The Flowers of Paris

Paris 1911. A struggling young writer walks around the city searching for inspiration, and meets a man who will change his outlook.

It was a bright spring day in Saint Chapel Paris, and James strolled down the sidewalk towards the train station with his brother Charles.

The streets were bustling with students, merchants and artists of all sorts going about their trade in the city. Cafes and bistros lined the streets and filled the air with the scent of coffee and freshly baked bread.

“Let me tell you one thing James.” Remarked Charles as they walked down the street. “You’d best get successful real quick, there’s only so much magazine work out there.”

“Hey.” Replied James with a hint of annoyance. “I’m just looking for some… inspiration, ya know?”

“Yeah yeah, but how long are you going to wait? I mean, for gods sake you’ve been in this slump for years! Imagine all the things you could’ve done if you’d just stayed in school and…”

“Don’t even start.” Interrupted James with a sigh. “Engineering just isn’t my calling.”

“Well.” Replied his brother. “If you’re going to be a writer, Paris is certainly the place for you.”

“Ancient streets, good food, cheap wine, beautiful women, what’s not to love?” Chuckled James.

“I’ll give you that one!” replied Charles with a laugh.

They soon crossed over the shining Seine River and approached the newly constructed train station, the Gare d’Orsay. The building was wide, and ornately embellished. People flowed in and out like water through the cobblestone streets on a rainy day.

As they walked into the station, they found themselves surrounded by bustling people of all professions, backgrounds, means, and nationalities. The ornate décor of the building fit perfectly with the diverse assortment of the people that used it.

 Charles shouldered his bag as he turned towards his brother, the sunlight shining through the glass paneled celling and lighting up the building.

“It was really great seeing you, James. I hope you’ll come visit over in Ireland sometime” He said with a sincere smile. “And I really do with you luck with your writing career.”

James smiled and shook his brother’s hand. “And best of luck to you with your engineering.”

The two brothers waved goodbye as Charles walked off into the crowds of the glass ceilinged Gare d’Orsay toward his train.

As Charles disappeared into the crowd, James let off a sigh of relief. Its not that he disliked his brother’s company, on the contrary, he very much enjoyed it. But after a week of hearing of his brother’s success in his field, building bridges and roads everywhere from America to India to Britain to Russia, and having found very little success of his own, he was beginning to find conversation with Charles more and more discouraging. And he had always found spent alone to be energizing in a way that time spent with company just never was.

After a few moments of standing there, James adjusted his hat and exited the grand train station. He stepped back out into the warm, bright spring day and walked down a nearby stairway to a lower sidewalk along the Seine.

The lower sidewalk was much less crowded than the streets above, and was lined with decorative trees. The roads above provided shade from the sun, and the quieter, less crowded atmosphere provided a quaint ambience to the path.

James looked around as he walked down the picturesque path. The blue sky, the emerald trees, the green river and the grey cobblestones seemed to paint a picture in his eye. And the blurred sounds of the people above, the flow of the Seine, the song of spring birds, and the tolls of church bells blended harmoniously into the symphony of a Parisian Spring.

It had been three years since James had moved to Paris with the the hopes of becoming a writer. Magazine work paid the bills, but he was still living payday to payday. Every day he took a walk somewhere around the city in search of inspiration, but found none. This day was no different.

He continued walking down the quiet riverside sidewalk, taking in the scene around him, digging in his mind for an idea or a lead, but nothing came to mind.

He sighed and shook his head in frustration. Maybe in Ille de la Cite. He thought as he walked up the nearest stairs back to the streets above and started on his way.

The streets were busy, but not overwhelmingly so, and the atmosphere felt distinctly Parisian. Sharply dressed men walked around the sidewalks, accompanied by beautiful women in colorful, flowered dresses. Accordion music drifted from a nearby café, only drowned out by the occasional passing car. James walked briskly down the streets toward his destination, blending seamlessly into the Parisian crowd.

Evetually, he came across the bridge to Ille de la Cite and took a seat in the outside section of a small café. He got settled in, ordered his coffee, and took out a small pad of paper. The café smelled pleasantly of coffee and fresh bread, and a warm breeze blew though the outside area. From his small café table, James looked out at the street. A miasma of different people walked up and down the shady street and small gardens of flowers lay hanging from the windows of the apartments. The towers of Notre Dame could be seen over the buildings on the other side of the street.

The light tapping of shoes on the ancient, cobblestone streets, the soft clinking of glasses and murmur of conversations from inside the café, and the omnipresent melody of the birds and the wind all seemed to blend into a pleasant song that gave a calm and artistic atmosphere to the scene.

