“Who won?” asked Bertie.
There was a silence. Then the second young woman spoke.
“It is difficult to say. I suppose the bourgeoisie is still with us.”
“So they won then,” said Bertie.
The young man looked uncomfortable. “It’s not as simple as that,” he said. “The system was badly wounded.”
“And they curbed the powers of the
He’s called Jean-Philippe. We shorten him to Jarpipe. And what, may I ask, is your name?”
Bertie thought for a moment. It seemed to him that the French put in their second names, and he did not want to appear unsophisticated. His second name, he recollected, was Peter, and he did know the French for that. “I’m Bertie-Pierre,” he said quickly. It sounded rather good, he thought, and none of his new friends seemed to think it at all odd.
“Alors, Bertie-Pierre,” said Marie-Louise. “Let us order our lunch. You said that you liked sausages, so we shall see what Henri can do about that.”
They gave the order to Henri, who nodded a polite greeting to Bertie, and then Marie-Louise turned to Bertie and said:
“Tell us about yourself, Bertie-Pierre. What are you doing in Paris, all by leetle self? And what have you got in that case of yours?”
“I came here with an orchestra,” Bertie said. “The Edinburgh Teenage Orchestra.”
“But you are surely not . . .” said Jean-Philippe.
“I’m not a teenager quite yet,” said Bertie. “But my mother . . .”
“He is a prodigy,” said Sylvie. “That is why.”
“Are you a prodigy, Bertie-Pierre?” asked Jean-Philippe.
Bertie looked down at the table. “I am not sure,” he said.
“Mr Morrison thinks I am. But I don’t know myself.”
“And who is this Monsieur Morrison?” asked Sylvie.
“He is my saxophone teacher,” said Bertie.
“Ah well,” said Marie-Louise. “I am sure that Monsieur Morrison knows what he is talking about. We should tell you a little bit about ourselves. We are all students here at the Sorbonne. I am a student of English literature. Sylvie is a student of economics – that is very dull, but she does not seem to mind, hah! – and Jarpipe is a student of philosophy. He is very serious, very melancholic, as you may have noticed. He is in love with Sylvie here, but Sylvie loves another. She loves Jacques, who has blue eyes and drives a very fast car. Poor Jarpipe!”
“I live in hope,” said Jean-Philippe, smiling. “What is there to do but to live in the belief of the reality of what you want?
That is what Camus said, Bertie-Pierre.”
294
“Camus is very passe,” said Sylvie. “How can I love one who talks about Camus?”
“I cannot talk about Derrida,” said Jean-Philippe indignantly.
“There is nothing to be said about Derrida. Nothing.
Bertie listened to this exchange in fascination. This was the Paris he had been hoping to find, and he had now found it. Oh, if only Tofu and Olive could see him sitting here with his new friends, on the Left Bank, talking about these sophisticated matters. Oh, if only his mother could see . . . No, perhaps not.
“So!” exclaimed Sylvie. “You have heard of Melanie Klein!
Bertie had learned that the hallmark of sophisticated conversation in Paris was the tossing out of derogatory remarks, usually calling into question an entire theory or
It made him feel considerably better to say that, and he felt even better when the others agreed with him.
“I’m surprised that anybody still reads her,” said Sylvie.
“Perhaps in places like Scotland . . .”
Bertie thought quickly. He knew that his mother read Melanie Klein religiously, but he did not want to reveal that now. At the same time, his Scottish pride had been pricked by the suggestion that people in Scotland were less at the forefront of intellectual fashion than people in Paris.
“We only read her to laugh at her,” said Bertie quickly. “In Scotland, she’s considered a comic writer.”
