NEW STORY!

Le Vieux Fou

 

by Charlie Vazquez
copyright 2008

 

It was in and around the maze-like streets of Paris’ Marais quarter that he appeared like a ghost; the descriptions were eerie and arresting. His legend was quite alive—yet I’d not seen him with my own eyes. Familiar with the subjects of my paintings, my friend Fabien, a fellow artist, once told me, “If you meet him, you’ll know who we’re talking about.” I had met Fabien in New York City the year before, when a mutual friend introduced us.

“But why would I want to meet him—this crazy old man?”

Revealing a toothy grin he said, “Any artist would want to meet such a man. The only time I ever saw him, he was feeding pigeons challah bread at Hôtel de Ville.”

“And did you say something to him?”

Fluttering his eyelashes he answered, “I did not, but it’s possible you’ve seen him since you’ve been here.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said, “but thanks for the idea.”

“Anything for a fellow crazy man!”

We lifted our steaming lattes and parted ways, he to work at the Centre Pompidou and I to the Cimetière de Montparnasse.

A one-year artist residency contest I won in New York had brought me to Paris, where I was situated in a bright studio in a 17th-century building near the Rue de Beaubourg. Years of French studies had given me a mobility and ease that many of my American peers did not experience in the French capital. I immersed myself in the fantastic landscape—the city’s mythology, bloody history and romance became an addiction.

The very first time I had heard of this old and mysterious man, I was out with Fabien and his lover Christophe. Over some wine at a neighborhood brasserie, Christophe (an oil painter and sculptor) brought up the old man in an ordinary fashion. I was discussing my grandfather and his post-war quirks when Christophe looked at Fabien and said, “C’est comme le vieux fou!”

“Ah, alors,” Fabien said to him, lighting a cigarette, “you compare him to anyone who’s crazy.”

Turning to me, Christophe explained in English, “No one knows his name or how many years he’s lived. In reality, he should’ve died a long time ago.”

“But how do you know for sure, if no one even knows him?” I asked him.

Rolling his eyes Christophe said, “Because sometimes the near-impossible becomes the possible. Sometimes things that shouldn’t happen, happen.” As a judge making a verdict, he leaned back, folded his arms and shrugged his shoulders. Fabien smiled at his side, saying, “Christophe, let’s go show him Saint Paul-Saint Louis, where Charles-Albert saw him.”

The old man’s legend was stronger than my doubt and after a third artist explained to me that he did in fact exist, my stay in Paris took a whole new turn. I became quite obsessed and sought him where he might be found. He had appeared at the Hôtel de Ville, where Fabien had seen him feeding pigeons; Notre Dame de Paris, where Christophe had seen him watching musicians, behind dark sunglasses, and by L’Eglise Saint Paul-Saint Louis, where he was seen reading a newspaper.

After several unsuccessful attempts at trying to find him, I asked Fabien, “Are there any photographs of him then? Paris has many old men who feed pigeons and wear dark sunglasses.”

“I’ve never seen one. But that doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t have one. I will ask my friends,” he assured me, mischief painting his face, paint splattered on his old jeans.

Battling my doubt, I asked, “How is it that he isn’t famous? How many people know about him?”

“Not many. He’s a legend in this part of the city only. If you were to ask of him anywhere else, people wouldn’t know what you were talking about. Most people in The Marais don’t even notice him.”

Some days later, Fabien called me—a friend had a photo of the mystery man. I hurried to meet them at Fabien’s studio. Jean was a musician descended of a long line of Parisian jazz and cabaret performers. Tall and dark and with eyes bulging from lack of sleep, he clenched the photo tightly in his hands, explaining, “Le vieux fou used to drink wine with my grandfather when Charles Trenet was the new thrill here in Paris. And he was older than my grandfather, even back then.”

“You are sure of this?” I asked him.

“Yes. But even back in the 1930s, he didn’t have a name.”

“And no one knows where he lives?”

Fabien answered, “No.”

“May I see the picture?” I asked.

Jean handed the crinkled photo to me and I was astonished by what I saw: My face must’ve mirrored my disbelief. Fabien noticed this and stomped his foot on the old wooden floor, causing ash to cascade down from the cigarette tucked into the corner his mouth. “You have seen him, haven’t you?”