James got out his pen and prepared to write, but no words came to mind. He sat there, staring at the empty notepad sitting there on the scarlet tablecloth. His forehead tensed as he tried to concentrate on the blank paper, desperately looking for some shred of an idea. Suddenly, his concentration was broken by a movement near his face. He blinked rapidly and the tension in his forehead dissipated as he looked up to see his coffee waiting for him on the table.

He sighed in disappointment and took a sip of his rich, foamy coffee as he leaned back in his chair. He glanced down at the blank notepad and subtly gritted his teeth. Still, no ideas, no characters or outlines, no scenes, acts, plots or anecdotes of any kind found their way into James’ mind.

With a half defeated sigh, he took another sip of coffee and looked to the sidewalk. Every two minutes or so, a person would pass by, and James would study them closely, looking for any semblance of inspiration.

 He saw a beautiful, fair skinned woman in an expensive looking white dress with yellow embellishments. She walked with the elegance of a swan and had bright eyes that glittered in the sunlight.

He saw a young, smart looking man in a white shirt and a tweed hat. He carried an easel under his arm, and a small paint stained bag in his hand and moved with the gusto and confidence of a young artist.

He saw a young Romani woman awash in beautifully colored clothing and shiny jewelry that reminded James of a sunset over the ocean. Her smooth, black hair flowed over her shoulders from below her head-tie, and she moved with the fluidity and precision of a dancer.

He saw a sharply dressed military officer, clad in a crisp blue uniform. He had a bushy blonde moustache and his sabre swung as his side as he walked with the sharp motions of a trained soldier.

He people-watched for the better part of an hour and a half; until his coffee was long gone, and the grounds at the bottom of the cup had dried into a sticky black ring at the bottom of the cup. But still, the dam like block in his creativity did not budge, and no inspiration found him.

To hell with it. He thought in defeat as he slapped 10 Francs on the table and left in a huff without collecting his change. It was late afternoon, and the sun would be down in a few hours. The late afternoon sun cast a warm, orange light upon the city as James walked home.

James knew it would take him a good two hours to walk from where he was, across the city and up a steep hill to his apartment in the bohemian, artistic neighborhood of Montmatre. His discouragement weighed heavily upon him, and he walked home slowly, his head down, keen not to make eye contact with anyone out of personal embarrassment.

As he walked home the sun continued to set until it was almost below the horizon, casting a beautiful amber glow across the ancient city as a rumble of thunder rung in the distance. He passed busy restaurants where happy, upper middle class intellectuals laughed, talked, ate and drank. He also passed less refined bistros and bars where poorer folk could be heard drinking and conversing in French, English, German, Russian, Spanish, Italian and Greek all in the same room. Yet, he walked with his head down and his eyes fixed on the ground, enveloped by his discouragement.

As he started up the hill into Montmatre, the sun set lower and lower under the horizon, shrouding the streets in dusk until re-illuminated by the lights from the buildings and the glow of the gas lamps. He was still a good half hour away from his apartment.

The air grew chilly and crisp and James quickened his pace.

A few minutes passes, and James felt a drop of water on the top of his head, then another, and another. He began to notice the sound of raindrops falling all around him. They pattered off the stone streets and tile roofs sonorously, creating a lullaby like melody that filled the city with pleasant natural music.

James could feel his clothes getting more and more waterlogged by the second, and being still about 20 minutes from his apartment, he ducked into a nearby café by the name of La Bonne Franquette.

Warmth swept over him as he entered the café, and the patter of the outside rain was replaced by the drone of rain hitting the roof, and the soft notes of the piano player in the corner. The café was warmly lit, with a calm, welcoming atmosphere. Almost no one was there, save the bartender, the piano player, a young American couple in the restaurant area, and a bearded man sitting at the bar.

James sat down at the bar tiredly, took off his hat, and ordered a glass of wine. The bartender poured him a small glass, and he downed most of it in one gulp.

After a few seconds, the bearded man looked at James and said in a deep, full voice “You’re far too young to be that sad m’boy.”

“Is it really that obvious?” responded James

“Happy men drink in sips to savor the taste m’boy, only sad men and hedonists drink wine like that.” Said the bearded man with a chuckle. “so, what is it then… matters of the heart?”

“Not exactly.” Said James with a sigh.

“What is it then?” said the man in a genuinely caring voice.

