Cold Bouillabaisse

Navya Kaur

It is a common misconception that all poets are gifted with a Superior Sight––eyes that can see past the shallow and obvious to spot a Truth others cannot discern. We often attribute a certain veracity to our eyes, making assumptions on the visuals they see, not understanding they only see part of the picture. But if eyes were truly so legitimate, then Monsieur Clotaire would never have found himself sitting inside a publisher’s room with a manuscript of translated Braille poems in his hands.

“A poet? You are a poet?” The inflection in the editor’s Russian accent indicated a slight hostility, but past experience had taught Monsieur Clotaire that skepticism could often be duped as unkindness. And so, he took no offense.

“Oui, Monsieur. I know it may seem unusual.”

“May I inquire as to why you chose this profession? Or rather––how?”

“I am not a poet by choice, Monsieur. Like my blindness, it is a sickness that has plagued me since my youth. I am coerced to write. I find words spilling out of my ears, emanating from my chest, and stuck between my teeth. I find no peace until I relieve myself of their burdens.”

“I see.”

“Well, I am glad one of us can.”

The editor chuckled. Comedy was as integral to Monsieur Clotaire as his poems. It was also the basis of his spirituality: he knew God existed precisely because He had a sense of humor. For how was it possible that a man without eyesight should have the unshakeable urge to make his mark? Moreover, how was it possible that the same man also possessed a strong sense of self-worth to do so? Monsieur Clotaire’s life was a joke of cartoon-ish proportions and he had realized the only solution was to laugh along.

“What do you write about?”

“You can take a look yourself.” Monsieur Clotaire dropped the stack he was carrying on the desk in front of him. “I must confess I am no Wordsworth. I have in the past attempted to emulate his style, but felt that comparing a woman’s eyes to twilight stars would be a bit inauthentic from my perspective.”

The editor was silent for a moment. “Yes, but that sort of imagery is what makes a poet a poet. Do you not agree?” (Apparently, Monsieur Clotaire’s humor had not translated).

“I agree completely, Monsieur. But who is to say that the sight of nature or women can be our only muses? Can not the sound of a saxophone or the aroma of a pâtisserie give us similar inspiration? In fact, I believe eating Chef Pazi’s lemon-soaked chicken on a noisy Thursday afternoon is the closest I have ever gotten to discovering the meaning of life.”

“That is quite a bold statement Monsieur! Chef Popov’s beef stroganoff is by far more poetic.”

“So I have heard! I will have to give it a try the next time I am in Moscow.” Monsieur Clotaire enjoyed the banter and was glad to dispense of the niceties. Too often, a new acquaintance would adopt a serious, pitying tone with Monsieur Clotaire in an attempt to compensate for his blindness. But he was reminded of his condition every morning he opened his eyes. He did not need his conversations to remind him again.

Monsieur Clotaire heard the editor rustling through some papers and patiently awaited his verdict. It was clear that despite their friendly repartee, the editor still had reservations over Monsieur Clotaire’s capability to write poetry. The kindness was unfamiliar, but the suspicion was not. Monsieur Clotaire had received many rejections over the years from publishers who simply could not see past their narrow conceptions of poetry and their judgment of such an ambitious blind man.

The editor cleared his throat. “Your work is ... interesting Monsieur. Quite unconventional. But I do not think it is suitable for our magazine.”

Monsieur Clotaire exhaled sharply. He had hoped that this editor would break the pattern of disappointment, but it seemed God was still unfolding new tricks. “Forgive me if I am being too forward here, but may I ask why not?”

“Well––uh––I am not sure how to phrase it. It is too ... outlandish ... I just do not consider it poetry.”

“Outlandish?” Monsieur Clotaire had heard the phrase before and could not help but disagree. Poetry is about uncovering the veil over people; it is about finding significance past the physical; it is about suffering, resilience, heartbreak, awe, and all the wonderful and terribly intense emotions that life offers. And who could capture those emotions better than a man who has never been distracted by the world’s visual facade?

