Xaviera Hollander in Normandy
I emerged from my flight from Spain slightly
lost in a black silken dress and purple scarf, squinting at the glare
of sunshine. Einar acted as my coach and agent and offered to accompany
me to perform in the langue de Racine at the Théâtre Ephémère, a former
paper mill and hydraulic power plant on an ecluse of the Eure. To reach
our destination, we had to take a train from Paris’s Gare Saint-Lazare.
Getting to Rouen was a horror story.
A
massive transportation strike in Paris had paralyzed everyone. No bus,
no taxi. Rien de rien. So hundreds of people tried to squeeze into our
Rouen-bound train at rush hour. I got paranoid being right in the
middle of this pushing phalanx of solemn but
determined-to-get-on-the-train-looking people. I was afraid we were
going to be stampeded like a Brazilian woman once decapitated during an
overcrowded Carnival in Rio. Worse still, it brought to my mind images
of Schindler’s List, where Jews get put onto trains to go to
concentration camps. Einar held my hand and gestured to me to try to
stay as close to him as possible so that we would not get
separated—which we nevertheless did.
First
class was as overcrowded as second class and I cannot remember having
seen a single conductor ask for anyone's ticket. I managed to find a
narrow space on a staircase to the upper row of seats and had my
handbag full of money and documents squeezed between my feet. Then
three Algerians started to move in and gave the entire compartment of
squashed French people a real scare. They were outright nasty and I
feared that a massive fight would erupt. One of them started to look
lecherously at me, licking his lips and grinning in my direction, while
rubbing his wiry, horny and sweaty body against a young girl of about
fifteen. Frotter they call that kind of dry humping. She was most upset
but could not move.
When the
train stopped at the first station outside Paris, the pockmarked
Algerian thug made a move to lower himself and the next thing I saw was
that my handbag was slowly being pulled from between my feet. I
immediately jumped forward and grabbed his arm, which was stuck between
the legs of an innocent man who stood beside him. The Algerian, letting
go of my bag as I threatened to bite his hand if he made one more move,
swore at me in loud Arabic for calling him a thief. The public had
already had enough of him and his chums; they were virtually pushed off
the train. Einar comforted the young girl who seemed relieved that her
frotteur had left and suddenly we all could start breathing easier. I
was even offered a seat.
At
Val de Reuil, a town I never heard of in my life before, we were picked
up by Laurent, a quiet man in his early forties with a dry sense of
humor, and a big-lipped dark-haired hunchback, Bruno, the father of a
lovely 4-week-old daughter. Bruno never wanted to live anywhere else in
the world other than in this one horse town with only seven taxis,
because here he could walk his dog around his house into the virgin
forest of Normandy within five minutes. He reminded us a lot of the
hunchback of the Notre Dame … and he was pure living theatre. These two
men belonged to the technical group who looked after set design, lights
and general hospitality. They drove us around whenever and wherever we
felt like, even if their planners were filled with appointments.
Everyone
on the festival team made us feel like royalty because I was apparently
their guest of honor. Marianne Clevy, the notorious madame—The Happy
Hooker—turned successful writer and now theatrical promoter of this
festival was a bundle of terrific nervous energy resembling my own
personality in my younger years. She was the one who had invited me to
participate in the festival. She had organized the show from Paris like
a puppeteer in total control of her marionettes. She had arrived in
Rouen only on the day of the event.
Once
our two companions took us to our hotel in the middle of a golf course,
we had an hour to rest up before meeting "the others" at a
country-style restaurant. Dinner at eight for 40 people at the Cotton
Club. At the hotel du Golf, Einar and I each had a wonderful room and
it was so quiet that I must have fallen asleep the moment my tired head
hit the pillow. As little time as we had to sleep, it was divine to be
away from crowded trains or even the sound of my own three barking dogs
that I had left behind in Marbella.
The
ambience in the theater compound was fabulous. The people had come from
all over France. Some well-known and lesser known actors/actresses and
stage directors, (metteurs en scène) got together in various spaces to
begin their rehearsals. It was a fun group of super friendly mostly
young artists; some androgynous mime performers later on mingled with
the visitors.
The director of
the theater Patrick and his charming wife invited us for an
after-dinner drink to their house which was exactly a two-minute walk
from the usine that he had converted into a successful theater.
Somehow, Patrick, an extremely handsome, tall and impressive man, Einar
and I, had gotten so involved in various exciting stories of three such
different lives that time just seemed to fly by. We were up until
almost 3 a.m.
The following
evening, about 150 visitors showed up, who for a nominal fee of €3 got
a choice of eight theater pieces, which ran from 9 p.m. through 4 a.m.
There was a great feast prepared by cheerful people from Madagascar: a
very hot chili con carne with lots of beans. Not very typical for
Madagascar, I guess. In any case, what a choice of food for people who
have to mingle in a crowd! The bowel rumblings were clearly heard with
some strong smelling gas surreptitiously rising every so often from the
middle of a group of people.
One
of the smaller rooms was specially decorated for me in a most sensual
way, with soft intimate lighting, a big comfortable fauteuil covered in
loads of lovely red and purple satin material, a side table with my
books and two glasses of water. There were lots of pillows right in
front of me on the floor and several rows of chairs beyond. The
enthusiastic audience of about 90 people made me feel right at home.
I
did a one-woman show instead of reading. I told stories... made the
full crowd listen to some juicier stories from my books and life in
general. I had decided for once not to read the serious concentration
camp stories of Child No More, but rather, treat the public to some
fun. And boy did they laugh! Especially toward the end. The French are
a difficult bunch of people, not easy to entertain, but once they
loosened up and my French got less rusty, things worked out just fine.
Earlier on that day Einar had guided me carefully on what stories to
tell while we were seated in one of the most romantic spots of Rouen.
For
the trip back, Einar and I were supposed to be met by a taxi driver, a
neighbor of Bruno, the hunchback of Notre Dame. The taxi, however,
never materialized. Our train for Paris was to leave at 8:25 a.m., but
it wasn’t until 8:15 a.m. that the owner of the hotel offered us a
ride. Einar, who was really upset and very grouchy after only two hours
of sleep, badly needed a cup of coffee; when he saw the train leaving
the station as we arrived, his face sank. He then called the taxi
number that was on a notice board at the station. This was apparently
the only taxi company in the village.
A
handsome Anthony Quinn look-alike in his late fifties called Mario
drove up in a black Mercedes. I immediately guessed that he'd been a
maitre d' in his previous career. He was Aragon Spanish and glad to be
able to speak his own language with us. This charming man, talkative
and informative, took us right to Charles to Gaulle for my flight back
to Malaga for the sweet price of €180. It turned out that Mario had
indeed received a phone call at 2 a.m. from his neighbor Bruno for a
young couple to be picked up that same morning at 7: 45 a.m. … at the
theater and not our hotel.
I
am glad to have never set foot in a train again. I prefer to be a
luxury doll who travels by car, plane or taxi driven by Anthony Quinn
look-alikes.
******************
