Chapter 4: Blue Silk and Broken Clocks
The Prince of Wales arrived like a wrong note invented on purpose. Paris caught him mid-chord—bell towers bending to listen, taxis pausing like dancers mid-spin. I followed, naturally (I always do, like an unresolved sequence), luggage full of silk handkerchiefs and weak promises. He kissed the air, swore it tasted of gin and irresponsibility. I agreed. The city purred and the Seine reflected too many versions of us at once.
At Le Temple Décadent—all mirrors and migraine lighting—the maître d’ greeted us as if we were both notorious and late to our own scandal. “Gentlemen,” he whispered, low as a bassline, “tonight the cuisine believes in forgiveness.” Oysters arrived on ice, pearls pretending to be responsibility. The Prince demanded music, I demanded praise, and the candles flickered to some rhythm borrowed from Harlem. Someone said Ronsard’s ghost had been seen drinking vermouth. I toasted him. (He didn’t reply—dead men rarely do, though the mirrors nodded politely.)
Three violins entered in a dissonant key. A dancer appeared who refused to face the audience—perhaps a metaphor for England. I thought of writing a manifesto on the erotic advantages of embarrassment. The Prince interrupted to ask if I believed in glory. I said no, but I rented it for special occasions.
Afternoons in that week stretched like lazy trumpet solos—too many bars, not enough breath. We breakfasted beside the Seine, where pigeons strutted like critics. He confessed his new allergy: respectability. (The diagnosis was terminal.) I confessed mine: sincerity, unless heavily diluted. We drank instead of disagreeing. Champagne—of course. Always champagne, that glittering heresy.
Midweek, we were abducted by an American sculptor in denim overalls who insisted on being called “Edna of the Future.” Her studio looked as if Europe had exploded and been rebuilt by angels working on commission. The Prince posed among naked statues and declared, “I am democracy’s hallucination.” I applauded—it was too perfect an error to correct. Someone began to shout about Freud, though I think it was only a faulty phonograph.
We drove through Montparnasse in a violet car that sounded like moral decline. The hats that afternoon were sublime—a velvet sail on my head, a sequinned meteor on his. The streets applauded us, though the applause may have come from our own reflections. Paris has so many windows it can convince even fools of their importance.
Evenings belong to allegation. At Le Boeuf sur le Toit, the piano moaned, the clarinet sneered, the floor blurred. I danced with a painter who claimed Spanish by destiny and desire by profession. He spoke in colours only visible under dim light and audacity. The Prince watched from the bar, dispensing aristocratic endorsements to whoever looked amused enough to deserve one. “This,” he announced, “is manners decomposing with style.” (Which, I argued, was the very definition of civilisation.)
Thursday: rain as percussion. The gardens smelled of wet portraits and unspoken confessions. The Prince and I exchanged umbrellas while debating whether boredom was an inherited disease. He believed it to be divine punishment; I, hereditary charm. A count, newly poor and extravagantly perfumed, declared that love’s true language was accountancy. We ignored him. The violinist from the first night sauntered by with my cigarette case—still kissed, now engraved with reputation.
By Friday, the newspapers called us “unavailable to reason.” We liked that—it had rhythm. Perfume poured from balconies; even the air leaned forward for gossip. A journalist asked what we represented. The Prince said, “Unresolved chords.” I added, “And tips generously.” We fled before she could print either remark.
Saturday glittered. Every costume an argument, every mask an apology’s refusal. At Chez Josephine, gender collapsed spectacularly. I became a widow—my husband invented for the occasion, beautifully dead. The Prince, disguised as a scandalous abbot, offered salvation to anyone within arm’s reach. He performed beatitudes in syncopation. A clarinet solo broke into laughter. I remembered that I once took sin seriously; it blushed and left the room.
Time trickled wrong after midnight. One dancer claimed the moon was a mirror dropped by a faithless god; another swore we’d been seen in a mural already painted. None of it mattered. When pleasure turns metaphysical, it’s already too late for philosophy.
At some indecent hour, the Prince whispered, “Do you think anyone will believe a word of this?” I said, “God forbid.” And he laughed—not like a man, but like an overture escaping. The sound hung there, wilder than truth and twice as elegant.
Sunday recovered us none. Bells rang in ironic apology. Debts re-emerged from their disguises. The Prince sailed for Calais with one priest’s robe and three broken glasses. I stayed, unable to conclude. (I’ve always loved the middle of stories; endings require restraint and I am famously allergic.)
So I walked Paris alone. Boulevards hummed in C major; the cafés tuned themselves to regret. A newsboy shouted that the Duke of Something-or-Other had renounced propriety. I wished him joy. At Le Temple Décadent once more, the mirrors stared me down for arriving without accompaniment. The champagne trembled; I did not.
I told the waiter to leave the bottle. “The Prince?” he asked. “Gone,” I said, “but the echo pays double.”
And Paris—faithless, generous, ridiculous Paris—leaned forward, like a band ready for one last chorus, waiting, waiting, for me to forget restraint and strike the wrong note again.
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