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I don't go on a bus in Paris without still expecting my balloon to be barred and the authority figure who oversees it is still a cardboard policeman in a cape. I see the moon these days from Paris because I once saw Paris from the moon. Cyril Gonnolly once achieved an unearned poetic effect by reciting the names in wartime of hotels on the Left Bank. I can some-times achieve a similar one, even more unearned, though not less felt, by reciting to myself the names of restaurants where we ate lunch while Luke slept or, occasionally, where we wished we 18 could sleep, while Luke ate : Le Souffle, Le Basilic, Chez Andre, Le Petit St.
Benoit, Laduree. I believe in Le Souffle, on a Satur-day afternoon in December, in the back room, with Luke sleep-ing in his poussette, and the old couple across the neighboring banquette, who had been coming for forty years, there with their small blind dog.
The waiters in white coats, the owner in a blue sports jacket, and the smell aroma is too fancy a word of min-gled cigarettes and orange liqueurs. I am aware that this is what is called sentimental, but then we went to Paris for a sentimen-tal reeducation-I did anyway-even though the sentiments we were instructed in were not the ones we were expecting to learn, which I believe is why they call it an education.
This book is theirs, and I ask them only to share a place at the dedication table with Henry Finder, my first and most patient reader, who had to take what it tasted like on trust. Private Domain A bomb went off under my bed the other morning. It was early on a gray Tuesday when I heard a flock of ambulances some-where near my Left Bank street, making that forlorn, politely in-sistent two-note bleating all Paris ambulances make.
I went downstairs and outside and found-nothing. The street sweeper with the green plastic broom was sweeping; the young woman who keeps the striped-pajama boutique across the street was reading her Paul Auster novel. Only in the early afternoon, when Le Monde came out, did I realize that the Islamic terrorists who are now working in Paris had left a bomb in an underground train and that, give or take a few hundred yards, it had gone off beneath the second-floor refuge on the Left Bank that my wife and I had found this sum-mer, after a long search.
The ambulances were heading for the Gare d'Orsay, where the wounded were being taken. The bombings here, though sometimes murderous in their effects, haven't caused any panic or even much terror.
Though Parisians believe they are superior by birth, they do not believe, as Ameri-cans do, that they are invulnerable by right. But even if our apartment building had been officially declared the epicenter of the bombing campaign, I don't think I'd move. Terrorism is part of life, while a nice apartment in Paris is a miracle.
For the new French prime minister, Alain Juppe, the bombing campaign has come as a vast, if unadmitted, relief, since he fi-nally has a subject to talk about in public other than I'affaire des logements, which has dominated the news here for four months and once seemed likely to sink his government.
For most of those months, in fact, Juppe has probably been the only person more preoccupied with apartments on the Left Bank than I was, though he and I approached the matter from opposite ends. I; was trying to find one, while he was trying to explain to the French people why he had so many and what all his relatives were doing living in them.
Juppe has been prime minister for just under six months. He is a long-fingered, elegant man of fifty, with the kind of enviable, aerodynamic baldness that in America only tycoons seem able to carry off-the Barry Diller, Larry Tisch style of baldness. Juppe comes from a simple family down in the Landes country. He did well in school and was eventually admitted to the Ecole Nationale d'Administration, in Paris, the tiny institution that pro-duces nearly the entire French political elite.
He came to the attention of an older fellow enarque, Jacques Chirac, and when Chirac was mayor of Paris, in the s, Juppe became his "fi-nancial adjoint"-more or less the city comptroller.
Then, when the conservative parties won the legislative elections two years ago, Chirac, though he had prudently decided not to seek the of- 21 fice of prime minister, arranged for Juppe to be named the min-ister of foreign affairs, in which position, Bosnia aside, he was thought to have done well.
So when Chirac was elected presi-dent this May, it seemed inevitable that he would make Juppe his prime minister.
