel her pulse quicken, a shudder. I’m watching her face in the mirror, keeping my eyes locked on hers. I allow my hand to trace the nape of her neck, the curve of her breast, heading towards her nipple.
You’re so beautiful. I want you, so badly.
Her eyes are closed, as my fingers close around her nipple. I start to kiss her neck and run my other hand through her hair. Her breathing becomes shallow. Shit, she’s saying, oh god.
Then she breaks away suddenly.
Not now, she says, not here. I just can’t. I’m sorry.
It’s okay, Miranda. I need to make some business calls anyway. Perhaps we’ll see each other later.
She shrugs. I wouldn’t be surprised. We’re both here for the weekend.
But the cool English rose now looks very flustered.

The Artist as a portrait of a young girl

There are two ways of dealing with bad karma. Either you run away, or you can confront it. This is my way of dealing with it.

Maybe I’ve been guilty of putting Sandrine on a pedestal. But I’m not her, I can’t live up to that ideal. She probably had flaws that I never discovered because I was too young.

I’ve always found that mixing with creative people helps me. Maybe I borrow some of their ideas, but tell me who doesn’t? I used to spend a lot of time hanging out with artists, posing for them, that kind of thing.

I met a lot of dubious characters on the way. It’s how I ended up like this, with a cracked personality. That, and the accident.

The thing about Art, with a capital A, is this. Everyone thinks they’re an expert. But really all opinions are subjective. Despite appearances to the contrary, there is no consensus. Plenty of people hated Picasso when he first started out, for instance.

It’s the same with literature. But the problem is, there’s so much out there, you need some way of finding your way through the maze. Which is where the critics come in.

They’re only doing their job, which is actually quite an important one. They act as a filter for people like me who just don’t have the time to read everything. In any case, you get to know which ones to trust, who you can rely on. Personally I’ve always found other writers to be the best guide. So I’ve read Foucault’s study of Roussel; Deleuze on Foucault; Badiou on Deleuze; and so on. You get the picture.

What these books all tell me is that there is always another way of looking at something. What I want to do is put together my own collection of the finest writing I know, as my own guide to literature. It’s going to take some doing, trawling through the archives. It might take some time, I may never finish it. But it may help me establish some kind of perspective.

I’m not going to be prescriptive. Any kind of writing will be considered. Don’t expect a typical list, some of these names may not be familiar to you. I don’t apologise for that. These are my personal choices – yours would be different, no doubt.

La Piscine

This is a must have here in the midi.

In the haute saison it can reach 40 degrees on the patio - and it's about 100 km to the mediterranean coast.

The pool belongs to the gite where I'm staying. During the summer it's let as a holiday rental, but maybe not this year.

The patio is south facing and a total sun trap. There are no neighbours in sight so it's ok to bask in the sun sans maillot (and swim naked too).

Looking forward to the summer when I can get an all over tan.
Must try and find a photo of me by the pool.

Toujours, nous aurons Paris

Of course, Parisians will always tell you
Paris isn’t what it used to be
It's not the same
Not like when they were young
With Sandrine, it was the Sixties
Demos, riots, sit ins, love ins
Hippies, la nouvelle vague
You get the picture

With nana, it was further back
Paris before la guerre
les Deux magots, cafe flore
Sartre and de Beauvoir
Edith Piaf and Aznavour
Then came the occupation
And the whole world changed
Let alone Paris

My own Parisian memories?
A suburban childhood
Glimpsed through train windows
Frenetic arrival at Gare St Lazare
Crowded platforms, sleek new trains
Shopping at Printemps and Prisunic
Lunch in St Germain, and later
Long walks in Les Jardins Luxembourg

Above all, Paris belongs to Sandrine
To the places we used to go
Haute cuisine, haute couture
Mostly I remember small things
Like her lustrous hair
The sweet scent of her perfume
The immaculate cut of her dress
Her unhurried air, her style

The market at Clignancourt
And the things she’d buy me
Sunglasses, a colourful blouse
My first pair of stilettos
Reading Paris Match in the salon
Listening to the gossip
Of the ladies of Paris
Smiling to myself

Picnics in Luxembourg
Ice cream by the Seine
Cakes from the chocolatier
Croissants from la gare
Sandrine’s hand in mine
Never wanting to let go
Just wanting to grow up
And be exactly like her

No, Paris isn’t what it was
It'll never be the same
And now there are others
Making their own memories
They'll grow older
And when they look back
Maybe they too
Will always have Paris?