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.

Sweet Misery

Melancholy can take several forms. Mine is currently incarnated in a multilingual, six foot three-ish, jewel-eyed quinquagenarian colleague of Germanic/French Caribbean heritage. The Nordic genes won out. There's not a trace of kink in his luxurious chestnut-brown locks. The only concession to his mulatto origins is a year round deep-olive complexion and notably sculpted cheekbones. Sigh. With the combined power of our sharp bone structures, imagine the babies…

We converse about everything from pop culture, politics and gender relations to our own personal experiences with cultural displacement. It gets deep, personal and candid. His softly-spoken bass can be hard to hear but is unintentionally sensual. He's funniest when pissed off. His wry humour manifests, sapphire eyes enlivened with indignation. The volume doesn't increase but his whole face is engaged in narrating the source of his irritation. I miss him terribly between rendezvous’. My mind races with the ideas I look forward to sharing with him, crafting them in my head with grammatical care.

Of course he’s fallible, like the rest of us. He tends to generalise about the sexes. He’s slow in acknowledging the depth of his own suppressed anguish. He drives a luxury car and I don’t believe he’s as committed to socialist policies as I am. On the other hand, he is a stable and calming presence. When I struggle to fully express myself in his language, he waits patiently; in silent encouragement. He’s a dedicated employee, conscientious father, a dutiful and devoted son, nephew and [fill the blank]. A beautiful man.

Our fairly consistent encounters are chaste. (My thoughts, well…not so much). We haven’t even shaken hands, let alone exchanged the customary French bises. 

He represents so much of what I’d desire in a significant other. And yet…

We’ll forever be kept apart by the unholy combination of vastly different life experiences (i.e. romantic), a generation gap (fancy me, an ageist Xennial falling for a late baby-boomer) and divergent values on matters of faith.  Whilst some factors could evolve with time, others are unyielding. History would have to be re-written for our stars to properly align. I doubt that I’ve met someone who so closely fits my ideal but is simultaneously so incompatible. Oh, the bitter ironies of life.

Although never articulated, tacitly we’ve both come to accept any latent mutual attraction will remain unconsummated. Think Lost in Translation or more apt still, Annie Edison and Jeff Winger-right down to the age and height differences.

I’ve grasped it intellectually but my emotions are playing catch-up. There are moments when I’ve overshared. Subconsciously, I want something from him that he cannot give. My face clouds over with possessiveness each time I witness his cheerful disposition towards a particular female colleague. My innards tighten with jealousy when, on occasion, he refers to former lovers or even the acrimonious relationship with his ex-wife. Although their liaisons might be a thing of the distant past, these women have known and held him in a way that I never will.

Being a man of experience, he has moved on far quicker than I. Our email exchanges were once playful and regular. Now, reality has kicked in and the demands of his hectic schedule have taken over. Where he used to lose track of time in my company, now he's more conscious of the clock. His eagerness and frequent dimpled smiles (in spite of his default solemnity) have mellowed into ad hoc responses and occasional chuckles. It makes me unnecessarily anxious. When he does reply to my emails, it gladens me more than it should.

I crave nonetheless our weekly fix of ‘informal’ French lessons. I am crestfallen if, as often happens, we have to reschedule. All dressed up and nowhere to go.

In the end, our connection might prove as ephemeral as a sandcastle. Nothing to show it was there when the tide comes in. The situation makes me feel lonelier than I otherwise would. If I had the courage, for the sake of sanity I’d make a brutal but clean break to totally recover my equilibrium.

He has thus come to embody every disappointment, unfulfilled longing or closed door. The heartache that has accompanied me for these past months is further compounded by a pre-birthday panic, as I approach my late 30s.

I have enough self-awareness to realise my misery is disproportionate. I need to maintain perspective. I am only broken-hearted, after all. I am not entitled to anything. There are circumstances far sadder in this world than a futile infatuation. Friendship is a higher and purer state of interaction anyway. And yet…

Life goes on. Dignity dictates that I don't build my world around a man. Besides, I can’t dwell in the doldrums as spring gives way to summer, and the day doesn’t surrender its light until long after 10pm. Aestival Strasbourg is bright, humid and given to spectacular thunderstorms at night.

I channel my chagrin into creativity. Nothing gets those juices flowing like a bit of pain. I am writing more often. I have turned to musical therapy, singing my blues away at night. That’s not quite as glamorous as it might sound. I’ve simply revived an adolescent obsession of recording myself singing harmonies; one of life’s greatest joys. The multiple cassette-stereos have been replaced by Audacity free-software. It’s an incredibly effective catharsis.

I seek refuge in my faith. I am joining more activities at church and endeavouring to look beyond myself. I push deeper; directing my hurt and disappointments towards heaven in tears of anger and frustration. I try to remember Christ is the source of -and ultimate response to -the yearnings of the soul that no one mortal or relationship can satisfy. Needing to understand what that means in real terms during this life season, I knock persistently- sometimes violently-on heaven’s door.

