Fiction

  Allow me to say a few words about the fiction section of this magazine. These works are original "short stories", as this genre is called, by me, solely. I began writing in the late 1980's and my first effort at a short story won second place in a contest here in the US in 1989. I've evolved greatly as a writer since that time. The story below is intended to be an homage to the city of Paris, France (one of my favorite cities in the world) and its great art. Also, to the people of France, who, in my many travels there in the 1980's, I grew to love and admire. I love them, their culture, their cuisine and their language, which to me has great poetic qualities. In this story I've tried to capture that linguistic and poetic beauty: the names of streets (in Paris), cafes, parks, buildings--to me it's all pure poetry.

        In this work I'm striving for what I'd call evocation--of ambience, ecstatic feeling, rather than storyline. In the final scene, especially, of the story--a tour of the Jeu de Paume, Paris' museum of Impressionist art--I've tried to give you that feeling, of that art--that I experienced, when I there, as a young college student in the '80's.

Max

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jeu de Paume and Tuileries Gardens (circa 1915)

                            "Paris, City of Culture: December, '82"

                                                                        by

                                                      Maxwell G. Truethteller

                         [Copyright Maxwell G. Truethteller, 2025, all rights reserved]

             Jim met his fiancee', Penelope, in Paris in December of 1982, where she was studying for her Junior Year Abroad. She was staying in an apartment on the Left Bank under the aegis of an elderly French "madame" who was sort of her sponsor during the year. The apartment was old and in an old building with a concierge at the bottom and one of those old-fashioned elevators which resembled a metal cage. The elevator was slow and shaky and the apartment was on the fourth floor and had a large armoire in it with a door mirror and the armoire and other furnishings gave the impression of oldness. Jim was lucky in that he would be able to stay with her for the duration of the Christmas holidays. 

                     Jim loved being in Paris and brimmed with excitement the first morning he was there. He couldn't wait to get out into the streets and walk around and stop into a boulangerie or patisserie to sample some of the delicious baked goods. To him Paris was a mecca and a wonderland and he couldn't wait to tour the Jeu de Paume and the Left Bank and the Tuileries and the Louvre and to sit in the cafes and dine in the restaurants. He was as excited as he could be.

                     "What should we do today, sweet-nothings?" Penelope asked.

                     "Let's just walk around for a while til we decide what to do," Jim said as they reached the ground floor in the elevator and burst through the front door of the building into a chilly but sunshiny day.

                     The first place they stopped was a boulangerie in the neighborhood for some breakfast croissants. They could smell the wonderful aroma from the shop a half block away.

                      "Un croissant et deux pains au chocolat pour moi," said Penelope. "I love these 'pain au chocolat'," she said to Jim. "They're a pastry or a bread with a chocolate filling and they're not too sweet. They make a good breakfast."

                      "Pour moi aussi," said Jim to the baker, "mais deux croissants, un pain au chocolat et une demi-baguette." He was a hungry fellow and he had to try some of the freshly baked bread with butter and jam.

                      "So, how is life in France, sweet-caresses?" Jim asked as they sat down.

                      "Oh, well, it's O.K.," she said, tilting her head and pursing her lips which usually meant frustration. "The French can be pretty difficult at times. I've made great progress with the language but still sometimes it can be a bother. They don't have much patience with improprieties of the language. Especially Madame. They look at you as if you're crazy if you don't understand."

                      "Try not to worry about it too much. The French, I think, are just trying to protect their social and cultural boundaries. They're constantly besieged by foreigners, visitors, who often don't respect their ways. They're on the defensive, I think, against fools who don't respect their language and culture. Show them that you're not one of those types, and then I think they'll stop giving you a hard time," Jim said.

                      "Sweet-nothings, you're so perceptive--it's great!" Penelope said with school-girlish enthusiasm.

                      "Glad to be of service, Mademoiselle," Jim said with mock heroics.

                      "Where shall we go next?" she asked.

                      "You recommend a place," Jim said.

                      They walked on after finishing a good breakfast through the neighborhood of the Latin Quarter and eventually went down into the Metro and took a ride across the Seine.

                       "I want to see Notre Dame and the Ile de la Cite' this time as well as the English language bookstore," Jim said as they stood in the metro-car holding the straps. "As well as some of the good museums."

                       "We should go to the Georges Pompidou Center," Penelope said. "I think that would be fun."

                       They studied the metro charts on the wall of the car and plotted their itinerary. On the way out they dropped some change into the instrument case of a guy who was playing classical music.

                       "I always wished I could play music like that," Jim said. "To make such a beautiful sound as that."

                       "You can, sweet-nothings!" Penelope gushed with her usual girlish enthusiasm.

                       "I say beauty is in the ear of the beholder," said Jim. "But even to get a taste of such an extraordinary art is worth it, in my opinion, even if you aren't especially talented." Jim had studied classical music in high school and had dreamed of being a concert violinist. Eventually he realized he didn't have that kind of ability, but it was something he had liked to do, for a while, and others, apparently, had appreciated it as well.

