Singing at the Crillon
I’m sitting in the Jardin
d’Hiver in the Hotel de Crillon, reading George Orwell’s Down and out in Paris
and London, waiting for Lauren to arrive.
“Nearly everyone hates
hotels,” says Orwell.
I look around at the
Crillon. It is beautiful. Everything is polished. Each surface is reflective,
dazzling. There is marble and glass, there are mirrors and, behind vitrines
all around the shining walls, there are sparkling goods for sale: pearls, diamonds, platinum. In one vitrine, the
original bill of sale for the hotel is displayed, sandwiched between two pieces
of glass.
Lauren arrives.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she
says. “It was the taxi driver. As soon as I said I was going to the Crillon, he
started going all Socialist on me. He was like, ‘Oh, la crise! Et comment
vous songez que nous allons la surmonter – les ouvriers?’ et tout ca*. Like
I’m going to the Crillon so it’s my fault."
“You should have told him
you weren’t paying. La Crise. Is that what they call the Credit Crunch in
France? They don’t call it the Credit Crunch?”
“Well, they don’t call it
the Credit Crunch, because they don’t really have credit.”
That’s true. But I
remember the graffiti I saw on the metro this afternoon, on one of those
low-tech paper posters inserted into grooves in the ceiling of each carriage so
that they hang vertically above the heads of commuters.
On the back of one, someone
had scrawled,
100% CRISE!
NOVEAU!
LE PATRON ALLEGE PLUS SAIN
TOUTE DOIT DISPARAITRE!
PROMOTION!*
There are already soldes
in the real shops too: 20%, 30%. In Paris, mid-season, this is very unusual.
Back at Le Crillon, after dinner, Lauren is about to leave when I remember.
“Wait. I have to show you
something.”
We ascend in the lift to my
room. Set into the lift walls, there
are more jewels behind glass vitrines.
“Would you wear them?” asks
Lauren, critically. Not this afternoon when I arrived, perhaps, but the more
they are repeatedly shown to me, the more I find myself imagining the
possibility of liking them.
We get to my suite, which is
on the top floor of the hotel. I go to the window to draw back the curtains.
At first they resist. We grope behind them to find the operating string.
“Be careful. After all, it
wouldn’t do to break the Crillon.”
We look out of the window. Below us is the courtyard of the Jardin d’Hiver. We can see the roof of the front of the
hotel on the other side of the cour hiding the Place Vendome. Beyond
that, as far as we can see, stretches a sea of the toits de Paris, their
reflective zinc frosted by the cold night air. Between the waves of roofs emerge
the spires of churches, tower blocks, the Assemblée Nationale lit up in blue to
celebrate France’s presidency of the EU. Floating up from the misty exhalation
of Paris we can see the top of Les Invalides, flashing fire and La Tour Montparnasse and the Eiffel Tower
itself. Everywhere French flags fly from the rooftops. Behind us, the air
conditioning hisses as it turns itself up a notch. It is almost unbelievably
beautiful.
Lauren feels impelled to
sing the French national anthem. “Aux armes, citoyens! It makes me feel
patriotic to sing it, even though I’m not French.”
“It would make anyone feel
patriotic. It’s a good anthem. Who was it who said that everyone has two
countries, France and his own?”
“I think it was Jefferson… Marchons,
marchons!
Qu'un sang impur - isn't that terrible? 'Impure blood'! How can they sing that?”
“It’s still better than the
English anthem. That’s a dirge:
God saaave our
graaaaciousss queeeeen.
Loooooooooong
live our noooooooooble queeeeeeeeeeeen…”
“We have that in the States
too, but with different words:
…Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing;
Land where my fathers
died,
Land
of the pilgrims' pride…
I like Rule Britannia.”
Together, we sing:
“Rule, Britannia
Britannia rules the waves
Britons never never never
shall be slaves!”
“How about, Jerusalem?”
I ask.
“I don’t know that.”
“It’s
William Blake. It’s really erotic and radical:
Bring me my spear of
burning gold
Bring me my arrows of
desire.
(They sing it at
Conservative party conferences, you know).
Bring me my (what? I’ve forgotten). Oh, clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
We stand in the window and
lean out over Paris, singing the two revolutionary anthems, from the lap of the
Hotel de Crillon.
-Aux armes, citoyens !
-Formez vos bataillons !
-I shall not cease from mental fight,
-Marchons, marchons !
-Nor shall my sword sleep
in my hand,-Qu'un sang impur.
-Til we have built Jerusalem
-Abreuve nos
siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiillons !
-In England’s green and pleasant laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand!”
vitrine - display/shop window
Oh, la crise! Et comment vous songez que nous allons la surmonter – les ouvriers?’ et tout ca - Oh, the Credit Crunch! And how do you think it's going to work out for us workers? and so on.
100% CRISE!
NOVEAU!
LE PATRON ALLEGE PLUS SAIN
TOUTE DOIT DISPARAITRE!
PROMOTION!
I guess this means
100% CREDIT CRUNCH
NEW!
THE BOSS IS LIGHTENING UP FOR BETTER HEALTH?
EVERYTHING MUST GO!
SPECIAL OFFER!







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