I pursue my political activism as much as I can remotely, being vice-chair of my regional branch of Labour International.

I continue to hit the town with fervour. Summer in Strasbourg is ablaze with free activities. I invite Muriel and my new work acquaintance Camila to a theatrical piece inspired by the uprisings of May 1968. Despite it being the 50^th anniversary of this seismic socio-historic event, it will be the first commemorative show I have attended. Alas, Muriel will drop out to support a friend’s product launch.

It’s my second foray into French theatre since relocating to Alsace. Paradis Maintenant is a mise-en-abime conversation piece about the titular controversial play, devised by The Living Theatre Company. The production opens with roughly 10-minutes of silence. A series of provocative questions posed by Julian Beck, one of the founding members of The LTC, are projected onto a screen.

When they do make an appearance, the student actors’ portrayals are assured. They articulate well enough for me to follow the dialogue without enormous effort. I gather that, amongst other issues, they’re engaging in a philosophical discussion about the efficacy of work destined to be censored. Whilst some characters believe it defeats the purpose, others maintain it is success in itself to attract the ire of the authorities.

My enjoyment is hampered slightly by the presence of Camila’s boyfriend, Pierrot. He’s a last minute addition. I am frank about my discomfort with the idea when she informs me the day before. I’d prefer by far to attend an event on my jack jones than be the third wheel. Some couples are self-involved. I don’t know in which reality it will be fun for a single friend to tag along, especially when there’s only one common denominator.

Camila is gracious about my reservations but Pierrot can’t exactly be uninvited. I groan inwardly as, on approaching our agreed meeting point, I spy them canoodling.

Pierrot does have his uses. He is knowledgeable about that period of history and fills in some contextual blanks.

The following weekend I attend an all day Sunday music-fest with Muriel (thankfully, sans copain this time) and Japanese sweet-pea Kokoro. I am dressed up from Sunday morning spent at church. I coat myself in gold shimmer and put on a dash of vibrant red lipstick. I call this dating myself.

The festival is organised by an institution for mature amateurs who want to hone their musical skills. The event is hosted in an establishment very similar to an English gastro-pub.

The main show doesn’t live up to the enticing programme. The first act, a Jazz covers band, is a mixed-bag. Some of the instrumentation is tight but the lead singer is visibly nervous. Bless. Her movements are stiff, her volume low and pronouncing the English lyrics is an obvious challenge. The other acts, although more accomplished, are too arcane for my tastes. The performances that would interest me most are billed towards the end of the evening. I have a workman coming round the next morning to fix my bathroom blind. Plus transport in Strasbourg on a Sunday is too rare a phenomenon to chance it. I’ll have to miss out on the Latin Jazz band this occasion. I leave underwhelmed but not regretful.

At least it gets me out of the house.

Soundtrack of the Week: Lost & Found by Jorja Smith.

Cultural Excursions

There haven’t been many things I’ve missed about the UK since moving to Strasbourg. Loved ones. The NHS. British Aldi and Lidl. I can add the London theatre scene to that list. 

I’ve not availed myself of the French theatre tradition either. That is until now. The Bienvenue á Strasbourg association have finally organised an event I can attend. It’s a production of the satirical two-hander ‘Ciel, Mon Mari est muté en Alsace !’ or (Heavens, My Husband has been Transferred to Alsace!’), staged at the Munsterhof, a stone’s throw from the Cathedral. It’s told from the perspective of a sophisticated Parisian wife highly reluctant to head East, based on the many stereotypes about the hybrid Franco-German culture, odd social mores and bad weather (Please. I grew up in Britain).

The audience is filled with a fair amount of Alsatians, making sure the region isn’t done a disservice. One native spends the night apoplectic with mirth. Her male companion teasingly nudges her after one of several fits of hysteria. I don’t understand all the jokes nor, frustratingly, a lot of the dialogue during the poignant Second World War historical overview. I do learn that the Marx Bros and Django Reinhardt all have Alsatian roots. In the end, it’s not a bad first encounter with French theatre. The male actor’s absurdist turns are sufficiently entertaining and any language practice is useful.

The play finishes earlier than expected. Great. It’s a school night anyway. As I’m heading towards the exit, I’m lured into an adjacent room by the smell of grub. I vaguely recall mention of an after-show reception. Ah. Vol-au-vents. How I’ve missed thee. This is doing my post-Lent austere intentions no good. I capitulate somewhat, squirrelling away snacks with the intention of freezing them and indulging on a ‘treat day’.

(courtesy of L'Alsace)

Looking around, I suddenly feel maudlin. There are contexts in the UK in which I’d be confident speaking to strangers. In Strasbourg, I’m too self-conscious about my imperfect French. I leave the venue, self-chastising and feeling guilty about my hors-d’oeuvres haul. I seize an opportunity to divest myself of them when I spot a couple sleeping rough.

