{"id":94,"date":"2010-01-01T22:01:00","date_gmt":"2010-01-01T22:01:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/keaffaber.blog\/index.php\/2010\/01\/01\/chapter-1-rue-ravignon-bernie-and-the-elevator\/"},"modified":"2010-01-01T22:01:00","modified_gmt":"2010-01-01T22:01:00","slug":"chapter-1-rue-ravignon-bernie-and-the-elevator","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/keaffaber.blog\/index.php\/2010\/01\/01\/chapter-1-rue-ravignon-bernie-and-the-elevator\/","title":{"rendered":"CHAPTER 1: Rue Ravignon\/Bernie and the Elevator"},"content":{"rendered":"

The elevator in our ancient building is one of those old-fashioned clunky types, with a folding gate. Our building on Rue Ravignon went up in the late 1800s and I wonder if the elevator is that old too. The owners have few rules for the residents, but the ones they do have are absolutes. And the most important seems to be about the elevator. We’re allowed to take it up but not down. No exceptions allowed. There’s a sign on every floor.<\/p>\n

The old woman who is hard of hearing — the one who rented us the place — is cordial, but her older sister, BiBi, is most intimidating. She’s probably in her 70s, has her hair dyed a harsh black and pulls it into a severe bun at the back of her head. She wears a slash of red lipstick and only black or gray clothes. Her everyday ensemble is a jet-black straight skirt that hits about mid-calf and a matching black blouse with a tight, high collar that has a cameo brooch in the center and long sleeves that are fastened with heavy gold lion’s head cuff links. She doesn’t smile. Ever. Coming from the US, where we are a constantly smiling culture, it’s unsettling.<\/p>\n

BiBi lurks just inside her door on the first floor listening and peeks around corners, always trying to catch someone violating an absolute — especially the one of not taking the elevator down. Bernie and I try to sneak down in the elevator just once. It was all my fault, really, not Bernie’s at all. Normally, I automatically take the stairs, but this time Bernie needs to go out in a hurry and the elevator just happens to be stopped on our floor. So I jump in and of course Bernie follows. A serious mistake. When I pull the gate open on the ground floor, she is standing there, hands in fists on her hips, stomping her little feet in her little black shoes, pointing at me and screaming, “Non! Non! Non!<\/em>” She is in a fureur<\/em>. Mon Dieu<\/em>.<\/span>
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

I am afraid she will scare Bernie and he will have an accident right there in the lobby. Instead, he growls at her, but she is making so much noise herself that she doesn’t hear him. Her face is blotchy red, and the veins are standing out on both sides of her neck. Her nose is a little long anyway, the the louder she gets, the more pointy her nose becomes. After a couple of minutes, I mutter, “Pardon<\/em>,” and Bernie and I gather as much dignity as we can, and walk across the lobby and out the front door.<\/span><\/div>\n
<\/span><\/div>\n
Pierre — the old man who lives on my floor (the late night opera singer) — stops by early this evening and invites Bernie and me to his place for a cafe and homemade raspberry tarts, which he serves on a tarnished silver oval tray. Bernie plops down at our feet on the wool Oriental carpet and Pierre graciously offers him an entire tart of his own. Bernie smacks his lips with enjoyment and begs for another. He likes Pierre, which surprises me. He usually is aloof with men he doesn’t know. Pierre slides another half tart into Bernie’s mouth, then in small, very gentlemanly bites, eats the remaining half himself.<\/span><\/div>\n

<\/span>
\nIt turns out Pierre has lived here for decades. He was a professional singer, but not opera. He sang with the burlesque shows just down the hill at Le Moulin Rouge in Pigalle.<\/p>\n

His apartment is hushed and layered — faded reddish velvet draperies frame the small paned windows. It is the kind of home that has evolved over many years. A shimmery film of dust covers the dark wood tables. Floor to ceiling bookshelves are filled to overflowing, with more books and old newspapers and magazines stacked on the floor. He invites me to sit on a sagging ornate sofa, piled with plump fringed pillows, as he settles himself in one of the carved wooden chairs. Three fat ivory candles are nestled on a blue and white ceramic plate on the coffee table, and the sound of Edith Piaf creates a haunting backdrop to the room. Somewhere in the dark kitchen, a faucet drips. Drip. Drip. Drip.<\/p>\n

To my surprise, Pierre’s English is fluent, even to the point of getting and telling jokes — the ultimate test of command of language, don’t you think? Although I doubt he is formally educated, his grammar is impeccable. That often seems to be the case with entertainers and actors in particular. I wonder if it has something to do with their art, with always speaking someone else’s lines.<\/p>\n

When I mention in casual conversation that one of my passions is dance, and that at one time I was a serious ballet student, he tells me the story of La Goulue<\/em>, the Moulin Rouge dancer made famous by the portraits by Toulouse Lautrec. Her real name was Louise Weber. When she was young, she fell madly in love with Renoir. He lured her into a group called la louee<\/em>, models who posed nude for many of the Montmartre artists. When the Moulin Rouge opened, she was hired to dance the very first version of the can-can, called the chahut<\/em>. She was the Moulin Rouge sensation. She was outrageous and shameless and mesmerizing. Her fame, however, could not last. It never does, Pierre reminds me, with a smile.<\/p>\n

She lost her looks, her wealth, succumbed to heavy drink, and was a toothless, homeless alcoholic by the age of 55, who sold matches and cigarettes on a street corner near the Moulin Rouge. It was the location of her greatest glory and her greatest shame. No one recognized her, of course. She died in 1929 at age 59, and is buried in the Montmartre Cemetery. “Go look for her someday,” he encourages me. “Go visit poor La Gouloue.<\/em> She’s there.”<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

<\/p>\n

 <\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The elevator in our ancient building is one of those old-fashioned clunky types, with a folding gate. Our building on Rue Ravignon went up in the late 1800s and I wonder if the elevator is that old too. The owners have few rules for the residents, but the ones they do have are absolutes. And […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_uag_custom_page_level_css":"","site-sidebar-layout":"default","site-content-layout":"","ast-site-content-layout":"default","site-content-style":"default","site-sidebar-style":"default","ast-global-header-display":"","ast-banner-title-visibility":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","ast-disable-related-posts":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","astra-migrate-meta-layouts":"default","ast-page-background-enabled":"default","ast-page-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"ast-content-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-94","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-blog"],"uagb_featured_image_src":{"full":false,"thumbnail":false,"medium":false,"medium_large":false,"large":false,"1536x1536":false,"2048x2048":false},"uagb_author_info":{"display_name":"Janice Keaffaber","author_link":"https:\/\/keaffaber.blog\/index.php\/author\/jan\/"},"uagb_comment_info":0,"uagb_excerpt":"The elevator in our ancient building is one of those old-fashioned clunky types, with a folding gate. Our building on Rue Ravignon went up in the late 1800s and I wonder if the elevator is that old too. The owners have few rules for the residents, but the ones they do have are absolutes. And…","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/keaffaber.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/94","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/keaffaber.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/keaffaber.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/keaffaber.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/keaffaber.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=94"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/keaffaber.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/94\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/keaffaber.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=94"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/keaffaber.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=94"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/keaffaber.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=94"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}