CHAPTER 10: Reading Bernie's Mind

To live in Paris and not speak French remains problematic. Bernie and I probably speak the same amount of French. Like me, his first language is English. The difference is (and this is significant) no one expects him to speak French. With me, however, people make certain assumptions.

Those who see me every day -- shopkeepers and neighbors -- frequently think I must have picked up a smattering of French during the time I've lived here beyond merci beaucoup and Champs Elysee. So do friends and family in the States. And they are all wrong. I continue to rely on the kindness of strangers to help me navigate life.

It's that rr that sounds as if they're gargling. I've never been able to gargle and I can't do that rr sound either.

It's the dropping of the final consonants all over the place and the nasal a and o and e. It just zings out of the mouths of the French. When I try it, it twists into an embarrassing Midwestern twang. Even though I left Ohio when I was eight.

I have a theory that a facility with learning languages is directly linked to acute hearing. Neither Bernie nor I claim that.

Bernie, however, despite his encroaching deafness, is extrememly verbal. Especially at night. He grumbles and groans and yips and sometimes sounds like he's talking in his sleep. He twitches and pulls his top lip back in a snarl and his legs move in such a fast run that I'm afraid he'll fall off his sofa.

It's the March full moon tonight, also known as the Moon of Winds. The lost ones who live in the firefly fish in the Seine are  murmuring to each other tonight. And Bernie is so loud he wakes me up. I lie in bed, listening to the wind blow and the fish tell their stories and my dog talk in his sleep. And I realize he's speaking French.

CHAPTER 9 : Almost April in Paris

CHAPTER 8: Say Goodnight, Nathan (Part Five)

And so it begins. Nathan's Last Supper. I realize that if I really focus on why we're having this heart warming gathering I won't be able to do it at all. We're in unexplored territory, aren't we. Will everyone cry and Nathan comfort them? Or will Nathan cry and everyone comfort him? Should it be festive? Should it be somber? Should it be a potluck? (Sorry. A small joke. Potlucks are not a big hit in Paris.)

I'm beginning to get giddy. Paper napkins or cloth? Tables for eight or for four? Centerpieces? Entertainment? Costume party? (Come as who you want to be in your next life.)

I actually love to have parties and haven't entertained since coming here. I find myself beginning to generate some decor and food enthusiasm. I could create a program and make candleholders and dye special tablecloths.

Wait! Red flags around the room for May Day! A small Lily of the Valley bouquet for each guest. Background music of labor movement songs and perhaps a rousing grand finale of everyone singing The Internationale. I'll have to make songsheets of the French lyrics.

L'Internationale

Debout, les forçats de la faim

La raison tonne en son cratère

 Debout, les damnés de la terre

C'est l'éruption de la fin

Du passé faisons table rase

Foule esclave, debout, debout

Le monde va changer de base

Nous ne sommes rien, soyons tout

: C'est la lutte finale

Groupons-nous, et demain

Sera le genre humain :

And in English:

Arise, wretched of the earth

Arise, convicts of hunger

Reason thunders in its crater

This is the eruption of the end

Of the past let us wipe the slate clean

Enslaved masses, arise, arise

The world is about to change its foundation

We are nothing, let us be all

: This is the final struggle

Let us group together, and tomorrow

The Internationale

Will be the human race :

I guess he isn't backing out. The next time I see Nathan he gives me a list of who he wants to invite. There are 30 people on it -- friends in Paris and other areas of France, two in Marrakesh, Morocco, two more in New York City and one in Spokane, Washington, and the rest spread out across Europe, including Fanny's great-nephew in Geneva.

I agonize over what to say to them. Finally, I write myself a script to follow and start with friends in Paris, which I hope will be the easiest. With the very first call I can see I'm in trouble. The woman, Jeanne-Claude, speaks English but she thinks this is a practical joke. When at last I convince her that it is real, she bursts into tears and hangs up on me.

I dutifully follow through with the calls. It takes days and I dread each one. There is shock and tears and anger and demands for explanations that I don't have. They all eventually end up calling Nathan himself which was the one thing we were trying to avoid. But he tells me everyone is coming. Even from the United States. And the locals are bringing their dogs.

I don't remember that I ever really said yes to this whole thing, yet here I am in spite of all my sadness and reservations. Stuck in suicide party hell.

Where to have this supper keeps me awake at night. Bernie stares at me with sympathetic eyes and tentatively wags his stubby tail. He can tell I'm upset.  Nathan's place is too small. Our place is too small. Nathan suggests a private room at a bistro or cafe and he casually mentions he has just one food request: no meat. In the heat of the moment or hours or days, I forgot he was that rarity -- a Parisian vegan.

