And The Beat Goes On...and On

Cast members from Nous Pour Un Moment
(c) Elisabeth Carecchio

I've noticed a culture deficiency in my life. More like an ache. There are several appealing films released of late which I haven't found the time to see. It’s also a good while since I’ve been to the theatre. One of the few advantages to being in-between-jobs is that it affords me a substantial discounts.

If I don’t make the time I won’t find it. I set a couple of moments aside one week to scratch that itch. I see the superlative coming-of-age comedy-drama Un Vrai Bonhomme, just before the end of its run. A few days later, I attend the final performance of Nous Pour Un Moment (Us For A Moment); an adaptation of a piece by Norwegian playwright Arne Lygre at the Theatre National de Strasbourg. Whilst waiting in the lobby, I catch the eye of a former colleague. We were never close. I wasn't wholly convinced of goodwill on her part. Nevertheless, she also had her fair share of THRO work-related problems; so much so, she was still on extended sick leave by the time I’d left. The last I heard she’d taken early retirement.

The moment is a tad awkward. We greet each other. I smile; surprised but genuine. Neither of us are predisposed to make conversation however, even when I end up seated behind her and her other half.  

Nous Pour Un Moment is high concept. The set piece is comprised of plain walls that slide up, down and sideways. The floor is replaced by a pool of water. Protagonists are anonymised and interchangeable, characterised by their relationship to one another; a friend, an enemy, a stranger. Female actors take on male roles. A supposedly incidental character becomes the protagonist of the next scene.

It’s a visceral and engaging production. Lygre strikes a good balance between experimental and relatable. There’s plenty of (implied) sex and death. As in all good theatre and in life; the greatest narrative of all.

I’m a little lost at the start but soon catch up.  As with my cinematic excursion earlier that week, I’m relieved to discover I am able to follow the majority of the dialogue; enough to become immersed. If my linguistic progress is slower than I’d like, these moments at least give me some hope.

Too bad that at times, I’m still too easily discouraged. In the middle of a long overdue meet-up with Jeanne the following week, I dissolve into tears of frustration over La Langue de Molière. Underneath is another minor-existential crisis. I’ll be staring down my 40s in the not-too-distant future and I hate being in limbo. Despite her calmness, my state distresses Jeanne. We’re in Oh My Goodness! Café. Customers stare, then avert their gaze. She tries to encourage me.

But you make yourself understood…

That’s not good enough. I want more reassurance. Ironically, my language skills that night seem to be holding up pretty well. I crave the affirmation.

That evening Jeanne and I will see each other again at church. It’s the first day of a week of fasting and prayers. I need the spiritual nourishment but, rather selfishly, I’m not in a sociable mood. I try to keep to myself all evening. It’s not easy when we’re expected to pray in small groups. I’m evasive where possible and stay quiet otherwise. Praying in French sets off my linguistic neuroses. Prayer should be instinctive and intimate; hard to achieve if deciding whether my turn of phrase necessitates the subjunctive. For better or worse, I speak from the heart best via the medium of another colonial language.

My plans to skulk off into a corner are scuppered early on. My two prayer partners try unsuccessfully to draw me in. I respond in monosyllables; as polite as I can muster. I still participate but quietly, muttering fervent Anglophone prayers.

I feel a hand rest gently on my forearm. It’s Jeanne. Eyes closed, her prayers heartfelt. My tears fall freely again.

That week I’ll prioritise the prayer meetings. I’ll forego the last session of a workshop on Christian ethics I've attended at Temple Neuf. I’m conflicted at first but in the end, I have no regrets. The nightly meetings reflect the beauty of the Community of Faith. The sharing. The solidarity. The edification. The surrender of self to each other and ultimately, a Greater Power.

The last evening is reserved for testimonies. People recount stories of how God has healed bodies and family relations; helped them to forgive grave offences and of salvation both spiritual and physical. Each succinct account is followed by an accompanying prayer point, for those in the room- and beyond - who need similar Divine Intervention.

I leave discreetly as I have done all week. This time, earlier still. I have choir rehearsal. We’ve been asked to do a last minute performance that weekend. Our director is out of town and we’re left to our own devices. Practice was cancelled the previous week owing to low turn-out. Exhausted by Brexit-related stress at the time, I was glad for the break. However, there's been a long enough gap for me to miss it.

I’ve taken the initiative of preparing a simple song for us to learn. I put my own modest four-part spin on James Cleveland’s standard May The Lord God Bless You Real Good. I give the melodies to the contralti for a change and make the sopranos work a little bit harder. With much difficulty, I attempt a bass harmony.

