The Sweet Spot

Once upon a time, there was a city of myth, a city of legends and, most importantly, a city of dreams. To many, especially those with a touch of the romantic, it was the City of Light. It was a city of stone, of brick and of wrought iron. These were things you could see, touch and, on a rainy day, smell. But there was more to this city than the physical sum of its parts; like so many things, you had to know where to look. And that’s where I come in, for I am a guide — some would say a special kind of guide.

I am what could be called an expert in les fées de Paris. That, for non-French speakers, means Fairies of Paris. I kid you not, they are real and ever-present; as I said, you just have to know where to look.

Of course, the French, being French, hate to call something for what it is. Just look at how a bread roll has to be called a baguette. So instead of calling the little will-o’-the-wisps that inhabit their capital fairies, they have named them Muses.

Fancy that, you say — and here I was thinking that writers, painters and poets created their great art all on their own. Of course, not everyone is privileged enough to see these fairies, and if you were unlucky enough to have an artistic bent, there is still no guarantee that you will. In fact, I’ve known a few artist types who wouldn’t recognise one even if it bent down and kissed their tortured forehead.

But you have me, of course, and like all good and reliable guides, I’m here to show you the way. And before we get all excited at the thought of fairies and the romance of Paris, let me tell you a little tale of heartache, and how not all fairies are benevolent. You can then tell me if you really do want to meet a Parisian fairy, flowing green gown and all.

It was some time back that a casual friend had arrived from the States. He was all angst and passion, saw himself as the next big thing in the Great American Novel tradition and, like those with an idea and a suitcase, decided to come to Paris to write the said work. Just like so many before him, he believed that sitting at a table on a café terrace, wine beside him, notebook and pen in place, was all you needed. Soon the words would pour onto the page, and by the end of spring, he’d have a manuscript that agents would be furiously bidding on.

You don’t need to be a struggling author to know that this was a foolish and naïve plan, and even if you believe in “once upon a time” tales, you know that even the best magic requires a little luck.

Harry had been giving this Paris thing a go for a few weeks when I bumped into him at his usual haunt. It wasn’t really a coincidence; he was always at the same table on the same terrace. As I sat down, I glanced at the blank page before him. I swear I was looking at the same page that had been blank a week ago.

“Not much inspiration in the Parisian air, then?” I asked.

“I just can’t make a decent start.” There was more than frustration in his voice; some would even call it desperation.

“Hmmm.” I hesitated in offering advice, but things were desperate. “What you need is a muse! A little kiss from a Parisian fairy. And I know just who and where.”

“You’re kidding. I don’t believe in that sort of nonsense,” he laughed. “And anyway, who has ever heard of a Parisian fairy?”

“Well, you might not believe, but many have benefited from a little magic from such a creature.”

“Yeah, sure. If you say so.” He really thought I was pulling his leg.

“Meet me back here tonight, and I’ll act as guide,” I suggested. “It is not for the faint of heart or the uninitiated.” And with a wink, I went about my day.

If you have only ever explored Paris during the hours of daylight and spent your evenings close to the brightly lit boulevards, then you have never seen the real Paris. To wander the dark alleys, the dimly lit streets free of tourists, is to step back into an earlier Paris. In fact, it’s a Paris that sits firmly in our imagination, but so few travellers experience it. And tonight, to top it all off, a steady drizzle was falling, keeping all but the die-hards and the desperate off the streets.

Harry was waiting for me on the café terrace, his long coat pulled tight. He looked miserable.

“Great night for a wander,” I joked.

He just rolled his eyes and stepped onto the pavement.

“Lead the way,” he murmured. “There’d better be a warm bar and a stiff drink at the end of this.”

“Rest assured, Harry, there will be all that — and more.”

We walked in silence through the darkened back streets of Montmartre, far away from the hilltop and its tour groups that, even on an evening such as this, were gathering in the Place du Tertre. It’s a funny thing about Montmartre: you only have to travel a block or two from the meringue-like domes of Sacré-Cœur, and you’re in a tourist-free zone. The bars became a little more authentic, the prices more realistic, and the mood a little more illicit.

“We are almost there,” I reassured my friend.

“I hope so.” Harry didn’t seem convinced of our adventure.

We turned onto Avenue Junot. It’s quite the classic Parisian street and, to the casual eye, very safe — very boring. But there is a tiny alley you would miss if you didn’t know where to look, and down here was our destination: an institution that dates back to the Belle Époque. And it was here that our little Parisian imp lived — the very elusive and almost extinct Green Fairy.

Once upon a time, little hole-in-the-wall shopfronts like this were waiting for the devotee, the curious and the naïve all across Montmartre, but now there was just this relic, a refuge for the muse of legend.

Dark timber-framed windows made obsolete by heavy black velvet curtains hinted at life within; the only sign the place was open was the cracks of warm, honey-toned light that suggested an invitation. Above the door, there was no name, just a small, simple sign with a stylised picture of a sugar cube, tinted green.

I opened the door and motioned Harry in.

“Soon all will be clear,” I said theatrically. “Or should I say less clear, but more inspiring.” Harry gave me a quizzical look, but stepped inside.