Bernie and I wander all over Paris trying to find an appropriate place. Most are too expensive. A few are too small. Paris is a meat-eaters heaven, full of coq au vin and foie gras and crackled duckling.

In the time since he decided to do this, there's a change in Nathan. He stays home more; he stopped singing. When I ask if he wants to go to an art exhibit or see a film, he says no. When I ask if he wants me to continue with this Last Supper thing for him, there's an irritable edge to his voice that I've never experienced before. Where has my friend Nathan gone? He is gone before he is gone.

I do find a place that is in Montmartre and specializes in vegan and vegetarian food. They have an outdoor terrace that is open for the season and yes, we can have it for May Day.

Bernie and I walk over to see it on an especially fine spring day. After all the emotional gloom, our spirits are up and life seems lovely today. Bernie has a little skip in his step. The air is balmy, that just-right temperature that is pleasing on your skin, nearly sensuous.

The city is filled with glorious blooming trees. Window boxes are crowded with flowers from spring bulbs -- tulips and daffodils and hyacinths send out a ripe intoxicating scent that makes you want to stand in front of them and bury your head in their blossoms. After weeks of a physical heaviness and  a palpable weight in my chest that never goes away because of the impending goodbyes, today is good.

On several street corners I spot Gypsies selling lilacs. Their patchwork multilayered long skirts and headscarves contrast in some surprisingly pleasant way with the lush purple and white of the long-stemmed lilacs in overflowing metal buckets. The children of the flower sellers play in and among their mothers. Their shrill shrieks and laughter echo through the plazas. The women are wearing their urban faces -- stern, almost surly. The rumor is they still live in hidden caravans just outside Paris.

At the sudden trill of a police whistle all scatter and the corners are empty of women, children and lilacs within seconds. The lilac bushes are blooming along streets all over Paris. I wonder idly if the women have just walked up and down the streets clipping the flowers to sell at the corners.

Just before we get to the cafe on Place du Clavaire, a narrow cobbled street in the center of Montmartre, my phone rings. It is Nathan.

He was feeling a little shortness of breath so he went to his doctor. What did he say? "By the way, Doctor, in a couple of weeks I'm going to kill myself. Nothing bloody or unseemly. I'm just going to fast. Would you like to come to my Last Supper?"

In France, the terminally ill have a legal right to die with dignity. Nathan is not terminally ill. He's not even sick.

Evidently the doctor was so alarmed that he called Nathan's residence and of course they told him that he couldn't do it there. They would call the police long before he was gone.

"May I do it at your house," he asks. "Absolutely not." I answer.

"Oh, I didn't think you'd say yes," he says with only a slight touch of annoyance. "Listen, I'm just going to forget the whole thing. I want to be around for Bastille Day anyway. Just call the list of people we invited and tell them I changed my mind. "

CHAPTER 8: Say Goodnight, Nathan (Part Four)

When Nathan finally arrives, we walk a couple of blocks over to another outside cafe.  Nathan motions to a secluded corner table, saying, "Let's sit over here. This is about a private matter."

We sit facing each other at the round black wrought-iron table, Bernie sprawled between our feet. After we order, Nathan reaches over and takes both my hands in his. I feel a sudden queasy feeling. I don't like this. Nathan looks too serious.

"My dear friend, I have a favor of great importance to ask of you," he begins. "Of course, Nathan, whatever you need," I say. I will never again respond so impulsively.

"I have decided I am ready to leave this world and move on to see what is ahead in the next one,"  he says. I think my mouth literally falls open in astonishment.
"Well, just what does that mean!" I spurt out, louder than I intended.

"I am saying that I have decided to die. You don't need to help me. I would never ask that of you. But I do want a going-away party. Let's call it Nathan's Last Supper."

At that, I burst out laughing, sure by now that he's teasing. Then I realize I'm the only one who thinks it's a joke. Nathan remains very serious.

"I plan to stop eating and drinking," he continues. "I read that only takes a week or so and it's relatively painless."

I feel a sudden rush of rage. I'm furious with him. "You can't be serious. Stop this right now! What would ever make you talk like this!" I shout at him in bewilderment. A few people at tables over by the sidewalk turn and glance our way. 

