Young Lads and Ladies of the Night in Paris, 1963

Young Lads and Ladies of the Night – Paris, 1963

My mother took my cousin Billy and me as young teenagers to Paris for a couple of weeks in each of two summers, 1963 and 1964. One night we were walking in the red-light district of Pigalle, betimes watching the street performers in the shape of fire-eaters, dancers and jugglers, betimes ambling along looking at the shops, cafés and lights. Suddenly Billy took an interest in a dim alley.

He asked his Auntie Ella about the women he could see standing in doorways. They were theatrically dressed, and Billy wondered if it was some kind of Parisian pastime thing, perhaps cultural, women standing out like that, all dressed up, lingering around. Billy jested that he should say lingering in lingerie, a hint that he knew full well what the women were doing but wanted to protract the pretence for his morally upstanding aunt, or perhaps we should say rather that she didn’t want to discuss or talk about that kind of thing.

My mother was somewhat taken aback. She didn’t want anything to do with the obvious prostitutes, and simply said they were on the lookout, waiting for people. It would be better to keep away from them, better not to interrupt them in their watchfulness.

Billy was something of a Rock’n’Roll lover and player. He had a sudden flash of inspiration and said to his aunt,

“If you walked up that side street and stood with the waiters and watchers in the shadows, I could sing the line from the good Stones’ song, “Have you seen your mother, baby?” but I would change “baby” to “Graymy’”.

I had to confess I was taken with the diminutive word for Graham, giving me a warm kind of daftness suiting the occasion. I hadn’t realised my mother was so knowledgeable about Rock music when she said to Billy that the Rolling Stones hadn’t written the song yet, that it wouldn’t be for another year at least. She was impressed enough to say,

“That was a fantastical flash of audible envisioning. However you wouldn’t catch me up that alleyway, not on my nellie, never in my lifetime! And I would add if your Auntie Jo were here now – I’m sure you know she is much travelled, been around Europe and many of its cities …, that she’d say the same thing in total agreement with me.”

Billy suddenly started up singing again in full-throated style, as if he wanted to be part of the clamour and colour of the Place Pigalle and other performers there. When his aunt told him to stop, to wait for Jagger and Richards to write the song, to take the credit, Billy said he thought the advanced creativity was rather clever. Then he agreed to stop, but asking what they were doing a few minutes before. I knowingly and helpfully told him we were looking at gaudy women standing up the side street. My mother, not one to mince her words, told me to be quiet, and said to Billy quite forcefully,

“We are in the notorious nightlife and ribald red-light area of Paris. I think it is very interesting, wonderful to feel we are in such a different place, so much more colourful than where I was brought up in “dreich” Scotland.”

Billy was not one to be fobbed off when he took an interest in something, wanting to know more about it, even if was just to have a bit of fun. He said he remembered we were talking about the women we could still see

in the dim street, women waiting for people. He wanted to know what people. My mother said,

“I have a strong feeling that I know you know what they’re waiting for but I’m rather surprised that it happens in Paris, even in the Swinging Sixties.”

She added that maybe they were operating clandestinely, hence trying to keep undercover. It was intriguing, she had to admit, not something you’d see back home, women waiting and watching, all dressed up, decked out in fancy clothes, putting on airs, trying to look more attractive than they normally were.

Billy said it would be too cold back home. However, he wasn’t sure that he did know much about them, saying as innocently as possible,

“I just see a lot of women dressed up and standing in doorways and I’m wondering why they don’t pass their time in a more productive way. Standing about like that, idly smoking. It’s strange the way they stand, is coquettish the right word? Why don’t they come down here and join us streetwalkers, out in the open?”

My mother liked the expression, “streetwalkers”, saying it was rather ironic, agreeing with Billy somewhat that we were indeed walking the streets, too.

My mother well knew how to confront teenage effrontery, so when I dared to receive my mother’s disdain by saying I was very familiar with street walkers, I got this:

“Oh, you foolish fellow, you have no idea what you’re saying. Get along with you, go and look at the other performers, but don’t wander far, keep where I can see you!”

