High life
At the barricades
Taki
Iwish to say a few words about 7 May 1968, a day that saw the Parisian jet-set turn revolutionary, if only for a night. The night came to mind first because of Regine's autobiography (which I read in order to review) and second because as I lie awake longing for sleep I am watching Soviet TV on Channel 4 and a programme about the merry month of May 20 years ago.
It was a warm and pleasant Parisian night, and I was dining with a beautiful Brazilian girl whose only handicap was her politics. Needless to say, we got into an argument about the 'student revolt' and for a while it looked as if she would do a Fawn Hall on me. Back then, however, I had more guts, so I decided to stay and argue the night away rather than tell her what I really thought of her and stick her with the bill. (Nothing diverts a girl's mind from dialectics of the Left like having to pay the bill.) The fact that she was awfully pretty also helped.
So, after dinner, I suggested we have a drink over at New Jimmy's, Regine's fabled boite on the Boulevard Montpar- nasse. When the student uprising had begun the week before, I remember going out and buying an E-type Jaguar for its flashiness. Having seen what so-called Marxist-Leninists had done in my country and the rest of Eastern Europe, I felt so disgusted with the bourgeoisie acting like revolutionaries I decided my only course of action should be to provoke.
As luck would have it, no sooner had we reached the Boulevard Raspail than we were stopped at a road-block and con- fronted by students asking for money for their struggle. Now I do not claim to be a brave man, but I knew that even one centime would cost me Gidgy, especially after the fiery speech I had given her during dinner while still in the safety of the Right Bank.
When asked, therefore, I gathered the little courage I had left, tried to look as sincere as possible, and announced that I
would rather die for my principles than give them money for theirs. To my delight they waved me through, even using the formal vous. Gidgy looked like the cat that had swallowed the proverbial you-know- what.
Once inside New Jimmy's, we told the story to Regine, whose politics are similar to mine and who agreed that it was ironic to see Prague students demonstrating in order to achieve what those show-offs were denouncing outside her doors. Which led to yet another discussion about the courage of the demonstrators, and me telling her to allow me back in if things got out of hand outside. I then went out to see the revolu- tion from up close. And saw that things did get out of hand, at least by Western standards.
So I walked back as calmly as possible, knocked on the famous black door with the Judas-hole and asked to be admitted. But as I was going in, a William Tell-like member of the CRS (the feared riot squad) fired two tear-gas grenades inside. You can imagine the rest. The place was already packed with humanity, and notorious for its lack of oxygen, which Regine always claimed made for a good night-club atmos- phere. With two tear-gas bombs it turned into something not even Dante would dare try and describe.
Worse, when the jet-setters finally de- cided to exit Missolonghi-like, the CRS were waiting for them outside and began to club them at will (only a few upper-class Englishmen enjoyed it). Regine closed up her place following that evening, and now I read in her opus that she only opened her door because I was begging her to and she was fraid I might die of fright. Obviously one of the two of us is speaking with forked tongue.
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