“Uh ... oui, Monsieur.” The editor sounded uncomfortable and Monsieur Clotaire did not want to convince the man to like his poems if he simply did not.

 “I respect your decision, Monsieur. I have enjoyed your magazine since it first published in 1922 and recognize that you hold all of your poets to a very high standard. Nevertheless, thank you for your time and consideration.” And with that, Monsieur Clotaire left the publishing house and headed straight for another.

Paris was a city full of possibility, where the line between freedom and sin blurred and the boxes of orthodoxy and obedience faded, leaving people on a constant quest to forge their own identity. This is what Monsieur Clotaire loved about Paris—whether you sensed with your eyes, ears, or nose, at every moment, Paris would give a completely new story.

It was Monsieur Clotaire’s theory that just as a person had a denotable visage or aroma, they also had a perceivable and original style of music––a song filled with sounds only they themselves could play. For instance, while Monsieur Clotaire sat outside the 13th arrondissement’s metro station, listening to the noise of busy travelers boarding and deboarding trains, he heard a familiar weight of footsteps, a cough over a handkerchief, and a clunk of a briefcase hitting a thigh. He stood up in anticipation and––

“How do you know it is me every time!” Nicolas said, embracing his friend.

“Oh, my blindness is all a ruse to seduce more money from innocent bystanders. Did I not tell you?”

Nicolas laughed. “I wish that were true for the both of us,” he said, slapping his left arm, which, as Monsieur Clotaire well knew, was a stump. Though Nicolas was lucky to only have lost an arm in the Great War, his disability left little capacity for manual work. Another one of God’s jokes.

Nicolas unclicked his briefcase on top of the table and adjusted the typewriter’s settings. Monsieur Clotaire firmly believed mankind would never top the invention of the portable typewriter. To be able to write wherever one goes and not have to scribble lines of poems on napkins and newspaper scraps (or in his case, to not have to tell waiters and friends to do it for him!) was absolutely ingenious.

“I am all set up. Clotaire, are you ready?”

Monsieur Clotaire nodded and took a seat next to his old friend, who promptly jumped up and began his usual sales pitch to passersby. They had begun this routine six days ago after a long night at a restaurant two blocks from Nicolas’ apartment. Monsieur Clotaire, who usually prided his optimism, had had a rough day––much like today––after being turned down by multiple publishers. After several glasses of wine (which they both drank to forget their woes), Nicolas raised the idea of selling Monsieur Clotaire’s work on the street in the form of personalized poems. Clotaire! Nicholas had said. The fancy men in the publishing houses may not understand your poems, but perhaps a real audience might! Monsieur Clotaire had been reluctant at first, finding the idea slightly childish, but Nicolas’ persuasion skills were indeed  persuasive.

And so on the following day, they came to Paris’ 13th arrondissement and set up shop outside the metro station. Monsieur Clotaire offered his services as a poet and Nicolas assumed the role of the transcriber. Their initial business had come from young children, who were amused with the idea of a blind poet and a one-handed typer, but today, Monsieur Clotaire and Nicolas hoped to broaden their interest.

“Clotaire! It appears we have a customer!” Nicolas dropped the money in the soup can and hurriedly sat down, accidentally pushing the table forward and almost dropping the typewriter. “She seems to be a wealthy woman.”

“Excellent!”

“Her young granddaughter, Elise, is visiting her this afternoon and she wants to gift her a poem.” Nicolas rolled in a fresh sheet of paper and waited for Monsieur Clotaire’s cue. Though Nicolas was a perfect friend and a charming conversationalist, his fifth-grade education required Monsieur Clotaire to spell out almost every other word, which made the process even lengthier once compounded with his one hand.

“She went into the café down the street for an espresso, so I do not think we have much time before she returns.”

“No problem. I am certain I can think of something.”

Eleven minutes later, with a fresh poem typed and a strong sense of accomplishment, the woman reappeared.

“Has my poem been written?” she said in the sweet voice of a grandmother and a haughty tone of an aristocrat.