I wandered off to look at a dazzling fire-eater with his strong naked torso all splashed with paraffin from his swigging mouthfuls from an upended bottle. Then through a bundle of smouldering rags on a stick he sprayed it out into the night sky. Eye watering stuff! I wondered what the paraffin tasted like and how he managed to hold it in his mouth.

Billy continued to pretend he didn’t know about female streetwalkers saying,

“Auntie Ella, do you think they’re some kind of theatre or even street performers taking a break from the stage or street, and still wearing their garb?”

His aunt said she wished she could say “Yes” but it had to be “No”. She added that she was afraid they were simply trying to be attractive.

Billy suggested alluring. Would she use that word in this situation? After a moment, he asked what they were trying to attract.

My mother agreed that alluring was a good word. Then she asked Billy if he thought they were attractive looking for him. He replied completely with the purpose of annoying his aunt, “I would have to have a closer look at them.” She answered, fighting off getting into a fluster,

“No, no! There’s no time! Let’s go and find a nice cup of tea at one of the alluring cafés. Oh dearie me! Where’s Graham? I knew bringing a couple of teenage lads to Paris would cause headaches. Oh, there you are! Don’t go wandering off like that, it causes my heart to race and my head to dirl.”

I reminded her that it was she who had told me to go and have a look at the street performers. Billy, looking wistfully up the dim street, asked her if she thought the alluring women could do him harm. She said that wouldn’t be the case, they just wanted to attract attention, especially from well-off men.

Billy said that he was struggling a wee bit with the five or six women standing around in doorways, in the shadows, loitering there, lurking there. He wondered why they didn’t go to cafés and sit like normal folk sipping café au laits, like us from dull and chilly Scotland. He thought perhaps they were outcasts from society. I said I liked the idea of theatre performers possibly harking back to the Fin de Siècle, clothed the way they dressed back then in fine feathery costumes, and smoking cigarettes in long holders.

My mother said we were 60 years on now from that wondrous time. Outcasts aren’t so colourful, not even in Paris cafés. She added they couldn’t do what they do if they were out in the open, going on to say she thought they were plying an illegal trade. Billy said it was odd not many “gendarmes” were around. Actually she admitted to not knowing exactly the law in France on such back then, saying,

“I must find out, I’ll Google it when I get to our hotel.”

I said she wouldn’t be able to do that for at least another 40 years! She admitted to trying to be funny. Billy singing the Stones’ song came to mind.

Billy had the bit between his teeth and loved the fun of taking the rise out of his rather serious auntie. He said he was bothered by the fact that the waiters and watchers in the alleyway weren’t doing anything other than smoking, probably Gauloises. They just stood in strange poses with arms akimbo, knees in plain view, chins held up jauntily. He asked why there wasn’t that kind of thing back home.

My mother was surprised and said,

“Oh, my goodness me! It’s certainly not something you’d see back there, not even in a big old city like Edinburgh, I can tell you. And anyway, Billy, you know, I feel they’re trying to make a living and so we shouldn’t judge them too much for behaving … clandestinely. A good word that, I hope you note it. Can you spell it?”

She was desperately trying to divert his attention. Billy said he could spell “secretly” but not sure about clandestinely. He would look forward to hearing it from his aunt. For the moment he was too absorbed with the women, asking about them hiding away from authorities, being told they had customers. Billy said there was nothing on display for sale, but he’d have to take a closer look, and he took a few steps into the side street. I tried to go with him but my mother reproached and restrained me.

Billy had a good look, still from a safe distance, and returned announcing he couldn’t see anything for sale. My mother told him rather oddly that the goods were about their persons, making Billy chortle at the strange expression. He kept up his pretence at ignorance until his auntie was forced to ask him,

“Do you know what ladies of the night are? No? As I thought. They like to get attention, they like to receive payment for their services. And don’t dare ask me about “services”, you’ll find out some day when you’re older

but I sincerely hope not in the flesh, so to speak.”