Like all ambitious French politicians, Juppe chooses to present himself as a literary man. La Tentation was regarded as a fighting campaign manifesto, since it is as necessary for an ambitious French politician to write a book explaining why he never likes to think of politics as it is for an ambitious American politician to write a book explaining why he never thinks of anything else.
Juppe, ahead of the pack, had written a book asserting not only that he would rather be doing something else but that he would like to be doing it in a completely different country. The romance of retirement is still extremely powerful in France, descending, as it does, from Montaigne, who remains the model here of pen-sive, high-minded reclusion, even though he spent an important chunk of his life as the boss of a tough town.
In Juppe's case, the descent from Montaigne, who supplies the epigraph for La Ten-tation, is easy to show: Juppe is the mayor of Bordeaux, as Mon-taigne was. French politicians often hold more than one office at once, just in case.
Among French politicians, in fact, ostenta-tious displays of detachment are something of a competitive sport. After being succeeded as president by Chirac, Francois Mitterrand gave an interview to Christine Ockrent, the editor of L'Express, simply to announce that he was now taking long walks in Paris and looking at the sky. It was understood as his way of keeping his hand in.
Not long ago the former prime minister Edouard Balladur, who had been so busy looking detached from 22 politics that he forgot to campaign for the presidency this time around, sneaked an item into L'Express announcing that he too was taking walks and looking at the sky.
It was the start of his comeback. Then, at the beginning of June, the weekly comic paper Le Canard Enchaine revealed that Juppe, when he was the financial adjoint to Chirac, had taken the lease on an apartment in the Sixth Arrondissement that belonged to the domaine prive of the City of Paris. The domaine 'prive is a peculiarly Parisian estab-lishment, although even after four months of scandal, no one knows exactly what it is, how the City of Paris came to possess it, or how you get into it.
It turns out, however, that the City of Paris also owns a small, semisecret group of apartments and apartment buildings that are given out at the discretion of whoever happens to be running Paris. These domaine 'prive apartments came into the hands of the Parisian government in all kinds of interesting ways.
Many of them are on the beautiful old streets of the Left Bank, near the river, because of various failed city plans that left Paris with a lot of property, which the city fathers eventually started renting to one another. Until the prefects of the Paris arrondissements controlled the domaine prive, but then the system was reformed, which, as often happens in France, managed to make the mechanics of it even murkier. Today no one seems to know exactly how many domaine prive apartments there are.
One estimate puts the number at about thirteen hundred; an-other puts it at about fifteen hundred; still another says that there are more than four thousand. Juppe's apartment, on the lovely rue Jacob, was a lavish spread, complete with garden and terrace, that he had in effect 25 rented to himself for a little less than three thousand dollars a month-well below the market price. When this arrangement was challenged, Juppe announced that he felt "serene" and that he couldn't see what the fuss was about, since anyone could have found out that he lived there by looking at the mailbox.
There was something equally off-key about Chirac's later defense of his protege. During a televised press conference, he declared himself "profoundly shocked" by "the exploitation of a fact that no one should contest. As it happened, Martha and I arrived in Paris to look for a place just as the news of Juppe's arrangement broke, and we soon discovered what Juppe obviously knew to be the vital fact but was having a very hard time saying outright: All apartments in Paris that you would long to live in belong to the domaine prive.
This is to say not that they all belong to the city govern-ment but that they can be obtained only through membership in one or another of the political or literary or fashionable keiretsus that dominate Paris. Though Paris is in many ways a grasping and commercial city, it is not ruled by the market in quite the way that most other Western cities are. Martha and I, eight-month-old in tow, learned this quickly as we wandered from apartment to apartment.
We discovered that apartments came in three varieties: sad apartments that no one would want; interesting apartments that would require grands projets to make them work; and nice apartments that had a long private history or, to put it another way, a catch and so were in a domaine prive of their own. This one came with a sister in Amer-ica, who might or might not eventually return. Another was avail-able only if the divorce that had led to its emptying out was concluded. With tears in his eyes, the previous resident made it 24 a condition that we download the espresso machine that he and his de-parted love had picked out in happier days.