                       They exited at Place Vendome and walked around, for an hour or so, some of the pedestrian areas in the Right Bank's historic center where there were cafes with many white tables out into those areas with cafe umbrellas over them and many tourists milling around or sitting at the tables.

                       "I love the center of Paris," Penelope said. "There's such a sense of excitement as if something wonderful is going to happen or is waiting to be discovered."

                       "It's because intuitively you recognize that this is one of the centers of culture, one of the pinnacles of civilization. Do you realize how many great events and famous personages of the last thousand years are associated with this place? It's the feeling, I think, of being close to greatness and close to history. That's why it's exciting."

                       They continued on, next, toward the Palais du Louvre and the Jardin des Tuileries, down the Avenue de L'Opera and across the Rue de Rivoli. Taxis circulated along the Rue dropping off and picking up passengers, darting in and out of the traffic like bees among the clover, with yellow backs and white stripes. This part of Rue de Rivoli, which ran along the Tuileries Gardens, was one of the most exclusive places in Paris, lined with expensive, large hotels and fashionable shops. On the other side of the street was the Louvre Pallace, then the Tuileries park--well manicured lawns and geometric walks. The trees along the streets were bare at this time of year and in the evenings cold winds blew down the wide boulevards. The buildings, streets, sidewalks, were highly uniform throughout Paris. Some streets were black cobblestone, others paved, asphalt. But everything was aesthetically harmonious. No modern structures were allowed in Paris' historic center (except for the skyscraper, the Montparnasse Tower, disliked by many, out of place, but for some reason the city planners allowed it anyway). Mostly traditional brownstone buildings, all about the same height, seven or eight stories. Streets were lined by plane trees or horse chestnuts, light poles, benches and such were all uniform and aesthetic, as were the Metro entrances--the same attractive painted metal railings and "M" marquee, which indicated a Metro stop with descending steps. The planners made sure that just about everything contributed to making the city beautiful and exhilirating--a work of art itself.

                       Penelope and Jim walked down Rivoli to the entrance to Tuileries park, went through the gate, walked around for a while til they found a good bench, then sat down. There were plenty of people in the park, sitting on the benches, talking, playing games like "hackeysack" or frisbee, floating small toy boats on the water of the fountains, lying on the grass.

                       That night they went to dinner with some of their friends at a family style restaurant on the Left Bank that was popular with students and the local people.The restaurant was crowded and lively and there was a menu written on a black chalkboard in the center of the one large room and the elderly proprietress darted about with an air of purposeful authority. They sat down at a table against a wall, a bench running along that wall. Accompanying Penelope and Jim were Penelope's two roommates, Elaine and Monica, both scions of well-to-do Northeastern society, and Elaine's fellow, Peter, a student at Princeton University, majoring in Art History.

                       The restaurant was in a very good location, in the oldest part of the city. Jim had eaten there before, on his 1981 Europe trip. He decided it was the perfect place for students, inexpensive, authentic, so he had wanted to go again, and had recommended it to Penelope. The group sat at the table a few minutes, thrilled by the cozy, non-touristy atmosphere of the place. Elaine and Monica were nice looking girls, black haired, fair. Jim liked them quite a bit. They were kind of cute, he thought--just nice, regular gals.

                       Soon a waiter came up, took everyone's order. Jim got something that would turn out to be baked chicken with brown sauce with potatoes and vegetables. They ordered wine, also.

                       "So, how long have you been in Paris?" Peter asked Jim.

                       "Got here yesterday," Jim said. "My fiancee' tells me you're from Princeton." Peter nodded. "That must be a really great place to be," Jim said. "I envy you that."

                       "Yes," Peter said, "it really is great, and I'm really glad to go there. Every day, I appreciate it--I might not have made it, there are so many other good students there, so, I feel fortunate."

                       "I wanted to go to a good college like that, but my high school career wasn't all that great. I ruined it by pursuing the foolish dream of being a professional violinist. By senior year, I realized that that was a lost cause, I just didn't have the ability, but then..." Jim threw up his hands. "If I'd put all that effort into academics, I might have been able to go to a great college," he said.

                       "Set your sites on grad school," Peter said. "You probably could make it."

                       "Amazingly, shortly after high school I discovered I could write," Jim said, "prose, fiction, so, that's my ambition now.

                       So, you're majoring in art history?"

                       "Yes," Peter said.

                       "That's a good major, I think," Jim said, "a good education. I'd like to take a few art history courses, at some point. What kind, what periods, are you focusing on?"

                       "I guess I could say, European, Renaissance to Romantic. But I like Impressionist and modern also."

                       "I like those too," Jim said. "The great Romantic paintings, for instance, like Gericault's Raft of the Medusa--that has to be one of the greatest paintings ever. Probably you know that it's here, in Paris, and it's huge, about 16 feet by 23 feet. The Romantics were achieving just about the ultimate in painting."