The room was small — too small to be described as a bar. A generous person might call it a parlour, all dark wood and deep green velvet. A counter, no bigger than a home cocktail bar, filled one corner, and just short of a handful of comfortable lounge chairs occupied the rest of the space.

It was a simple arrangement as far as the bar was concerned. An ornate silver-and-glass globe filled with ice water dominated the counter, along with a handful of delicate crystal glasses. Almost invisible behind it all, Marie was perched in place; she nodded as we entered.

“It’s been a while, mon ami,” was all she said as she turned over two glasses and reached beneath the counter.

“What is this place?” Harry asked, looking around, a little intrigued.

“It’s the home of the Green Fairy, of course.” I motioned to a deep chair. “Sit, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

The ornate bottle was labelless. In the muted light, it was hard to detect any colour to the liquid inside, but as Marie carefully poured it into the glasses, you could see a sparkling emerald green. Next, she rested a silver grill on each glass and gently positioned a lone sugar cube at the centre. Harry watched in fascination, but remained silent.

“Just a dose?” the bartender queried.

“Yes — just hit the sweet spot,” I explained. “My friend has never met the Green Fairy before, and he is searching for his muse.”

Marie gave me a knowing smile and carefully turned the silver tap on the water fountain. The water dripped onto the cube of sugar, suspended above the translucent green liquid. As the sugar-soaked water dissolved into the glass, the magic began. The blending liquid turned a milky green and swirled in the crystal glass. The Green Fairy was awake and seeking attention.

Harry sat up, intrigued by the ritual. I placed a glass in front of him and warned him.

“Sip it slowly, Harry. The Green Fairy will do her magic with more finesse if you are patient.”

“But what is it?” he asked, hesitant to put the glass to his mouth.

“It’s a gateway to the muse — the ethereal will-o’-the-wisp that will inspire you.”

“I doubt that,” he said, studying his glass.

“Well, my friend,” I said, taking a sip, “it was good enough for Oscar, Ernest and Vincent.”

“And Degas, Baudelaire and Pablo!” Marie added from behind the bar. “But most importantly, Lewis. Do you feel like going down the rabbit hole?” She winked.

Harry studied his glass, apprehensive about taking a sip — a taste, a plunge — I felt a tinge of guilt. Every journey into the unknown requires a warning.

“Just remember, Harry,” I said quietly, “the Green Fairy takes her pound of flesh. Nothing is ever free.”

He stared into my eyes and, without hesitation, drank the cloudy liquor in a single draft. I tried to stop him, but before Marie or I could catch his hand, the Green Fairy had done her work, and he slumped deep into the velvet-covered chair.

What do you do when someone has let the Green Fairy take them by the hand and lead them down the garden path? Marie, at least, was an old hand at this sort of thing. She reached into a cupboard and pulled out an old blanket.

“Don’t worry, mon ami. I’ve seen this nonchalance before. I will guide him.” She covered his sleeping form with the blanket. “You go your way.”

Guilt is for those with a conscience; this was something I tried to keep locked away. I left Harry in Marie’s more than capable hands and headed home through the deserted streets of Paris. The rain had moved on; Paris was reborn and ready for another day.

A week passed before I had a chance to catch up with Harry. There had been many distractions — including one or two fairy hunts — but eventually I felt the need to check in.

In Paris, the most efficient way to catch a friend is to haunt the cafés; sooner or later, you’ll stumble upon them. As expected, Harry was sitting at his usual table, wine at hand, a slim cigarette waiting, pen and paper doing their work. If you didn’t actually know Harry, you’d easily assume this was a man in control, a man deep in his craft. The pen moved in a blur, the words appearing on the page like magic.

Now, I’m no expert, but his words were good — they were true — and that’s what counts when it all comes down to it. But I needed to know. I had questions.

“So, Harry. How’s it go?” I asked.

“The writing is good,” was all he said.

“Sorry I left you that night,” I said, reaching for my conscience.

“It’s okay. The fairy has taken care of me,” he replied. It sounded more like an excuse than an explanation.

I sat. Silence stretched between us. I was desperate to read his words, but held back; he would share them when it was time. Coffee was ordered. I drank; he didn’t. His pen continued to chart its course. Two coffees in, Harry slid his pages across to me without looking up.

And here’s the thing. Harry had given himself to the Green Fairy — maybe not forever, but at least for now. I’d bumped into Marie, and she’d blurted out that Harry had become a habitual devotee. A night didn’t pass without a visit. She’d seen it before.

But when he slipped those pages across to me, they were something from beyond. They were perfect. Ernest would have been grudgingly in awe; Jack would have marvelled at their unending stream. They were more than deep. Some passages defied belief.

Harry looked across the table at me. He was not looking for approval; the Green Fairy had already nudged him in that direction. If I were honest, I’d say he was looking for a way out — a life raft — someone to pull him from the roar of the current. Because once you hitch yourself to the Green Fairy, it’s a wild ride, and let’s face it: talent and success are not for us mere mortals. And I’m not sure Harry knew he’d need more than the Green Fairy to see him through.