When I arrived in Paris, the month before, I had only known Fabien and spent much of my free time perusing the booksellers along the Seine and old record stores, where vinyl jazz records were main fare. I became obsessed with old things. While in such a record store near The Place Des Vosges, I heard a voice say to me in gravelly French, “The second symphony is my favorite, although everyone prefers the fifth.”

“Pardon, monsieur?” I asked, as I turned around, a chill shaking me.

“Are you not holding Beethoven?” he asked, running his battered fingertips across his dry lips; the fingers were carved and veined with old age, the lips were the wrong color.

“Non, monsieur.”

“Well then who, American boy?” he asked, closing his eyes behind thick lenses, keeping them shut, employing all of his hearing.

“The Duke Ellington Orchestra, monsieur,” I answered, noticing he was unsteady on his cane.

“Now that,” he was barely able to say, “c’est la divinité.” Pausing he asked, “1944?”

I imagined he was hot in his full black suit and hat; it was the middle of summer. Searching the used but well cared-for sleeve, I found the date of the pressing. “1941,” I said to him.

“Ah yes. Wonderful. I was in Germany then. I’m so tired.” His claims sounded believable. He pulled a yellowed handkerchief from his jacket pocket, removed his glasses with a shaking hand and wiped around his reddened eyes.

“Do you need help?” I asked him.

He laughed to himself while opening his heavy, yellow eyes, remarking, “I’ve been doing this a very long time. But,” he added, “you seem like a nice boy. Would you mind walking me to Vielle du Temple? I’m so tired. Just down the street…”

“Bien-sûr, monsieur.”

I walked him to his apartment building, where fragile and sadly, he turned to me and told me what wonderful company I’d been. I thanked him and told him it had been a mutual enchantment. Extending the encounter, I said to him, “We can listen to music at my studio whenever you’d like. I can play vinyl there as well, on Rue des Gravilliers.”

“That’s rather close indeed, but my living room is just upstairs!” he said with zest.

I helped him into the cavernous vestibule and noticed there was no elevator. “What floor do you live on?” I asked him, surveying the impossibly gigantic spiraling staircase that seemed to twist upward to a ceiling as high as the sky.

“All the way up,” he answered, putting his first weak foot on the first step.

I held his arm and was stunned by its fragility; it felt like it could break off his body, with little force. “And you do this everyday?” I asked him.

“Sometimes, twice a day,” he laughed. “And this is the easy part. Coming down is much more difficult. But,” he went on, “your patience will pay off. We won’t be much longer,” he added as we reached la première.

As we came to the top of the stairs, he searched for his keys with sweaty hands. Noticing his shallow breathing, I offered to help him, but he refused me abruptly. “Nonsense,” he said, waving me back. Upon finding them he let out a long sigh and slid one in, turned it, and then the other. The door opened to reveal a sizeable, luxurious apartment. There was an ancient mezuzah on the door frame. “I’m so tired,” he said to me, while I helped him with his jacket and cane.

“If you need to sleep, monsieur, we can listen to music another time.”

Moaning and rubbing his knees as he sank into a red velvet armchair, he said, “Sleep. Imagine such a thing. The phonograph is on the table under the lion painting, the records are underneath.”

The records were mostly unfamiliar to me. “Who is Stéphane Grappelli?” I asked him, reviewing a dusty record.

“Americans,” he said, shaking his head.

“Have you ever been to America?”

“A very, very long time ago…I’m so tired.”

I put the record on and set the needle down carefully.

“Stéphane Grappelli,” my wrinkled and fatigued host informed me, “was a violinist and collaborator with the great Django Reinhardt.”

“And not everybody knows who Billy Strayhorn is either,” I said.

“Oh—but I do,” he assured me, yawning, “I’m so tired.”

“So how do you know so much about music?” I asked him.

“I know about many other things as well, but music always brings me joy.”

I put my hand out and told him my full name. He closed his eyes, smiled as the music warmed the room and said, with a frail hand on his heart, “I’m the man who God forgot!”