Walking from the venue to my bus stop, the fresh Spring evening air lifts my mood before I know it. Strasbourg beguiles me with its beauty despite myself; even at night.

That weekend I’m back at the Munsterhof to attend the award ceremony for the annual Anglophone short story competition for Strasbourg residents. The invitation arrives in my nom-de-plume inbox, contained in the same email informing me that my entry was not successful. Not surprisingly, I don’t have much interest at first in attending the ceremony. If my story wasn’t good enough for your poxy competition, leave me be. Besides. I don’t want to be reminded of my own inadequacy when hearing the shortlisted entries. Half are written by authors for which English is not their first language. Oh yes and there’s a junior under-18 category too, to twist the knife into my mediocrity.

Then again, it’s an excuse to dress up, go out and meet those with a common interest. I might also learn a thing or two from the winning entries.

Considering the prize is now in its 10^th year, it’s a curiously informal affair; almost chaotic. I’m over-dressed -as always- judging by most of the casual apparel (where is the sense of occasion?). I sit next to a woman whose handbag is wide-open. Upwards of 100 euros cash is visible through a transparent wallet. I wonder what sort of economic security can make a person so lax with their belongings. There’s a fair share of guests milling around. A few walk out mid-ceremony.

The main event is not the soul-destroying experience I have feared. Yes, the all female finalists from the under-18 categories are depressingly accomplished. (It does make me wonder how ‘non-native’ English has been defined. This year’s Junior Laureate, Ferre Wuchner, is young and proficient enough to be classified as a first language speaker. My question is never answered). However, most of the ‘native’ level shortlist are reassuringly hoary-haired. There’s time yet for me to hone the craft.

I’m also heartened by the encouragement and advice from co-host and one of the three competition judges, Michael Wright. A successful journalist and author in his own right, he admits to never having won a writing contest. Also comforting are his empathetic observations about artistic insecurities and how the inner critic’s voice only becomes louder with age. The solution he says, is simply to persevere. The man is All Wright. Even if he has written for the Daily Telegraph. To my shame, this latent prejudice precludes me from thanking him in person after the ceremony. Once again, I’m not feeling up to the required post-show socialising. I’m knackered from the night before, having returned in the early hours of the morning. (Nothing untoward, of course).

I head straight to my bus stop, strolling through the bustling sun-drenched streets. My heart skips to see more evidence of blossoms in full bloom. Despite being flanked by a seasonal melancholy these past couple of weeks, I can’t begrudge the advent of Spring and all it promises.

The following day I’ve arranged to attend a photography exhibition at La Chambre with recently-made acquaintance Muriel. It showcases the work of Stephen Shames, focusing on his documentation of the Black Panther movement during the 1960s and 70s. I originally invite my unofficial French tutor Bernard but he flakes without warning.

A few minutes before we meet, Muriel sends me a text asking if I mind if the boyfriend tags along. Damn it. I don’t like the idea of being the third-wheel in this couple-based trinome but I can hardly say no at the last minute. I will myself to be gracious.

La Chambre is smaller than I anticipate. Cosy. We are shown around by an enthusiastic and attractive young brunette who speaks a mile a minute. Miraculously, I can follow most of it. Muriel and I look on in envy at the full Afros, carried regally by African-Americans with amazing bone structures. 

The exhibition isn’t limited to Shames’ work with the Black Panthers, coming right up to date with the Black Lives Matter movement. The photographer has spent several decades documenting the inhabitants of deprived areas in his native New York; mostly in monochrome. 

Muriel and I marvel at how Shames earned the trust of his subjects. Some portraits are incredibly intimate. Naked adolescents scrub down in the communal showers of an adult prison. A shirtless Huey Newton stands in the middle of his living room, following his release from prison. He’s holding a Bob Dylan LP, sporting a rakish (maybe even triumphant) grin. A young man clutches his girlfriend in what looks like perturbed sleep. A smirking biker yanks down his lover’s top, exposing her bare breast. She also smiles, complicit in her degradation. There’s an image from the early 90s of the open-casket funeral of a 12-year old slain by bullets, his family understandably ravaged by grief.

(c) Stephen Shames

Afterwards all three of us head to Place d’Austerlitz for a natter. Muriel and boyfriend Gustav have plans to catch a film later. We chat about Strasbourg vs. London life, my work at the Organisation, pop culture, Gustav’s Slavic/Germanic roots and Afro hair maintenance. Gustav is bemusedly fascinated by the mysteries of the latter. He makes one or two comments that verge on the casually racist. Or perhaps I'm just being sensitive.

He and Muriel bicker affectionately like an elderly couple but I don’t feel excluded. Once in a while these things turn out better than expected.

This week's soundtrack:

'Black on Blonde' + 'The Anchorman Mixtape' by K-Os