“Well… it’s just that…” stuttered James, as he struggled to put his feelings into words. “I just can’t seem to find any inspiration! I’m a writer by trade and I’m forced to sell myself out week after week with this pointless magazine work because I can’t find any inspiration for a genuinely good story!”  He sighed in frustration and anger. “Sometimes I wonder why I even bother trying, I’ll never be a real author.”

A few seconds passed, James took another gulp of wine.

“Do you enjoy it?” said the man.

“Enjoy it?” asked James in a confused tone.

“Writing.” Said the man. “You enjoy it don’t you?”

“Of course I enjoy it, I wouldn’t have spent all that money at University and devoted my entire young life to it if I didn’t enjoy it! It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do!” Said James, slightly annoyed with the man’s questions.

“Well then, it shouldn’t matter.” Said the man matter of factly. “Write for yourself, embrace your art, and inspiration will come on its own.”

“I suppose…” Said James morosely. “It’s just frustrating.”

“Mind if I give you some advice m’boy?” said the man, the American couple laughing quietly as the rain continued to fall upon the roof.

“Go ahead.” James replied, finishing his wine with another gulp and signaling the bartender for a refill.

“Art is a reflection of life, and an artist’s work is their take on life, as they see it.” He said. “I’m a painter by trade, and every day I discover more and more beautiful things. It’s enough to drive one mad. I have such a desire to do everything, my head is bursting with it.”

“I envy your talent.” James said bitterly as he took a gulp of wine.

“But do you think I ever went out with the express purpose of finding that beauty and that inspiration? No. I simply live my life, and the inspiration… the art, it comes naturally. You’re so focused on finding inspiration m’boy, that you’ve forgone the very life that gives you that inspiration!” said the man as the piano hit a sonorous chord.

The man’s words had caught James’ attention, and he shifted to face him. The American couple left the café into the rainy streets, practically falling into each other’s arms as they huddled under one umbrella.

“Everyone discusses my art and pretends to understand it, as if it were necessary to understand, when it is simply necessary to love. All you need to find inspiration is to love what you do, and the rest will come naturally.” Said the man.

“So, inspiration just… comes to you?” said James, dumbfounded.

“Yes, because I’m more focused on the inspiration around me than I am on the act of acquiring it.” He said wisely. “Take my garden for instance, it is my most beautiful masterpiece. I’ll just sit there, among the flowers and the lilies and then clear water, and the inspiration will flow through my brush like a stream.”

“That… actually really helps.” Said James sincerely. “Thank you.”

“Ah, don’t mention it.” Said the man with a friendly smile as he stood up from the bar stool and signaled the bartender for his check. “I very much enjoyed speaking with you m’boy, but I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“James, James Joyce” He replied as the man signed his check and put a 20 franc bill next to it.

“Well, Mr. Joyce, it was a pleasure meeting you.” He said with a smile as he shook James’ hand and started out the door. “And by the way, the wine’s on me!”

The door swung shut behind the man, leaving James with no company except the rain upon the roof, and the slow, melodic playing of the pianist.

James sighed, but this time, with a smile, as he thought about the bearded man’s advice.

God, what a fool I was! He thought with an ironic smile. I spent so much time looking for inspiration, that I let an entire city full of it pass me by every day without even a second thought.

And for all that man did to lift my spirits, I never even got his name. He thought with a chuckle.

He began to lift the wineglass to his mouth, but stopped when he noticed the man’s check still on the table.

His curiosity overcame him and he set down his wine glass and picked up the man’s check.

On it was the charge for 3 glasses of wine, totaling 18.55 Franks, signed:

What an interesting fellow. Thought James as he took a sip of wine, savoring every taste.

Author's Note

1st real crack at writing. Criticism always welcome, I'd just ask to include both what I did well, and what needs improvement. Thank you!

Reviews

[Auxiliosophiae]

What a lovely story! It was so engrosing and flowed wonderfully. And to only be your first work, keep it up.
Loved the description of Paris in terms of color and blurred sound, a great tie-in for who he meets. Makes me wonder whether this is based off something, like were they really in Paris in 1911 and by chance met. Never read any Joyce but am an admirer of Monet.
Only a few things stood out for correction: "paneled celling(ceiling)"; "I really do with(wish) you luck"; "let off(out) a sigh of relief."; "Its(It's) not that"; "had always found (time) spent alone"
Thanks for sharing!

[BookWorm]

I love it. Very well written, provides adequate back story, and most of all I love Monet. If this was only you're first try I really look forward to reading more. Great!