It's All Zoo: A Paris Love Story

By Gerald A. Browne

New York Times–bestselling author Gerald A. Browne’s stylish debut novel about a pair of unlikely lovers in 1960s Paris

It’s not the prostitutes who are keeping Lillian awake. She may share her apartment building with a bordello, but the sounds that seep through the walls do not bother her. Ever since her boyfriend left her, taking her heart and all her clothes, the Paris nights have been unbearable. And so she takes refuge in the only place she can be herself: Sascha’s, where the insomniacs of Paris go to drink, dance, and fall in love.

There’s Mr. Bread, a slumming millionaire. There’s Big Red and Elsa, a couple who can always be relied on for a good time. And now there’s Graham, a hopelessly square American whom Lillian decides to take under her wing. As the days and nights of swinging Paris spin into a blur, this gang of romantic expats must fight to stay together, or risk coming apart at the seams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Oct 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781453268445

Gerald A. Browne

Gerald A. Browne is the New York Times–bestselling author of ten novels including 11 Harrowhouse, 19 Purchase Street, and Stone 588. His books have been translated into more than twenty languages, and several have been made into films. He attended the University of Mexico, Columbia University, and the Sorbonne, and has worked as a fashion photographer, an advertising executive, and a screenwriter. He lives in Southern California.

Book preview

I

Her nearby Mickey Mouse pointed its glowing arms at 3.

Lillian had been concentrating on the little click-clock of its mechanical belly because sometimes that helped her go under.

But not tonight. This was a bad one.

She’d already tried the cold shower, deep breaths, big stretches, legs up in the air. She decided to read an incomprehensible. She snapped the room light and opened to any page of Science and Sanity. After fifteen minutes her eyes were bored heavy, and she thought maybe she was ready. She snapped the room dark and invited herself to sink.

But as soon as she closed her eyes the lights went on inside her, to make her forehead a stage for all sorts of performances. Such as Madame Leone, who owned the other four fifths of the building. There was the Madame, sitting on the smooth surface just above Lillian’s nose.

My dear, how tired you look, said the Madame, sighing big and sympathetic. But we are all tired these days. Responsibilities. Ooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhh, she moaned downscale, if I could I would never own anything, especially here in France where taxes are so complicated.

The Madame paused to look for reaction. I do not understand you, she went on, as young as you are and so pretty, why you should want to own an apartment like this. The Madame gestured both arms. She pulled the corners of her mouth up slightly and just touched some fingers to her cheek. She said, I am your friend, you know. And if ever you want to not own this apartment, I will help you. I will give you more than it is worth. Remember that always, my dear.

I will, Madame Leone, said Lillian.

The Madame misjudged too eagerly. Then you have considered selling?

No, Madame Leone was told.

The Madame lost patience and went a little wild. You must be insane. This is no place for you. If you were a professional, then perhaps. Yes, if you were a professional we could make some arrangement, but as things are, here on the third floor in between everything, you make life difficult.

That was true. Lillian often met Madame Leone’s clients when the girls were leading them up the narrow stairs. And frequently Lillian answered knocks on her door to find one, two or three of the Madame’s clients there. Sometimes she directed them down to the Madame’s receiving rooms but more often, without explanation, she slammed the door in their faces. That was surely bad for the Madame’s business. But Lillian didn’t care. She had no intention of selling her apartment. She liked the place—despite, or perhaps because of, all the sensual scuffling and bouncing she heard nightly above and below her.

Lillian thought it was kicks.

Anyway, the Madame tried to blaze an encore on the stage of Lillian’s mind, but Lillian made her disappear. And just when someone else was coming on to do an act, Lillian remembered something she’d heard about that was supposed to help make sleep. She decided to try it.

Painting the barn.

First she scrunched up on her side in a nice womby position. Then she sent herself down a road, a pretty old country road with no worries in sight, just lots of kind flowers and waving hello trees, and then, there it was—the big ordinary barn, all bleached and weather-hit and asking for paint.

