Guillaume Bacharene
bacharene@gmail.com
This story and series is both a tribute and a huge vote of thanks to Alexandre, my inspiration. Writers need inspiration and in this case, the story and series are directly due to Alexandre.
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Alexandre, Prince of the Dance – Part I
Sometimes, the Gods smile upon one, in ways deep and meaningful; in ways unexpected; in ways, which excite; in ways which cannot be explained. So, this story begins as a case in point. It serves to explain the magic of the creative process and its intensity. One afternoon as I sat at home, waiting for inspiration; wanting to write something new and special, I received an email, a message thanking me for a story I had written. Now, this was not just `any' message. It was a message from a poet, a romantic, a dancer. It arrived, resplendent in imagery; cloaked in beauty; planting a seed in an already well-prepared and receptive garden. Unconsciously, I had asked the powers of the universe; the Gods of creation, for inspiration and, was blessed with what occurred. The Gods had listened.
I, Guillaume, am a creature of sounds, images, thoughts, dreams, and symbols; of things, which matter, of things, which register. As a writer and artist I notice things; hear things; all things being treasures, which become added to my writers' `account' of treasures, to be drawn upon and `assembled' when the time is right. For example, I love the way fabric falls; I love the sound of the wind; the sound of the rain. In parts of the world like Australia and New Zealand, the rain literally plays drums upon corrugated steel roofs; in France, in the south, it caresses upon traditional terracotta tiles, a gentle massage, erotic and sensual to those with imagination. Heading back to Paris, I can look at the man opposite me, dozing, on the TGV to Paris. The sun catches the golden hairs on his forearms. I think of Melanion, Diana and the Golden Apples. The man dozing is not handsome in any classical sense but his gilded forearms transform him into something higher in beauty. And then I think of Jean Genet, who created beauty in words from utter depravity and degradation. I realise too: I have the power, as a writer, as an artist, to create beauty. All I ever need is inspiration. When inspiration arrives, I can do so, create, with an intensity, real and overwhelming.
`L'homme propose, le Dieu dispose!' ` Man proposes, God disposes.' The words of my grandmother, echo forever in my head. And, one needs no belief in any god, deity, being or presence, for this to register and make sense.
And then there are names; names, which evoke many things. For me, the most powerful has always been one: Alexandre. Why you might ask? I shrug. I have no idea. I search in my brain. Perhaps it was Alexander the Great and Hephaestion, who registered in some place within. Perhaps it was the Alexandre of Roger Peyrefitte's haunting novel, `Les Amitis Particulires'. I shrug again. But, at the end of the day it really matters not. Like the beauty of the melodic song of a hidden Nightingale, we need no explanation: it exists as ours is to enjoy. And then I muse, Roger Peyrefitte was born across La Montagne Noire, in Castres. We are of the same waters.
So, beautiful Alexandre walked into my life as a series of words, words both beautiful and respectful, but with an intensity, unmistakable. As words they spoke eloquently:
"I have arrived in your life, and, I have many stories to tell: you Guillaume, are chosen to tell them!"
Of course, I was honoured. I prepared myself for the journey with Alexandre. My heart was taking me to places and sharing secrets through doors and within rooms hitherto unknown. But also, this was not merely a voyage of unknown rooms; it was a voyage of re-discovery.
Prologue:
Alexandre had always wanted to dance. It was an urge; there was an inner urgency, which could never be explained. He was an island of the dance, adrift upon a gentle sea but, beneath the benign surface of that sea was far from calm; there were currents, there was turmoil, there were dangers and unknowns. But let's not pretend this is any ordinary story. No. It is not. It gets complicated, very complicated for, I knew Alexandre before he ever knew; before I ever knew. So, let's begin.
Paris is a vital city, the City of Light. I can't live there but at the same time I cannot survive without it. Paris is like a drug of choice. I imagine this as a writer because I am not one given to drugs of choice. I simply plucked that from somewhere because it's a nice image; it paints a picture. And, over many years, there are things I do when I am there, in Paris I mean; things I repeat because they anchor me to the earth. One of those anchors is coffee at Fauchon. Fauchon is pure romance and quality, resplendent it its beautifully composed windows, signature pink with understated gold foil, understated silver foil. The windows of Fauchon, are a Paradise of the culinary arts but also of beautiful food as composition; as edible art personified; as art created every day. Fauchon is, put quite simply, a temple to and of the best of everything, just around the corner from the faux-Greek severity of La Madeleine. Fauchon rescues La Madeleine. And a confession: I save every simple complimentary Fauchon chocolate wrapper. Why you may well ask? Because it is like no other. A tiny oblong, bordered in black, a white semi-square in the middle with Fauchon printed in discreet gold foil, mirror-imaged twice and then Fauchon again, bringing back equilibrium to the world, balancing all. You open it the right way because to do otherwise would be an insult, a sacrilege. On the reverse, inscribed upon the black in gold foil again it states: Chocolat noir aux clats de fves de cacao torrfies. 70% cacao. FAUCHON, PARIS This little point of the universe says it all with such sensual romance: Dark chocolate with bursts of grilled cocoa shards. 70 % cocoa. FAUCHON, PARIS. I frame them. I have wall of Fauchon chocolate wrappers, framed. Collectively they put the most luxurious wallpaper to shame and, I hate wallpaper anyway. Instead I have my own Fauchon Temple. But, of course it is really not about Fauchon but about art, created and re-created every day; about art consumed; high art, the highest art.