I come to rehearsal well prepared. After a couple of irritable sessions fiddling with Audacity software, I’ve recorded all the harmonies for future reference. The lyrics are printed with an accompanying French translation.

The modest turnout is still better than expected. I have exactly the right number of lyric sheets. There are even a couple of male voices in the mix; not a foregone conclusion at any given practice.

A moment arrives when star soprano and stand-in director Nicole calls on volunteers. I put myself forward.

Pleasantly surprised, my fellow choristers are supportive and respond with enthusiasm. It’s a task getting everyone to put the bluesy inflection in the right place but they get the gist. They can always refer to my (slightly off-tempo) recordings.

It’s a fun-packed, laughter-filled session. I (almost) always enjoy the ambiance of the choir. Yet, because of my linguistic insecurity, I haven’t always felt at ease in my own skin. I'm finally starting to relax. I am on a high that evening. It’s not only because of the other choristers’ gamely attitude and encouragement, as grateful as I am. I am also pleased that, at last, they get to see a more playful and spontaneous aspect of my personality; less inhibited and self-aware. Less vain.

Soundtrack: Soulgliding compiled by Trueby Rainer.

And the Beat Goes On

Reason to be cheerful part infinity. 

I’ve had my moments of feeling glum. Days on end of metallic grey skies don’t help. I endeavour-not entirely successfully- to avoid going into meltdown over the current grim state of British politics. Towards the end of January, it’s a real challenge. The deadline for Brexit is at hand.  A trusted family friend makes an insensitive and over-simplistic comment along the lines that it's an unquestionable gain.

I lose great respect for him. It puts me into an oppressive funk during the whole of Exit day. It takes me to the evening and a brief meditation session for it to lift.

Whilst Brexiteers jubilate in the streets, Remainers resign to the new reality; some more philosophical than others.

Living in France with a British passport, I have the very real consideration of my as now ambiguous citizenship weighing on my mind.

I’ve applied for a short term residence permit and await the results. The Consulate is no doubt snowed under.

And the beat goes on. Despite my anxiety, mercifully I have not had the bout of consuming S.A.D I’ve been expecting. I literally can’t afford to sit around moping. There are jobs to find, blogs to update, places to go and people to see.

January has not been the slow and quiet return to business as normal that I thought it would be. A myriad of self-imposed tasks and distractions eat into the time I set aside for self-development. A musical retrospective of the 2010s on which I’ve been working for months. A worthy and stimulating interview arranged with a restaurateur chum.

Nevertheless, I persevere with my routine as much as I can.

On the 1 February, the first official day of being a non-EU citizen, I attend the 40th birthday celebrations of church friend, Celina.  It's an 8pm start, according to the slick invitations. I give myself half an hour grace, not wanting to be rattling around an empty hall waiting for other guests to show up.

I spot Celina's husband, Angelo, outside the venue on arrival. I'm assuming it's fully underway. How naive. The hall is still all but deserted. I gravitate towards Raymond, the first familiar face I see. He's in full conversation with an unknown guest. I feel self-conscious. I notice some other church acquaintances across the hall. Raymond mentions he's based at this other table. I take the hint with gratitude and switch. The DJ is spinning some choice R&B and Hip-Hop from yesteryear. I bounce along without compunction. It's a shame there's hardly anyone around to dance. The birthday girl isn't even on the scene.

She won't rock up for almost another couple of hours. She'll make a carefully choreographed entrance, flanked by her lovely teenage daughter and a few others; moving in simple yet funky Afrobeat step. By then the room will be full. This would leave enough time for the hors d'oeuvres to get cold and for me to cast a disapproving eye at all the evident skin-bleaching. Having not eaten for most of the day, I'm hungry and irritable. I feel the necessity to apologise to Raymond and others for this especially sorry perpetuation of the 'African time' stereotype.

Oh, I'm used to it. Raymond brushes off my concern.

I'm not, even now.

It's coming up to 11pm.  Another church acquaintance, Eva and I have infrequent buses to catch. We consider leaving without any grub.

After a brief speech (in which Celina admits the party was more her husband's idea), dinner is finally served. It's dished out by slack-jawed and half-attentive adolescents. To the amusement of my fellow guests,  I pack my plate. It smells better than it tastes. Whether or not this is an accurate representation of traditional Lusophone African cuisine, I can't say. I hope not. Everything is either bland or seems to be suffused with fish, even when it's not compatible. I feel like gagging part way through. I cut my losses after unsuccessfully trying to minimise the waste. Another guest helps herself to an uneaten kebab. No objection from me.

Eva and I make our exit, not before another group photo is taken.

Soundtrack: The Free Nationals + Soulgliding compiled by Trueby Rainer.