With no effort at all Lillian had the ladder up and immediately she was up there with the bucket of black and the wide brush. She made a broad black stroke. She was pleased by the way the old boards soaked up the paint. How much nicer they looked deep black. She started to paint faster but warned herself to go slowly. She dipped into the bottomless black to smooth more on with the easy brush, doing her soft black work and not caring for anything else. Silky black, delicious sleepy black. Painting, painting, painting black the barn. She dabbed black at cute little knotholes and made sure she blacked every crack. She worked until she felt tired. Then she made a mistake. She stepped herself back a hundred feet to admire her work and saw that it was done. The barn was all black. There wasn’t any more to do.

Up yours, Mickey Mouse, she said aloud, turning on the light to see 3:30.

She kicked off the sheet and got her telephone number book. Under the A’s she chose Alain and rolled over on her stomach to dial the phone on the floor. She waited ten rings and decided Alain had put his phone in the refrigerator again. She disconnected and went to the C’s for Christian. She dialed and got a busy signal that she knew at that hour meant very busy. She passed over the J’s of Jean Pierre, Jean Marc and two Jean Claudes and went to the P’s for Pero. After four rings she connected.

What do you want? a thick voice asked instead of hello.

It’s me. Lillian, she said, as if that explained everything.

Then there was a space that let her hear his nose breathing sleepy air. She was about to say, I can’t sleep, but it came out Go back to sleep.

He grunted agreement and clicked off.

Lillian looked at Mickey Mouse headed toward 4. She thought about tomorrow and how wasted she was going to feel with no sleep. She said, Shit, as she realized it was already tomorrow.

She lighted a cigarette that tasted awful. She got up and went bare across the cold floor to the bathroom. She threw the cigarette into the bidet, where it sent up smoke signals. She turned on hot and cold into the washbasin. She mixed some in the cup of her hands and splashed her face, which felt numb.

Look at me look at me, she said to the mirror, and then, from the shelf over the washbasin, from a precarious pyramid of bottles and jars and brushes, she picked up her eyelashes. They were stuck together and looked like some dark dead insect. She carefully separated them and, leaning over, pressing her crotch against the cold white of the basin, she got closer up to her reflection and glued the lashes on left and right. She curled them with a special device and flicked at them some with her fingers. She didn’t put on what she called her whole face. She didn’t bother with any foundation, but she did spend more than a half hour on her eyes, artfully outlining and shadowing them with white and dark and helping her eyebrows. All the while she was unconsciously distorting her face. She even sucked her cheeks in to make her lips contract vertically like a fish. It was functional, showed her the exact areas of her cheek sockets, so she could brush a beige powder there to achieve the proper lean look. This done, she used a fluffier brush to transport some pale pink powder to her cheekbones, lightly on her forehead, on the point of her chin and even a dab playfully on the tip of her nose. It did make her look healthier.

Now, she thought, appraising, that’s not so bad.

She left everything right there, all the brushes and containers, balancing on the shoulders of the sink, and went to the bedroom. She shoved her feet into the same white low shoes she’d worn the night before. And she put on a white plastic raincoat. With nothing on underneath it felt cold against her and because it was extremely short—at least six inches above her knees—it made her feel hollow and vulnerable below. She thought about putting on some underpants. But didn’t. Instead, she went to the dresser and used a giant pink comb to partially correct the tangles in her long dark hair.

Mickey Mouse said good-by to her with 15 to 5.

For no reason she left all the lights on and went down the stairs and halls that were so familiar she could go fast. She passed the slivers of light coming from the various moneymaking doors of Madame Leone, went through the mixed smell of perfume and disinfectant. Outside, her street had no one on it, but to get where she was going she had to walk some of the Boulevard de Sébastopol, inside the perimeter of the food market called Les Halles. The boulevard was choked with trucks and men and crates of vegetables and fruits. All the way, the men noticed her. They shouted direct propositions to win the laughs of their fellow workers. They held pairs of grapefruits on their chests to imitate her. They held bunches of long carrots at their crotches and waved them at her. But Lillian wasn’t bothered. She laughed back at them, stole some expensive black African grapes and kept walking.

On the way, on the last corner before crossing over the Seine, she saw some of Paris sleeping. Two humps of dark rags with two pairs of feet sticking out. Two street sleepers on a steel mesh opening where the warm air of the Métro came up. Lillian didn’t feel sorry for them. They were sleeping dead sleeps that made her angry at her insomnia, and she walked on harder and faster across the bridge and downstream to a small street and into a smaller street. She paused there a moment and listened to Paris. She thought she could hear the drone of unconscious breaths, sleepers by the millions, heaving their chests. An itch brought her back. She reached in between the buttons of her raincoat and scratched where her lower hair was. Then she went into Sascha’s.