“Oui Madame!” said Nicolas. “It is a masterpiece! Remember the name Clotaire for he will soon be the most famous poet in the world! ” Monsieur Clotaire blushed. While Nicolas’ youthful personality suited him as a salesman, Monsieur Clotaire could not stand the personal exaggerations it demanded. It was good he was destined to be a poet; in a sense, he was allowed to hide behind the poems and let them speak for themselves.

“I will be the judge of that,” she said, grabbing the parchment and reading the poem aloud:

Sacred are our friendships and hopeful are our romances

But you, my sweet granddaughter, are an ever-giving prize

Your laughter is a rich expense––a pretty penny I am willing to spend

In your presence, my belly fills up with delicious pasta

And when you leave, I am left starving for another strand of spaghetti

There will come a time when death will take us all,

But remember, my dear Elise, you will always be my little gnocchi

For the next two minutes, Monsieur Clotaire feared that deafness had also afflicted him for the woman remained completely silent.

“Do you find it humorous to insult your customers?” she finally said. Insult? Editors had told Monsieur Clotaire his poems were “outlandish” and “unconventional,” but never insulting.

“I am not sure what is wrong, Madame.”

“You have compared my granddaughter to pasta. She is my granddaughter not food!”

“Of course not! It is a metaphor, Madame. Poetry is full of them.”

“I know it is a metaphor. I am not a nitwit. Poetry is meant to be beautiful and elegant. It should make you feel elevated, not hungry.”

“Poetry is about capturing a true feeling, Madame. It need not be beautiful ... it should be true.”

“You are wrong. There is a certain ‘how’ to poetry––a structure which you have failed to capture. I would like my money back, I am late as it is.”

Monsieur Clotaire was not yet ready to concede. “Poetry is art, Madame. And as art, should not poetry continuously evolve in untraditional ways? Many people believe poetry was perfected in the past and the present interpretations are simply gross insults that tarnish the beauty of the art form. But why should poets remain chained to an old way of thinking––of writing?”

“The old poets had talent, that is why. If Shakespeare had written, ‘my heart felt like cold bouillabaisse,’ he would not have been a poet, he would have been the laughing stock of Europe!”

“But if that line characterized how he truly felt, then why should it not be considered poetry? Poetry is everywhere! Even in cold bouillabaisse.”

“I see your gimmick, now. You lure unsuspecting people to your little stand, give them a nonsensical poem, and then argue with them for twenty minutes until they leave in frustration. Well, you have succeeded once again!”

Monsieur Clotaire heard the woman abruptly huff off.

Later that night, Monsieur Clotaire laid in bed with an unusual sense of melancholy. His ordinary night routine was to write a poem detailing his day, but the voices of the editor and the woman replayed in his mind, screaming louder than his strong morale could take. Could they be right? He had initially interpreted unconventional and outlandish as compliments, but now they posed the same threats as insulting.

When Monsieur Clotaire attended the Institut National des Jeunes Aveugles, once a year, he would barricade himself in the common room tuning the grand piano. His teacher, who would often play the music of Beethoven for the class, would patiently sit with him as he arduously adjusted each string with a hammer and a tuning fork. Not having the same ear for pitch as she did, he would ask her opinion after tuning every note. However, instead of complying with his request, she would say, it does not have to be perfect, Clotaire. As long as it feels right to you. Now, even if Monsieur Clotaire heard a piano playing in perfect A440 pitch, it would sound off-key to him.

Was that how people saw his poems? As off-key? A wave of embarrassment shuddered over Monsieur Clotaire as he remembered the confidence he would walk with into publishers’ offices. How naive he was to think he could be a poet! How could a blind man have anything authentic to say? The woman was right, a poet did not write about spaghetti and gnocchi, a poet wrote about the beauty in what they see––the greenery of the trees and the rosiness of a woman’s cheeks. Eyes were the ultimate surveyors of truth and without them . . .

