You Make Me Turn My Head

Tu me fais tourner la tête, mon manège à moi c’est toi... Edith Piaf

I suppose you could say it all started that rainy night in Clichy when I heard a melancholy tune being sung and the voice seemed to beckon me like a siren song, pulling in towards her all those who would listen. Let me explain. Some years ago, well perhaps a little more than just "some" but back in the days when I had no fixed address, smoked cheap French unfiltered cigarettes and drank house wine like a fool, worked odd jobs and lived in an attic studio that was steamy in the summer and frigid throughout the winter. I use to think that I could not be any happier than I was then. Every week, I would drop by the American Express office to pick up what mail I had, perhaps a note from home asking if I was still planning on returning and if I was finished with my foolish "grand experiment." Sometimes, if I was lucky there would be a certified check to help me make it through to the next month. I was usually living on fumes and indeed grateful and would treat myself to a fine meal and a full pichet of wine at one of my several bistro hangouts. There were times, quite often actually, when I would find myself exploring the wonders of the Boulevard de Clichy, in the part of Paris fondly known as Pigalle. I suppose a healthy amount of curiosity drew me there initially because it was a favorite destination of tourists of all stripes but more importantly, it offered a selection of amusements literally from A to Z.  I remember my father telling me stories about Paris nights and maybe that added to my youthful interest. Pigalle was customer service oriented all the way and with a French twist to make it all the more memorable. So with a Boy Scout's sense of mission and determination, I made a point of visiting every  seedy little establishment in the quartier that professed to offer some sort of entertainment and indeed, garnered some memorable moments while other moments I have chosen to quietly forget.

Over time I found myself making frequent stops at a smoky club aptly called, given the neighborhood, Aux Petits Anges - The Little Angels. I was never quite sure where the concept of angels fit in other than the two little angels on either side of the door, perhaps there was some sort of existential meaning behind it all that I failed to grasp, that is until one Sunday evening in October. I had just dined at a corner bistro having enjoyed a tasty bowl of fish stew, moped up with a baguette and washed down with a couple of glasses of coarse red "maison" when I decided to walk towards Clichy. I remember it as if it were yesterday, it was chilly and damp with a light drizzle. Paris seemed dreary that night as I made my way towards the little angels when I heard a haunting voice singing a familiar Edith Piaf tune: Tu me fais tourner la tête, mon manège à moi c’est toi. Je suis toujours à la fête, quand tu m‘prends dans tes bras. Je ferais le tour du monde, Ça ne tourn‘rait pas plus qu’ça. La terre n’est pas assez ronde, pour m’étourdir autant qu’toi...  The voice was a dead ringer for the "little sparrow" I peered through one of Aux Petits Anges's windows to have a quick look and saw her there sitting on a stool in front of the microphone.  Stepping inside, through a haze of blue cigarette smoke I saw Marilou who was clearly dressed to impress the tourist crowd who were indeed gawking at her and pretending they understood every word she sang. She wore a black studded motorcycle jacket, stripped jersey,  a skirt that looked like she had been poured into, she wore a pair of dangerously high heels, her beret slanted down and the ever present Gitane glued to her red lips completed the picture. That night, I too was a tourist, my eyes fixated on Marilou wishing the night would never end. 

In the ensuing weeks and months and into Christmas, Marilou and I saw each other after hours as often as we could and I even managed to convinced here not to return to Marseilles but to stay and work in Paris. It was good for Clichy and the tourists, it was good for the owner of the Little Angels but it was even better for me. That Christmas we spent hours walking arm in arm looking in all the store windows on the Boulevard Haussmann always stopping at a cafe, sitting under a standing heater with a hot drink whenever we were too cold to walk any further.  Indeed, very quickly, it seemed, we had created our own complicité -  that level of closeness and intimacy that builds between a couple. We found  a studio apartment on the fifth floor of a building in Montparnasse equipped with all the comforts of home, no elevator of course, a minuterie on each floor, and an inquisitive - no, nosy would be more appropriate-concierge. Above our apartment, a family of five with continually crying children and the ever present sound of one unfortunate being slapped into good behavior; next to us, lived a Russian emigre couple who would often get noisy usually after midnight and hurl vodka-soaked Russian invectives at each other. On the other side of us was a wounded veteran from the French and Algerian war. He always quiet and dignified, he seemed nice and once even brought us a bottle of Algerian wine and a plate of cakes. Shortly after that we learned from Madame la Concierge that he had hung himself. "I'm not at all surprised, I saw it coming, he had too many demons to cope with" she whispered but at least he paid the rent! Despite all that, we discovered a little restaurant du quartier, Chez Janot which is still there and very quickly made it our place and over time eventually became friends with the owners. But I suppose all good things must come to an end, even in Paris. I came home one evening to find Marilou had left leaving a note that said simply "Au revoir cheri, je retourne à Marseille" and in a nano second my world collapsed around me.