All right, enough of all this, my readers must agree the topic has been well and truly exhausted. It’s time to bid farewell to the Place Pigalle.

My mother said, “We are so lucky to be here in ‘gai Paree’, walking about, taking in the beauties … maybe I should say wonderful sights. Look! Look! There’s the Moulin Rouge. If we had the money we could go in and see the dancers doing the Can-Can. You boys are so lucky, you will be much changed by this great experience.”

Billy wasn’t finished yet though. He asked if he could be changed by going further up the alleyway. My mother had had enough and told him to be quiet. However, he asked when ladies of the night originated. My mother was pleased to move to something more intellectual, and had a good guess, saying they were common in the Belle Epoque, possibly over 70 years ago. It was a “Beautiful Age” when life improved greatly for many people, sadly not poor people though. It was a time of growth, stability and colourful entertainments. She continued by saying,

“Oh, the joys of Paris, here we are, can’t you just feel it? The history, like it’s been this way for centuries. It’s in the cobbled streets, in the very stone. It’s a wonderful thing! Now, what will we do tomorrow? How about the art galleries like the Louvre or the Orsay Museum.”

Billy calmly said we wouldn’t be able to go to The Orsay art gallery yet, it wouldn’t change from being a railway station for another 20 years. My mother congratulated Billy on managing to get his own back after she told him about the Stones song not being written yet.

His Auntie Ella said by way of moving on hastily,

“How about a Seine River Cruise, but the tourist boats, the Bâteaux Mouches are way too expensive for us. Maybe there’s something cheaper.”

Billy said that would have to be the local boat, the Batobus but not much use for them at that time because it wouldn’t start up until 1989. My mum made more suggestions, such as famous churches, great parks and cemeteries, writers’ houses and the markets. She said they should go to the historic market of Les Halles, “Le Ventre de Paree”, right in the centre of Paris. She suggested getting up very early the next morning. Billy, not much of an early bird, made a mental note to give that a miss. He didn’t know that the market would be demolished to make way for Centre Pompidou art gallery in 1977. We felt privileged to be able to recall the black old buildings full of fresh food and shoppers. Also having a seven o’clock coffee in a glass at a nearby corner café.

My mum, spotting a shop, suddenly said, “Let’s have an ice cream! Here’s money for three ‘glaces’. Make mine the flavour of Absinthe if possible. Then she told us about the great writer, Ernest Hemingway who lived a while in Paris.

“He said ... I mean to say he wrote about Paris:

If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.

She said, “That’s what I’ve been telling you, haven’t I? Hemingway was proof of the City of Light’s ability to change people. Great writing, ‘a moveable feast’.”

She suddenly noticed Billy wasn’t there. He had gone back and up the alleyway, and was speaking to the “beauties”: “Bonsoir, madame, er, mademoiselle … .”

A couple of minutes later he came back towards us, quietly singing

another Stones hit, “Honky Tonk Women”, very appropriate. His aunt said, “I nearly fainted when I noticed you’d gone. I’ll give you the honky tonk blues! Tomorrow morning, out of bed 5.30. We’re off to Les Halles! It won’t be there for ever, you know!

I have been to Paris over 50 times since that first visit over 50 years ago. I am sure my mother was glad that she had gifted me the desire and ability to go often to Paris: walking its hidden streets and open boulevards, viewing its regal parks and walled gardens, musing over headstones in Père Lachaise or Montparnasse cemeteries, and occasionally being asked for directions by people thinking I was a Parisian, and I would delight in being able to help them. Paris, my moveable feast!

Billy recalled in later years how he saw one of the alleyway women, a busty blonde, thrust her hand between the legs of a potential customer.

A final word (I promise!) Google told me about “Prostitution in 1960s Paris” saying that it was “a visible, thriving and tolerated practice in districts such as Pigalle”. So it was perhaps a little strange, as Billy remarked at the time, that they seemed to be hiding away.