Now, Paris is one of the great gastronomic cities of the world, today vastly over-stated and over-rated with 82 million visitors annually to France but, its coffee too is on another planet and that planet is called, Planet Coffee Undrinkable. Really good coffee and Paris cannot be spoken about in the same breath. But Fauchon and the caf at BHV save the day, linking arms across the Ville Lumire. BHV has its charms also. But, I digress: BHV is another world. One day, `mon Alexandre et moi', will take you there. So, to the real story, finally.
Alexandre sat with his coffee and a Raspberry Macaroon; he composed, was composed, perched upon his high stool; his coffee and macaroon in turn, composed upon the high bench. I sat opposite, at an angle. The sounds, already understated at Fauchon, faded.
Now, beauty is not rare in Paris; it comes in many forms and places. But, Alexandre communicated much about extreme and absolute beauty without moving, without speaking. And, I knew instantly he was a dancer. Dancers compose themselves wherever they are: the way they sit, move, and stand. Their bodies articulate with unthinking control, elegance and sensuality. As an artist, I too compose myself but not as would a dancer. So, Alexandre sat composed, long and elegant coat in understated tweed; leather shoulder bag, impeccable shoes. And instantly I saw him as a painting. He `owned' the space. He was a painting already, a painting needing no artist. His hands also were sheer beauty. I notice hands. I think and muse: so did Leonardo da Vinci, so did Michelangelo. The hands of `La Joconde' and the `Creation of Man' are forever incised upon my brain and being.
Our eyes met. He smiled. I smiled back. He nodded and tipped his cup. I nodded and tipped my cup. He smiled again. I smiled back. With his elegant right hand, he motioned me to move closer, another dancer's move and gesture. I blushed and did so. He smiled. Words swirled in my brain. `L'inattendu, c'est toujours un trsor!" `The unexpected is always a treasure."
`Salut. C'est moi, Alexandre.' `Hello, I'm Alexandre.' He tipped his head.
I sipped my coffee.
`Salut, C'est moi Guillaume.' `Hello, I'm Guillaume.' I tipped my head. I sipped my coffee.
He smiled again, brighter than Louis IV, the Sun King ever could have managed, and continued in French.
`I come from a long line of Alexandres in my family but, I have to say, were I not Alexandre, I should love to have been named Guillaume.' The sensual perfection of his Touraine-accented French, kissed me, caressed me. Fauchon embraced me; Paris embraced me as the city and place of infinite possibility, occasion, opportunity and of `terroir d'amiti'.
I blushed again. He smiled and sipped his coffee. Our eyes met. There was no need for words. He smiled. I smiled back. I breathed in deeply, audibly:
`You're a dancer then?' My words startled him. The composure vanished, briefly.
`Do you know me? Have you seen me dance?'
I smiled.
`No, Alexandre. I have not seen you dance, but of course I would like to see you dance. Quite simply, I can see you are a dancer; I know you are a dancer.'
He cocked his head.
`But how, Guillaume?'
I thought for a moment.
`I'm an artist, a painter, I see, interpret and understand. It's simple. But also, last night I had a dream. It was a dream that I was going to meet a dancer, and not just any dancer, a dancer called Alexandre. I just didn't know when'.
His eyes fixed mine, beautiful brown eyes, which caressed. Close up, flawless, perfection. My heart was pounding. The poet I was then abandoned me, leaving me as the artist of images and ideas but at that moment, wordless.
Alexandre smiled, sipping his coffee and savouring each tiny bit of his macaroon.
I drained my coffee and wiped my mouth on the discreet Fauchon napkin.
He did the same and took my hand.
`On y va?' `Shall we go?'
`On a des annes d'clat dcouvrir!' `We have years of sheer brilliance to discover!'