Sascha’s was the newest place for night people, many of whom were too afraid of the dark for such a lonely thing as sleep. Sasoha’s didn’t announce itself with a sign. You either knew about it or you didn’t. It was a hard place to find. It was just an old long room with a lot of ordinary cheap chairs around tables covered with blue oilcloth. Its one different feature was a chandelier made from wine bottles, about fifty with bottoms cut off and light bulbs strung down inside them. They were hung in a cluster at various heights and their green glass-filtered light gave a sick tint to everything and everyone. Everyone at five in the morning was about twenty persons, including one twanging a guitar to match his twangy voice.

Lillian looked the room over and was relieved to find Big Red and Elsa. She hurried to their table. Elsa, a small blonde, was hunched under Big Red’s arm, as if it were a cave. They didn’t move anything but their lips for nice smiles when Lillian sat.

Baby bird, Big Red greeted.

Jesus! What a night! Lillian said, pouring some from their wine pitcher.

It’s super where we are, said Elsa, snuggling.

Was a drag where I was, Lillian told them. She looked around to see others she knew, nodded hellos to some.

You’re really up tight, said Big Red. What’s bugging you?

No sleep. Not for two nights.

Don’t let it get to you, Big Red advised. Keep loose.

Elsa told her, I read someplace where no sleep won’t hurt you.

I never had any trouble sleeping until after Diter left. I used to flake out right away, but not any more. You know, Diter never could sleep. He used to make a big thing out of it. He hated the way I could flake out so easy. Maybe that’s why I can’t any more.

Big Red asked, You heard from Diter?

No. Nothing. Somebody said he was in Berlin but I don’t know. I don’t give a shit either.

He’ll be back, Elsa prophesied.

Not with me he won’t, said Lillian.

You didn’t expect him to stick forever, did you?

No.

Then why get so salty about him leaving?

He stole most of my gear and sold it, said Lillian.

That was a drag, Elsa judged. Big Red grunted the same opinion.

I’ve got nothing to wear, Lillian told them.

Big Red and Elsa snickered disbelief. Lillian unbuttoned the top two buttons of her raincoat and pulled one side open to flash a breast at them.

Man, that’s a kinky raincoat, said Big Red.

Take it off and stay awhile, smiled Elsa.

See? I’ve got no gear, Lillian spoofed.

Big Red motioned with his free hand. Did you dig who’s in the corner? Lillian saw there a blond man with a woman who had her dark long hair middle-parted so it fell forward over half of each eye, making a vertical narrow of her face. She was smoking with a cigarette holder and her fingers had diamonds. The blond man had his back to Lillian but the woman made him turn quickly to catch Lillian looking.

Mr. Bread, said Lillian.

But who’s the hairy bird?

Maybe it’s his mother, said Elsa.

Big Red said, Somebody’s mother.

He’s the mother, commented Lillian, giving the word its true American connotation. She turned to listen to the one who was singing.

"… lifted the wings

of the little white birds

and found the

boom boom

of hydrogen bombs."

The end. The singer took his foot down from a chair and sat with his back and shoulder-length hair to the room. Immediately, a record started playing a growl that introduced a discordant instrumental scream and on into a thumping beat with some inaudible words on top.

Lillian felt someone standing beside her. She turned her face up to Mr. Bread.

Dance with me, he nearly requested.

She felt like dancing, so she went with him to the small open space meant for it. Of course, they danced apart. Lillian closed her eyes and opened the rest of her to let the music in. Perhaps because she was tired the beat quickly saturated her. She started making all the small and large stylish rotations with her center and punctuating them with sharp suggestive thrusts. She didn’t move her feet as much as everything else. She pushed her hands out as if the air was water and brought them back to do it again. She was swimming in music liquid and deep enough to drown in. Still keeping her eyes shut, she did a series of motions with her hands, teasing touches and grabs at her face and shoulders and breasts and hips and ass. She was turned on. So completely turned on that she didn’t stop when that record stopped; kept moving through the hesitation until the next, a slower piece with a nasal wail on its surface and the same thumping pulse underneath. Lillian connected to it, caught it and kept hold of it with her crotch and used all the rest of her to play with it. The music throbbed thick. It was like touchable sound, an extension of tissue that she pushed against, drove against with the force of her snapping body and slipped around with her hips. She created a voluntary trembling for it. A tense shudder. Then she changed from tight squeezing to loose long snaps by her entire length, letting go. All the while her head bobbed like a pretty balloon in a nervous wind. Her eyes were always shut. Her mouth was open, as if her tongue were singing inside it. Her hair swished to whip her face. All the way until the music ended.