Monsieur Clotaire shut his lamp and rolled over on his side. Though he was not tired, he closed his eyes and let the tears spill freely across his cheeks.

Unfortunately, from a very young age, Monsieur Clotaire had always been taught to honor one’s commitments. Whether it be a game of chess or a Sunday lunch, Monsieur Clotaire always arrived perfectly on time. And so, even today of all days, when Monsieur Clotaire wanted to remain in bed and avoid any personal interaction, he put on his suit, grabbed a hat, and headed to meet Nicolas at their usual corner next to the 13th arrondissement metro station.

“There you are Clotaire! I was concerned; you always arrive before me. But, do not worry, I got everything set up in the meantime, so we can begin as soon as you are ready.”

Monsieur Clotaire had never had a stronger urge to run away. Monsieur Clotaire wanted to reveal to Nicolas that he had cried all night thinking about what the editor and the woman had said. He wanted to explain to Nicolas that he was a good friend, but their street business was a poor idea. He wanted to tell Nicolas he feared the ink inside him had dried up and that he felt ashamed to ever call himself a poet. But admitting his worries aloud––especially to dear Nicolas––gave them a certain credibility he was not ready to face. And so he kept his lips sealed and nodded his head.

At the end of two hours, they had received two customers––neither of whom chastised Monsieur Clotaire’s poetry, but both of whom took the poems in a hurry without reading them. Monsieur Clotaire had avoided the metaphor of pasta and instead, substituted the comparisons and descriptions of John Keats and William Blake, which he knew people preferred to read. He had expected this new style to ease his anxiety and boost his self-esteem, but if anything, he felt less accomplished.

Monsieur Clotaire had often lauded his blindness as a secret superpower. He experienced the world differently and that difference had given him a pen to write with and a story to share. But like a tree that falls in the middle of a silent forest, are poems still poems if there is no one to read them? And if perchance, a readership should develop, what mark would Monsieur Clotaire make if he only copied the greats? As Monsieur Clotaire’s mind drifted into a spiral of despair at this thought, the voices of the editor and the woman revisited his head ... insulting ... laughing stock ... outlandish ...

Monsieur Clotaire brushed his fingers against the keys of the typewriter in an urge to summon its usual warmth. On days where Monsieur Clotaire felt his life too miserable and burdensome to bear, the typewriter would beckon him and the sound of typing would subdue his gloom. For the typewriter did not require the privilege of sight or the benefit of two arms, but a heart capable of feeling and a voice capable of speaking.

Yet today, outside the 13th arrondissement’s metro station, this machine had no warmth and no solace to offer. Monsieur Clotaire could feel its allegiance to him had been revoked; the keys felt as foreign to him as his unwanted thoughts. He, a poet, had now become a stranger to his own tools.

While Nicolas stood out on the street convincing others of his talent, Monsieur Clotaire sat on his stool feeling a fraud. The typewriter had finally revealed him, stripping him of his sunny disposition and his protective naïveté. This thing––this poetry––was a sphere so small that Monsieur Clotaire, who had once considered himself a part of, had merely been dancing on the outskirts, looking for a way in. After twenty-two years, Monsieur Clotaire now knew that trapdoor was nowhere to be found.

And so, feigning a headache, Monsieur Clotaire summoned Nicolas back to the table to end his nightmare. Nicolas packed up their belongings and Monsieur Clotaire followed him down the street with his burning fingers holding the portable typewriter in his right hand.

But had Monsieur Clotaire and Nicolas stayed in their spot a little longer, they would have been approached by the daughter of the wealthy woman from yesterday, who was a writer for The Paris Times. She would have told him she had found his poetry to be refreshingly entertaining and true and wanted to interview him. Monsieur Clotaire would have ended up on the front page of the newspaper, would eventually have gotten his poems published, and would have achieved worldwide renown.

Instead, however, Monsieur Clotaire went home that day and had Nicolas type his last poem.

With a huff and a puff, I was rendered obsolete

Now because of these eyes that cannot see

My heart is cold bouillabaisse