French. .. So to Speak

There is a Whip in My Valise; Scream, My Darling, Scream; Bondage Trash; Some Have Too Much— these are just some of the many incendiary titles published by the notorious Olympia Press in Paris during its hey-day. Its owner, Maurice Girodias ("king of porn," the Boston Globe called him), took me on as his full-time senior editor in 1962 and set me to work on Rape of the Statue by Marjorie Cartwright—nom de plume of a barrel-chested U.S. Air Force lieutenant who once, to complain about nonpayment, visited the office in uniform.

I'd previously worked freelance for Maurice—the translation of the Bedroom Odyssey by Anonymous (Georges Bataille?)—so I knew the ropes: payday was more illusive than actual. But I was in my early 20s then. I was glad to work there.

It's frequently overlooked that Maurice, who made millions from porn, often used his profits to publish risky literary ventures such as Nabokov's Lolita, Burroughs' Naked Lunch trilogy, and Beckett's first novels. Sometimes, too, they even paid off. With money made from Lolita, he opened four dinner clubs (La Grande Severine, Chez Vodka, Batucada, and the Blues Bar) next door to the editorial offices, one on top of the other. Shortly after I'd been hired, I overheard a brown and bumptious Cuban songbird, who'd gigged at the Batucada, whisper while leaving the office, "But why did you hire a black editor?" Momentarily nonplussed, Maurice shrugged: "Why not?"

To write and read French well is one thing; to converse fluently is another. Ninety percent of conversing well in any foreign language depends on acute listening. I'd hoped to brush up on speaking French when I joined Olympia, but English turned out to be the official language there. Sometimes Maurice (whose father was English) even spoke in English to Guittou, his French secretary. Still, I felt that I should not give up on trying to improve my command of conversational French. Many American expatriates in the 1960s expected all Frenchmen to speak English—and some became resentful when they found out that this wasn't the case. Once, I'd even seen a young Brit at La Guérite, a restaurant on Boulevard Raspail, start a scene because none of the waiters spoke English. Exasperated, he began pounding his fist on the table, yelling, "Meat! I want meat! Can't you understand?" (Amazing: the longevity and extent of Empire conceits.)

I certainly had no trouble in conversing in French in my day-to-day routines—food shopping, asking directions, etc., but I felt that I should get even more out of the language and culture while staying there. There was much to learn, to appreciate.

I wrote an ad offering conversational English in exchange for conversational French and pinned it to a message bulletin board at the Alliance Française. The first response mailed to me came from Xavier Delestapis, a jovial student, considerably shorter than I, with thick glasses and a warm, concerned manner. We usually met in cafes along the Boulevard Saint-Germain, for expresso or a snack, talking French for an hour, then English for another. It was an excellent arrangement from which we both seemed to profit. His father had an estate and vineyard in the Bourdeaux region, and Xavier seemed not to have any real financial concerns. Once we met on Bastille Day and, instead of following the usual arrangement, we enjoyed ourselves, drinking, dancing with delectable young women near little bands stationed here and there along the streets (les petits bals), and applauding with the crowd near Pont-Neuf with each thundering blast of fireworks. At one point, at a small park near the Sorbonne we tacked on to a long, serpentine line of young men and women. Joining hands with them, we went weaving among the trees and monuments, screaming nonsense at the top of our lungs, until at one point, the line seemed to have reached the point of exhaustion, and we...