Then she felt less tired than before, more up than down, on than off.

Mr. Bread closed most of the space between them. He started with legs. You’ve got the best legs in Paris, you know that, Lillian?

Everything you say is true, she said passively. Hearing and talking subtracted from the fuzzy excitement left over from the dance. For Lillian nothing was yet in sharp focus, not even the near face of Mr. Bread.

He looked out with eyes that were almost turquoise, the whites of them exaggerated by the surrounding skin’s flattering bronze evidence of Swiss ski slopes and Mediterranean sailing. He had a beautiful face, so symmetrical it seemed contrived—as if it had been predesigned by some great plastic surgeon.

Strangely, his face was not consistently masculine or feminine. Both qualities were fused in the shapes and sizes of his features—to such an extent that it was impossible to isolate the male of it from the female. His mouth, for example. One moment it seemed fragile petulant, the next it appeared forceful strong. The effect was more appealing than not. It was the same throughout his entire appearance, the carry of his body, his hair, his hands. An arched wrist would extend a lean, powerful hand. But the next moment the wrist was resolute, while his fingers flourished mincing gestures. It was said that he had received and refused motion picture offers. A believable rumor, considering the values of the current emotional stock market. It was also said that he was a homosexual. That was privately possible but publicly canceled by his constant attention to women.

What no one doubted was his wealth. He spent much and lived the elegant careless life of those who can afford to disregard time, who measure it mostly by the seasons that dictate which particular place or diversions they should be enjoying. However, the source of his wealth was another matter for speculation. He never discussed it, but it was heard that he owned oil and other things such as diamond mines.

One thing Mr. Bread did not have was friends. But that was understandable. Physically and financially he had too many assets to be liked. He was jealously ridiculed, joked about, constantly examined so any criticism could be magnified. He was an unfortunate victim of good fortune.

The first time Lillian saw him she was attracted to him. It was at an outside table at Café Flore. Lillian was then the new girl of Diter. Diter was there also, to touch with all the various touching that exterior Paris permits. Then, with her senses surrounded by Diter, she hadn’t felt the impact of Mr. Bread, merely an attraction. And now, two years had passed and Mr. Bread had always been around, to be waved at driving St. Germain or briefly greeted at a gallery or, like this night, acknowledged in a night place. The fact that he was verbally depreciated by most of Lillian’s friends also influenced her. She was active in these games against him. It was Lillian who had ordained him Mr. Bread.

He asked Lillian, Do you still have that little dog, the fat black and white one?

No. It got killed.

That’s too bad, he said with genuine sympathy.

Diter forgot his leash one day and let a taxi hit him, she explained, remembering it was one of the last bad things Diter had done. He didn’t like the dog. Diter didn’t ever like it.

The memory made her feel mean. There was no one to take it out on but Mr. Bread. She had to do it. And what’s with you, Mr. Bread? she asked, underlining his given name.

He laughed a little. I heard that’s what you call me.

Doesn’t it make you salty to be called that? Mr. Bread?

Not really. In a way it’s flattering. Do you know what I call you?

What?

Miss Most.

Miss who?

Most. Because you have more of everything.

Oh?

When they were passing out goodies you sneaked back in line for a double helping.

She didn’t thank him. Miss Least is more like it, she said.

Never.

Miss Lillian Most, she pronounced. I don’t like the Lillian. It doesn’t go with it.

What does?

She thought and told him, Melancholia. Now, that’s real super. Miss Melancholia Most.

I don’t think it suits you.

I do.

It shouldn’t. But, anyway, for Melancholia lots of things are good. Come on. He had her hand. She had no chance to refuse. He led her to the table where the dark-haired woman waited. Mr. Bread introduced.

The name of the dark-haired woman was Davinia. She moved to make room on the wall seat for Lillian to be next to her.