Prufrock

Any resemblance to any person, living or dead or agonising, must without the shade of a doubt be purely frictional. I would be very much surprised of the contrary. I mean, I went so far as to change the names. Or not. Any action portrayed therein is indeed of stuff dreams are made on, that could have gone without saying. And of course the actor has made his own stunts but still: always drink moderately.

Prufrock

Monday evening, the sky a-shining red with cardinal hues; the cobblestones a-glowing underfoot: it has been a wet day indeed. There’s nothing like a good stroll after a heavy spell; the people are back on the streets again, ensconced in their mackintoshes and God they look sullen. But let’s face it: there are dingy streets in Tours, shabby-looking houses that do look like cardboard houses, sombre passages leading to even darker corridors and nooks. The ‘passage du Cœur navré’ is one, for that matter, but it leads to the Place Foire le Roy, my present destination. Well, one can steer straight through the Rue Colbert up to the Pale, but one grows weary, after a time, of its noisiness that is not quite like that on rue Nationale, its dirtiness that isn’t quite like that of Place Plumereau, its dreariness that isn’t quite complete. One knows that going down this street, one could be alone and quietly loitering, in tranquillity. But one can’t, really. That is why I took a longcut, rather than a shortcut, through the ‘passage du Cœur navré’: just to avoid, however transiently, the meagre line of population going upstream. Oh, I also enjoy walking down the passage, don’t be mistaken. There’s something gothic in the beam under which one has to stoop, a special renaissance tinge in the unlevelled ground, the high, narrow asymmetrical walls. And I have never, ever, met anyone while walking through it. Never, as in “never”. And it’s a comforting thought to know there could be one place in the world when one could be alone. But one would think twice before stepping into the darkness of that longish corridor. Slithering between the houses, and I believe, under the houses, the passage opens on the infamous Place Foire le Roy. It is difficult to make up your mind about this place tonight. In a more merciful light, you could see how and why this place has been important in the past, as it has kept the medievalish flavour one also feels, almost palpably, in Place Plum’. But I have said infamous on purpose: it was on this very place that they used to carry on the public executions; and the – usually – repenting fiend would be led through the unlit ‘passage du Cœur navré’, in order to avoid the swaying mass, with their eager faces turned gallowwards, that was congesting the place. A few historian friends of mine would have a thing or two to object to this, but I will wish them to the devil, if I may, because the likeness with the ‘pont des soupirs’ is dearer to me than any historical fact, however accurate and – maybe – more interesting. I am in the poetical mood tonight, winding my way through the passage, and it might be true that I have a sorry heart. But let us turn that into ‘soary’ for the moment. It is a little after seven, and it is already dark. Foire le Roy is quiet, the fountain buoyantly gurgling, marking the junction with the rue Colbert. Landmark for the street-travellers like De Quincey, rallying place for the boisterous ripailleurs like, say, Rabelais, and meeting place for the lovers like…well, fill in the blank if you feel the need to. But tonight no street-traveller, no ripailleur, no lover…not yet. And I shan’t be waiting for them. I walk across the place, see some skulking cat smelling its way around a corner, and I step on the worn-out threshold of the Pale. They have just painted it a light burgundy. I wonder if they’ll put the Irish tags back. I walk in. ‘Hullo’. Ah, the Pale; one of the very few places in Tours where you can speak English without making a fool of yourself. English, the dear language of the ‘enfoirés de rosbifs’ as my honourable father would put it. That’s some reference, you know, if you want to know what the ‘France profonde’ thinks about anything. But I’ll leave it like that for tonight; one cannot really prevent one’s father from being a narrow-minded, inebriated French bastard, no offence meant. Well I like English, and I am damn proud of it. Tonight, think I to myself, I shall get drunk, but in an Irish way, and using Irish methods. And the first toast I wish to dedicate shall be to my delicate father and, mind you, that’s the last thought I’m going to spend on him, for tonight I’m afraid. But this shall not be. Judy’s behind tonight, the counter that is. And seeing her pouring the black foam in the glass wipes out from my memory the dedication I wanted to make. The first toast, ultimately, is for the Irish nation. A nation with a sort of barbarian nostalgia. But let’s get back to less serious matters. I know that some people are already downstairs, the lights are on; but I remain standing for a while, sipping at my pint, soaking up the Irishness of the pub. Even though it’s not that Irish, after all. But who cares. I’ve had a hard day, and I’m knackered. At least one can get some comfort in the two customers not really watching the TV, their vacant eyes fixing the vague nothingness just below; or in the quiet dimness of the landing; in Judy not caring a damn about you or your long vowels problem. I hear