PARIS — “We’ll at all times have Paris.” Seems maybe essentially the most well-known line within the films was improper.
Paris is gone for now, its lifeblood lower off by the closure of all eating places, its nights silenced by a 6 p.m. curfew aimed toward eliminating the nationwide pastime of the aperitif, its cafe bonhomie misplaced to home morosity. Blight has taken the Metropolis of Gentle.
Taboos fall. Folks eat sandwiches within the drizzle on metropolis benches. They yield — oh, the horror! — to takeout within the type of “le click-and-collect.” They dine earlier, an abominable Americanization. They ponder with resignation the chalk-on-blackboard choices of long-shuttered eating places nonetheless promising a veal blanquette or a boeuf bourguignon. These menus are fossils from the pre-pandemic world.
Gone the museums, gone the tourist-filled riverboats plying the Seine, gone the sidewalk terraces providing their pleasures at nightfall, gone the film theaters, gone the informal delights of wandering and the raucous banter of essentially the most northern of southern cities. Of their place, a grey unhappiness has settled over town like fog.
“Parisian gloom isn’t merely climatic,” Saul Bellow wrote in 1983. “It’s a non secular drive that acts not solely on constructing supplies, on partitions and rooftops, but additionally in your character, your opinions and your judgment. It’s a highly effective astringent.”
Bellow, nevertheless, might nonetheless cease for a sauvignon blanc and a plate of charcuterie when the “Parisian grisaille” — that depthless monochrome that may envelop even the Eiffel Tower — gave him the January blues. Not on this damp Parisian winter, because the toll of Covid-19 mounts and town’s ghostly streets comply with each other like Eliot’s “tedious argument.”
I’ve seen daylight three or 4 instances since arriving from New York about seven weeks in the past. A glimmer, a summons to life, gone quickly sufficient to go away doubts as as to whether it was actual. New York doesn’t do drizzle or weeks of uninterrupted grey skies.
So my adaptation has been harsh, notably to a Paris with its soul torn out. “It’s of an absolute unhappiness,” Alain Ducasse, the celebrated chef, mentioned, after I requested how Paris felt today. “It’s a horrible imprisonment. The French aren’t accustomed to life with out its social aspect, a drink at a restaurant, a contact, a kiss.”
Sure, even the “bisou,” the little kiss on each cheeks that could be a ceremony of greeting or farewell, is gone.
With greater than 74,000 folks lifeless throughout France from the pandemic, everybody understands the restrictions imposed. Virtually all main cities the world over have needed to endure misplaced lives, misplaced jobs, misplaced methods of life. Paris is much from alone in its deprivations.
However every metropolis modifications in its personal manner. In New York the absence that feels most acute is of the power that defines it. In Paris, the opening in its coronary heart is the absence of the sensual conviviality that makes folks dream. It’s the disappearance of pleasures the French have spent centuries refining within the perception there is no such thing as a restrict to them.
Life is monotonous. There’s actually nowhere to go. “We’ll solely have Paris,” a good friend feeling claustrophobic grumbled the opposite day. He’s purchased a canine as a result of he’s allowed to stroll it after the curfew.
Frédéric Hocquard is accountable for tourism and evening life within the mayor’s workplace. He instructed me the variety of vacationers in Paris was down about 85 p.c final yr. Visits to the Louvre and Versailles, each now closed, have been down about 90 p.c. “It’s catastrophic,” he mentioned. Lodge occupancy is working at about six p.c.
One shiny spot: The variety of Parisians going up the Eiffel Tower final yr doubled. “One of many traits of a real Parisian is that she or he has by no means ascended the Eiffel Tower,” Mr. Hocquard mentioned. “We began to alter that.” All it took was the elimination of options.
There are different upsides to this Parisian distress. Visitors flows. Markets are unbowed with their gleaming-eyed oyster shuckers, their butchers taking 5 minutes to truss every quail, their oozing Camembert cheeses prompting debate about ripeness, their rum baba truffles with little syringes to inject the rum.
Town’s islands nonetheless level their prows towards the low-slung bridges of delicate fulcrums. The 19th-century wrought iron lampposts down the abandoned Rue de Rivoli solid a dreamlike procession of sunshine, as if in a movie noir. (With a press cross it’s attainable to exit after the curfew). Paris quieted can be Paris in a reverie.
“100 days,” Mr. Ducasse mentioned. Then, he insisted, the revival would start. I requested if he had traveled. Solely to Bologna in Italy, he mentioned, to recruit a grasp maker of gelato. After beginning a profitable chocolate enterprise a number of years in the past, his subsequent enterprise might be ice cream.
Mr. Hocquard can be eyeing April and Might, planning live shows and different outside actions in parks, on the banks of the Seine, even at underused airports.
Such optimism leaves the issue of coping with the current. One latest snowy Sunday, I went to the Tuileries looking for distraction. I’ve at all times favored the formality of this backyard, the gravel paths, the pollarded timber, the geometric patterns. One attraction was nonetheless functioning. A carousel!
Spherical and spherical went colourful horses, an ostrich, a automotive, a airplane, a ship and a few Cinderella carriages. My accomplice and I selected horses. The music was North African. There have been a few youngsters. The carousel, a bit miracle, spun me down my intermittent Paris years stretching again to the mid-1970s.
Paris could be again, if not this spring, some day. I watched a crow advance, wedge a discarded French fry in its beak, and fly off to perch on a bench. I gazed at a wall with plaques for French fighters killed throughout the liberation of Paris in 1944. The youngest, Jean-Claude Touche, was 18.
The pandemic has, in some methods, imposed circumstances of struggle in time of peace. It, too, will finish. Along with his well-known wartime line from “Casablanca” — “We’ll at all times have Paris” — Humphrey Bogart was additionally telling Ingrid Bergman to go away him, keep together with her husband, and console herself with recollections of town of their love. It was an invite to the imaginary. Now, greater than ever, Paris have to be imagined.