"Because I'm done. I've done everything I ever wanted to do. Well, almost everything. The few things that are left, I'm never going to be physically able to do anymore anyway. Will I ever climb Kilimanjaro? No. Too late. Will I travel on the Orient Express? No. I've lost interest. Will I work in a health clinic in Bodghaya, India? Absolutely not. I'm too old. Will I make a significant impact to save the world, to cure hunger, to house the homeless, to end corporate greed and begin a world-wide culture of compassion? No. I've done what I can. That's it. I'm done.

"But, Nathan..." He interrupts me. "No, no. Listen to me, " he says "My Fanny is gone. My old friends are gone. I am not depressed. This is a rational and well thought-out decision."

He tells me that he and Fanny were in complete agreement on this, and thought they would go to Pamplona, Spain for San Fermin, the Running of the Bulls when the time came. There is only a simple wooden barricade separating the screaming crowd from the bulls and runners. They could crawl under the fence, hold hands, and run directly towards the rampaging bulls. The chance of being gored would be about 100%. However, the flaw in the plan quickly became obvious. Gored, yes. Killed, only maybe. What about the risk of just a serious injury. A spinal cord mishaps, perhaps.  Not the ultimate goal. Plus, San Fermin is only during ten days in July, so spontaneity would not be an option.

Then they decided to go the fasting route. They would sit in an unobtrusive place in a hotel lobby for days, and not eat or drink, and just sort of fade away gracefully. Eventually someone walking through the lobby would notice there were two dead people on the sofa.

On a whim, while visiting New York, Nathan and Fanny decided to do a bit of a dress rehearsal at the Chelsea Hotel on 23rd Street . After all, how many literary/musical/artistic giants have lived and/or died there?  Surely there would be room for one old couple in the lobby, enjoying the ambiance for their last few days. They dressed in clothes that would be comfortable to wear waiting it out until the end. In the lobby, they settled in a corner near the front window, just out of direct sight of anyone at the hotel desk, especially Stanley Bard, the manager. "Poor Stanley," Nathan said. "He's gone now, replaced by some corporate entity."  Nathan and Fanny sat and enjoyed the art on the walls, and the big fireplace and the woman hanging on a swing from the ceiling. They watched the drifting cloud of strange humans and dogs flow in and out of the lobby. At one point, Leonard Cohen walked out with a woman who got into a waiting black limo. They both had little smiles on their faces. He had on his hat and strutted somewhat jauntily. She had hair all akilter with feathers sticking out of it and lots of bangles and jewelry. "Now that I think about it, " Nathan said, "didn't Cohen write a song about that?"

They listened quietly to see if they could hear the ghosts of Dylan Thomas, Eugene O'Neill or Thomas Wolfe. They even looked for the apparition of Sid Vicious, who reportedly haunts the elevator. "You no doubt remember that Sid shot Nancy in one of the rooms there," Nathan muses.

Before long, they began to realize that instead of being as anonymous as the sofa they sat on, their hope for all of this, they were instead the focus of subtle attention.  Employees and residents and people just passing through stared at them and Bard himself peeked around the corner and took a look. After an hour, they decided the dress rehearsal was over, a total flop. There was no way to die incognito in the lobby of the Chelsea Hotel .

"Now Fanny went ahead and left without me," Nathan says. "And I want to go too."

Stories aside, which remind me of why I love him, I tell Nathan, "Well I simply won't hear of it. And I won't help you in any way. You must understand that."

"This is the only help I need. The Last Supper! I want to have a gathering of friends the night before I begin my fast. I hope you will help me plan this dinner and invite people for me. They should know why they're coming, of course, but it can be a wonderful evening."

He has set a date to begin his fast: May 2. He wants to be here for one last May Day, when vendors all over Paris sell bouquets of Muguet, sweet Lily of the Valley. It's a custom that dates back to 1561, when King Charles IX of France received a Lily of the Valley as a lucky charm.

But for Nathan, the real significance of the day is the massive May Day parades, with beating drums and soaring sounds of trombones, banners, flags, and a general free-for-all throughout the city in celebration of International Worker's Day.

He abuptly pushes back his chair with a jarring screech, stands up and sings proudly and loudly:
   Workers of the world, awaken!
   Rise in all your spendid might
   Take the wealth that you are making,
   It belongs to you by right.
   No one will for bread be crying
   We'll have freedom, love and health,
   When the grand red flag is flying
   In the Worker's Commonwealth.

He ends with a flourish, tipping his hat and executing a sweeping bow. Morning coffee cups temporarily frozen in midair, clink back down on tables as the other customers laugh and applaud. When he sits again, Nathan smiles a bit sheepishly and says, "Joe Hill. Wobbly. What better day for Nathan's Last Supper than May Day!"