That one belonged to a philosopher who had changed his sexual orientation, and it was available with the proviso that if he changed it back, he would need the apartment again. The inwardness of Paris rules out the illusion created by the renting of an apartment in New York, the illusion of renewal, of starting over.
An apartment in New York is a blank slate. In Paris it is an already parsed sen-tence, a string of imperfect verbs, hidden conditional construc-tions, and long, intricately wrought clauses in the past tense.
Juppe would probably have been able to survive the revelation of his living arrangements if only Le Canard Enchame hadn't published, a couple of Wednesdays later, the news that when Juppe was a city official, he had taken apartments in the domaine prive for his son and daughter as well and that these apartments too were right there on the rue Jacob. Then it turned out that both Juppes ex-wife and his half brother had apartments cour-tesy of the City of Paris.
The former Mme. Juppe was lodged across the river, on the Right Bank, presumably out of deference to the sensibilities of the new Mme.
At this point l'affaire des logements became a little more serious. Le Canard published a document apparently showing that Juppe had approved a rent reduction on his son's apartment from seven thousand francs per month to six thousand a difference of about two hundred dol-lars. This might have contravened an all-purpose law against ethical backsliding on the part of public officials, a law whose worst penalty, sweetly enough, was that the offender would be prohibited from ever again being elected to office.
Things got so bad that Juppe had to submit to a humiliation that the French had previously considered fit only for American politicians. He had to go on television and answer questions from reporters.
De Gaulle spoke directly to the French people or else in highly choreographed press conferences; Mitterrand would tolerate a few friendly journalists but would explain to 25 them why the questions they were asking were not of a standard that could decently be put to the president of the republic. Juppe, by contrast, had to give one of those jumpy, undignified, I-have-nothing-to-hide performances beloved of American han-dlers.
Juppe did his best. He pointed out that members of the French press had been around for dinner at the now-famous apartment on the rue Jacob, and nobody had seemed upset about the apartment then.
This argument was regarded as fight-ing dirty. The next day Le Monde haughtily noted that it was not proper for guests to ask their host how much he paid in rent and who owned his apartment. Juppe also announced that he had lowered the rent on his son's apartment only because he was afraid of contributing to a general inflation of rents in the city. It didn't help much. In July a local lawyer with Socialist party con-nections began filing letters of complaint against Juppe with the state district attorney in Paris, Bruno Cotte, who would therefore have to decide whether to go the Italian route and indict the prime minister of France and, not incidentally, launch his own political career or go the honored French route and let it all pass.
By this time I had come into possession of what I thought was the lease on an apartment and so found the later stages of I'affaire des logements very diverting. There is nothing like being even an honorary, part-time insider to make insiderness look cute.
Then, just as we were about to leave Paris to go home and collect our furniture, I got a call from the real estate agent. She made it sound as though the apartment had won a prize.
Things worked out better for us than they did for the prime minister. We came back to Paris at the end of September and managed, through various routes, to find an apartment at 16 rue du Pre-aux-Clercs in the Seventh Arrondissement. The story 26 with this one was that it belonged to a young man who had just been posted by his bank to Tokyo; the apartment was affordable because he and his wife had left it half renovated and half a wreck.
On the other hand, they would want the apartment back when they returned from Japan, at some unspecified date, which makes us leap every time the doorbell rings. Bruno Cotte has at last offered his judgment on the Juppe case. He declared that he would not indict Juppe for what he had done with the domaine prive apartments, provided that the prime minister of France get out of his apartment and rent one someplace else.
This may have been a first in the history of ju-risprudence: an eviction notice issued by a magistrate against the prime minister of a major Western power. This is in fact almost the direct opposite of the truth. The Frenchmen who are currently the most enraged at the govern-ment-the functionaries who stopped all business in Paris sev-eral weeks ago-are not protesting against the accumulated perks of a privileged class.
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