Jacques Prévert

Paris

With a terrible chill settling over the town, and an intermittent drizzle to round things out, I got in line with the others, those waiting to learn about the life of Jacques Prévert. It was free, so only the wait was necessary to gain access to the Mairie—or building that served as the city hall.

As the stoic and wordless people of Paris emptied their pockets at the security checkpoint, I asked this: “We have to put in our coins as well?” A flustered man was collecting the contents of his pocket from the little security bin, where he’d put a good deal of small and insignificant fractions of the euro. He was holding things up. No—the security man said—an affable person with a formidable sidearm. “Your knives, guns, sharp, pointy things. We need to collect all that.” There was some measure of relief that this loud American, so inexplicably dressed like the rest of them, had cleared up this detail of the security procedure. It was almost as if it would have been impolite for the armed guards to say that the coins were not really something that needed to go through the metal detector—so they said nothing at all. But this blowhard, hell-sent directly from across the Atlantic Ocean, was okay. He’d slice through the layers of formality, the centuries of keeping quiet unless it really required a comment—and even then it was best just to keep mum. No telling what might happen.

Inside, the people in charge of this exhibit spared no detail of M. Prévert’s life. All of his childhood sketches were there, the animations for fantastic cartoons played in black and white on one of several movie screens set up in little theatres. In other screening rooms, there played little films that exhibited an unrestrained sense of humor and creativity. He was a man not bound by convention, had realized from an early age how his life would most likely play out, and had followed that path to success. In his wake lay the works he’d created: the lyrics to “Les Feuilles Mortes,” which has become a standard covered in both popular and jazz circles—most often in English under the title, “Autumn Leaves.” Various plays and films he’d authored, and had also helped direct. His innocent and fascinating sketches seemed to bear a fanciful nod to Hieronymous Bosch—that vastly strange artist of fifteenth century Europe, in the respect that he depicted beasts never before seen or even imagined. Absent, of course, are the illustrations of nightmarish monsters and incomprehensible transactions between human-like creatures and their devil-sent counterparts. Prévert’s drawings have a good-natured quality about them, that does not delve into irony or rake at the muck of the human condition.

He appeared to love cats, and was often photographed or depicted with a favorite feline on his shoulder or nearby in the household. The illustrations that illuminated his life for the visitors of the exhibit were so numerous that I eventually just sought out the ones that contained a cat—in order to save a little time. In all, the artist is most known as a prominent poet and screenwriter—although I can say I only have a passing acquaintance with his works. In the coming times, I’ll do my best to rectify that.

I exited the place, deciding to bypass the little gift shop area that sold books and postcards and other things related to the departed artist’s life. I felt, during the exhibit, that I was suddenly becoming sick. I was on the left bank, within sight of the well-lit Notre Dame cathedral, and had the full and bustling rush-hour Metro to contend with. The symptoms came on quickly: An aching throughout all my body, that seemed to permeate my very bones, and a chill that had nothing to do with the damp and cold Paris evening. I put on my gloves, wrapped my scarf more tightly around my neck, and pulled my grey woolen cap down over my ears.

On the subway, I was glad to have a respite from human interaction, from the obligations of coming into close contact with people. I could be miserable and sick, and not have to acknowledge anyone. This is a major advantage of Parisian life—or life anywhere in a big city, for that matter. Had I collapsed suddenly on a crowded sidewalk, the busy pedestrians would simply have stepped over my person, trying hard not to look too closely at this unfortunate, as it might be deemed impolite. I felt comforted by that thought.

Fortunately I found a seat on the two trains I had to take, did not much care if I were sitting where an infirm or more deserving person might have sat. By this time I was almost trembling with shivers, and wondered how long this whole episode was going to last. Getting off the final train, I trod upon a young man’s feet, something that I am prone to doing on the Paris Metro. They don’t quite give you enough room to stow your feet under your seat, so many passengers sit with their legs out in the standing area. You really have to pay attention. I apologized, stumbled off the train, and got out into the fresh air of the Place de l’Opéra. I made for my hotel, with my coat bundled up around my face, and quickly got undressed and into bed at around eight in the evening. The next morning I would sleep through breakfast, and the hotel lady at the front desk—Mlle. Frédéric, would tell me afterwards that hardly anyone had come down that morning—that it seemed as though everyone in Paris had become sick.