some laughter downstairs: the Prufrock Society has started. No more shilly-shally. A couple of steps and there I am, in the damp but cosy downstairs. I had wondered earlier on in the afternoon how many of us would turn up. Six, me included. Gertrude’s there; always smiling, this Gertrude. A fine tongue if you ask me, for someone who isn’t studying English. She’s a nice girl for all I can tell, even though I don’t know her that much. I’m sure she’s far more brilliant than I suspect. The two Irish girls from the first time are there, Catriona – I’ve never been sure of the spelling of them Irish names, they’re damn awkward to spell – and the other girl’s name I can’t remember. I have no memory for names, but I’m pretty good at remembering faces. Stephen, the Master of Ceremony, the Poet, the Walking Quoter, is there. Frank also. Woops. I should have called you Frank, I know, sorry man, but you know, I’m so busy I even tell my girlfriend to book two weeks in advance if she wants to talk to me. No, Frank, no why should there be a problem with my girlfriend, no, no, no – no. Why, yes. Oh, I just don’t know, Frank, don’t ask me now, I’ll tell you in two weeks. By that time it should be over so that there will be nothing more to add. Well, it’s like the first meeting of the PS – ‘Prufrock Society’, for the sleeping reader, not ‘Parti Socialiste’, though sometimes I’m just not sure – just the six of us. As we had agreed a couple of weeks ago, the Irish girls brought some Yeats. Well that’s brilliant. She will like it, I’m sure. If she comes, that is. There’s this girl in the same course – very fine girl, brilliant, chatty, with a sharp sense of humour – I asked her to come, between friends, there would be people so it’s not just the two of us alone in a pub. She needn’t be scared, I told her in reply to her let’s-not-put-the-cart-before-the-horse look. Poems pass round: ‘September 1913’ – well, let’s start easy then. ‘A Coat’’s one of my favourites, maybe the Irish girl has it ready. No? Pity, real pity. They read, we read, discuss discuss, peals of manly laughter are heard from upstairs. My pint’s empty already, glass must be porous. Up I go, a glance shot outside through the steamy window; she’ll come, she’ll come – leave her time to get ready, perhaps put on some make-up. Sip sip at my pint. Well, let’s go downstairs. Down and at it in a jiffy – oh yes, I have something to say to that, lads. It seems a second since I had my last look at the pint in front of me – half-empty it is. Evaporation I suppose. She will come. Stephen is at work explaining something. I can read in the bewildered, sidelong glances: ‘What the heck is he talking about?’ I’m not certain myself. Stephen is harping on about something which I feel is important, but my stultified brains ain’t workin’ no mo’. I’m pleased with my English tonight, but the beer must be accounted for. I hate when I can’t string two words together or when I stumble on that fucking long ‘i’, like in seed. Seeeed. Sometimes it just doesn’t want to come out properly. But after two and a half pints, my tongue is loosed like a thousand devils from Hell. I even give a try to that damn expression: “the next best thing”. People acquiesce: they have understood. I can speak good English. I think of the exams. If I get to the oral, I must remember to get mùisce. Slightly tipsy would be enough, I reckon, but tonight I’m on my way beyond the Pale. Will she come, will she come. I don’t recognise the hand that’s holding my glass, and the people and things about me have slightly blurred contours. I should get a bite. Left, right, no one looking; nibble nibble nibble at some crisps. Stephen is anal about crisps, he must have them; can’t see why – apart from the fact that he’s English – ‘enfoiré de français’ thinking this is an ‘enfoiré de rosbif’. Comments are shooting around me and I feel stupid not to add my share, but I’m no longer in it. Taking a slash might help. In some sort of instinctive effort I rise, realising but faintly that I have startled my neighbour on the left. Giddy giddy, steady. Steer North-North-West, up the stairs – shit, I asked her to come, ‘come, please come I’ll buy you a pint if that’s what you want’ but she must have felt I was up to something – up the steps again, hold fast onto the handrail – fuck – banister, not handrail; whatever. Bumpy trip through the enguinnessed crowd, through the scraping chairs – why, there’s a lot of people tonight – and there we go, I finally relieve my painful bladder – was I really up to something. I’m a long time in, I reckon, because when I finally get back to my chair, I’m sober enough to see their glasses empty. Stephen has a fresh pint even. I don’t feel like getting one. They have passed on to something else. Shit, Yeats’s over. That was the only time to say what you had on your heart about Yeats, and you let it slip, bugger. She won’t come now, I knew it. Too busy preparing tomorrow’s class. I really wanted to see her. Outside the Agrégation context I mean. Just to make sure, you know. Just…I simply like her company, that’s all. Justify justify yourself. Dig you own hole, fool. It’s time to steer home-home. I have a meeting in my agenda – the person booked two weeks ago – and it cannot wait any longer. Yeah, yeah, Frank, I’ll call you, promise. Tonight, walking back to my daily routine until the next meeting, I do have a sorry heart in this wet, unnameable street.