                       "There's a definite progression from medieval, which looks almost primitive, to 19th century--each generation of artists is better than the last one."

                        After another thirty minutes, during which the group ate a few hors d'oeuvres and started drinking the wine, the waiter arrived with their entrees, putting each steaming plate down.

                        "Looks super," Elaine said. "Yum."

                         A busman put water glasses down on the table. There were baskets of bread, butter, and everybody was drinking up the bottles of wine fast.

                        "Did everybody get something they liked?" asked Monica. There were plenty of nods around the table.

                        "Difficult to go wrong with French cuisine," Peter said between mouthfuls of some sort of pasta in a white sauce.

                        "Delicious," Jim said, chowing down unashamedly. "I've been looking forward to this for a while." He handled fork in left hand and knife in right, at the same time, with skill and speed. "Hand me that bread basket, would you?" he said to those at his left. "And the butter. I love butter..." he said. Somebody handed that also.

                        "What did you get?" Elaine said to Penelope.

                        "Coq au vin," Penelope said. "That is..."

                        "It's a pastry shell with shrimp and crab stuffing. Excellent...but rich!"

                        They all ate heartily for a while, awed by the quality of the cuisine. Then, gradually, one by one, they began to lean back, take their time, look around the restaurant and exchange small talk.

                         "What are you all going to be doing tomorrow, or over the next few days, you and Jim?" Elaine said to Penelope.

                         "Well, we plan to go to the Louvre some time soon, and  the Jeu de Paume," Penelope said.

                         "Oh, I love going there," Monica said, overhearing, "the Jeu de Paume."

                         "It's the Impressionist museum, of the world," Elaine said.

                         "Hey, you all," Jim said, hearing the discussion, "why don't you, Elaine, Monica, everybody, who'd like to go, join us at the Jeu de Paume, when we go. I think that would be fun."

                         "Yea, O.K.," said Elaine. "I think that would  be fun."

                         "When could we go?" asked Monica.

                         "Well..." Penelope thought for a moment. "Tomorrow, maybe. Can everybody make it tomorrow?"

                         The others looked around, thought for a moment.

                         "I could go," said Peter.

                         "It looks like that's good for everybody," Elaine said. "What time?"

                         "Let's get an early start," Penelope said. "Maybe 10:00 AM."

                         "Sounds great," Jim said. "Let's plan on it.”

                    The next day they arrived at the museum.

                    Each year thousands of visitors thronged this important gallery, anxious to see Monet, Renoir, Seurat and other greats. The popularity of the Impressionists belied their original effect. In the beginning they were seen as outcasts, grotesque mavericks who were violating traditional standards and offending popular taste. They were a threat to classical painting, it was thought. But they responded to the needs of the modern world like an antidote to the sick, and achieved a passionate intensity that still affects millions. They spoke to the human heart in a civilization that had forgotten it and an artistic tradition that had foundered on the shoals of academic formalism. The Impressionists created an art of intense emotion and feeling irrespective of so-called "reason" and "philosophy". Through seemingly careless dabs of color and texture they captured the joys of life, the elemental feelings of being alive, of what it is to be a man, a woman, a child, to be in love, to enjoy a picnic on a summer's day. The theorists of stale academia were confounded.

                    Peter, Jim and the others looked around, just having paid their admission and walked through the ingresses and the bookshop. 

                    "Where's Elaine?!" Jim said. "Oh, there she is..."

                    "Look everyone!" Elaine said, walking up. She had bought a guidebook to the museum.

                    "Beautiful," Jim said, thumbing through it. "I'm going to get one, too."

                    In a few minutes Jim was back with his own copy of the official 1983 Jeu de Paume guidebook.

                     "What should we do, should we all just go our separate ways?" asked Monica.

                     "I guess that would be O.K.," Jim said. "No sense in following a prescribed program. Then after a while we could meet up for lunch, take a break."

                     "Why don't we all meet at the entrance at about 1:00 o'clock," said Penelope.

                     Finally the tour got underway and each followed their own taste. The first room was the Degas Room. Some of the most sumptuous paintings ever seen. Footlights reflecting off the dresses and satin slippers of dancers at the City Ballet. Racehorses lolling at the city racetrack, their and their riders' shadows cast on the dirt of the track by an afternoon sun--the colors of the jockeys' uniforms low-key earth tones, in contrast to the shimmering pinks and whites of the costumes of the ballet dancers. Jim was especially amazed by the depiction of the underlighting on the dancers, on their faces, the effect of the footlights. Degas apparently studied these effects of light, the light of the stage, on actors or dancers. That and the graceful poses of the girls, elevated to mythological nymphs or sylphs by their shimmering costumes, made for extraordinary art.

[continued on post "2." of Fiction section]

Monet, Waterlily Pond, Harmony in Pink

Monet, Waterlily Pond, Harmony in Green