Chambre de Bonne
03.11.2012 
Have you ever wanted something so intensely that not getting it—or even getting it—made you sick? That's what happened to me last week.
When did I first see the light from a sixth floor window in Paris, one of those alluring little chambres de bonnes—maids’ rooms—attic aeries where so many writers I’d read about had written, or placed their characters?
It must have been the summer after my freshman year of college, a sad year in spite of the fact that two out of the three courses I took were splendid, one in French literature, one in anthropology.
My sister, Jane and I were about to start college at the Sorbonne (she) and Oxford (I) in the fall. But first we had several weeks in Paris before my mother and three youngest siblings arrived.
I wanted one of those writing rooms then, and I wanted it years later after rereading in Ernest Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast of his climbing up to his chambre de bonne each morning and writing until he’d shaped a story to his satisfaction.
For the year and a month that Richard and I have lived in Paris, I’ve been fervently picturing getting one of these rooms.
At the February meeting of our syndic, coop board, I asked if anyone knew of a chambre de bonne for rent in our building or nearby.
“Oh no!” came the chorus. “They’re rarely available and anyway, there are waiting lines. Everyone wants one.”
Disappointing news.
Then a bit of synchronicity. It’s been happening a lot lately. When you run into the one person to whom you need to speak, though you may not see him or her again for another six months. I ran into someone we know who knows the neighborhood.
“Quick!” she said (in French). “Call this number. The tenant is moving out of her chambre de bonne.”
I called. As Richard and I met the agent to look at the room, another prospective tenant was leaving, and another was due shortly.
The room was just big enough for a writing desk and chair. There was wall space to put up index cards to map out stories and novels. And there were two windows, one facing the Pantheon. The Pantheon!
I felt sick with lust. The agent would call me, she said. She had many other appointments. Later that day, she called to say the owner would make a decision after the weekend.
After the weekend?! That was four days away!
The following Monday she called. The chambre de bonne was mine. But we wouldn’t sign a lease for another two weeks.
Are you canceling the ad? I asked.
No, she said, but we won’t show it again unless something prevents us from signing.
Prevents us from signing? But how, I wondered aloud, do I know he, or you, won’t change your mind in the next two weeks?
Confiance, she said. Trust.
Trust? In two people I don’t know, in a country whose customs are decidedly not Anglo-Saxon? In my native land, we’d have signed that lease and written that check the day the owner decided.
I had envisioned what I’d do with every square inch of space in this tiny chambre de bonne. And now I had to wait another two weeks, still not knowing that the room was definitely mine.
So I got sick. Just a cold, but enough to keep me from writing, and from posting on Paris Play. Richard caught it first and generously shared it with me. A friend said that half of Paris had it, and it was a stubborn strain. I rarely get colds. I’d forgotten what it feels like to be so exhausted that you can't imagine ever leaving your apartment again.
And then this afternoon it lifted. I went out for the first time in a week. Astonishing how vivid the world looks when you’ve been home sick for a week. I made five stops in about as many blocks.
At the enchanting little Greek shop, I had to linger in front of the window for at least five minutes to gaze at the proprietor’s miniature display. Interspersed with bottles of Cretan honey in black pots painted like ancient Greek vases with gods’ faces in orange (it was full of thyme, said the label) and spanakopita, were miniature statues of the Venus de Milo, busts of Socrates, donkeys with old men on their backs, a whole little diorama.
I went in to buy walnuts and pine nuts. The silver-haired Greek man behind the counter wore a NY Yankees cap.
Was he a fan? I asked.
Nah, he’d found it at the Acropolis.
At the dry cleaners, the proprietor said they didn’t do repairs. Verbal exchanges in Paris often begin this way. “Non, nous ne faisons pas cela ici. Il ne peut pas être fait.” (We don’t do that here. It can’t be done.) And then someone offers an exception! The woman ironing said that a friend of hers could fix my jeans whose hems were fraying because they were too long. She was ironing a shirt with a bright geometric pattern that dazzled my eyes.
At the little grocery, 8 à Huit, I found some good-looking broccoli and zucchini, but the Moroccan man at the counter said it wasn’t enough to use my credit card. But I was out of cash. We counted out my remaining coins, beautiful copper and silver discs, and there was just enough.
Our flower shop had tulips in an orangey-red for the fireplace mantel, and roses in a coral shade for Richard’s office. Les fleurs! A room full of living jewels!
Les Pâtes Vivantes was packed. I ordered a Szechuan beef soup with cilantro, scallions and noodles which a Chinese chef made in a glass box right in front of you. He tossed and rolled and pulled the dough into long cream-colored strings. This was a treat for Richard who had been out roaming all day taking photos, and would be ravenous when he returned. His studio is the whole of Paris.
It suddenly seemed real. Next week I’d have my studio. It seems to me that I’ve been waiting for this forever.
Reader Comments (19)
Wait. Is this part one? Where, bon Dieu (which spellcheck just altered to 'diet') is part deux??
Did you get it? Did you not get it?
My life's been chock-full of hurry-up-and-wait, I'm sick of it. I finally get back to my beloved Paris Play for a bit of R&R, and I get...
...a cliffhanger??
Maybe bon Diet is trying to tell me something....
Worth the wait! Happy writing.
Seeing as how you have had to wait your whole life for a Chambre de bonne, its not too much to ask of your readers to wait a week or two to find out if you got it. And FYI--I suspected you were sick because I've felt a void coming from Paris Play. Glad it was not serious and happy to have you back. xo John
Dear Anna,
We sign the papers on Wednesday the 14th, and I'm doing what the agent said to do: having confiance. I did get the sense that it will go through, but if it doesn't, that will be another story for Paris Play.
You must mean you're waiting to hear about your film and TV deals happening. Enough to drive you mad, non? Mon Diet! This is a good new expression which I will use.
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Annie!
Thank you! It WILL be worth the wait.
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Dear John,
You'll be back in Paris soon! No, you're right, waiting another few days is not too much to ask of me or of you.
You are pretty intuitive! We almost wrote a post saying we were sick, but thought it would be too dull. We're happy to be back, happy to feel energetic again.
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Bon courage; bon confiance!! (excuse any errors in my French!)
So happy....a room of one's own.......
Hugs from sunny AZ,
Sister Suki
I found this journal piece to be breathtaking. Whether you get that chambre de bonne or another matters not. You have confiance. It was clear to me.
And Richard, that stairwell! So evocative, so perfectly placed.
I am, I am not ashamed to declare, a Paris Play addict!
A chambre de bonne hanger!
I am sure it fell into your lap, like a ripe peach.
I'm glad for you.
P.S. I loved Richard's pictures, the Verlaine/Hemingway place.
Does he write poems any more?
Bruce
Tristine, thank you for the compliment, and for your addiction. Only Kaaren has the knees left to walk six floors up to a chambre de bonne, so she deserves it. I am a slave to elevators now.
Hugs,
--Richard (and Kaaren)
Bruce:
That Verlaine/Hemingway building is a few blocks up the hill from us, on the rue Descartes. Contrary to what the sign says, Hemingway didn't LIVE there, it was actually the building where he had his chambre de bonne. He and Hadley and Bumby lived just around the corner from rue Descartes, at 74 rue du Cardinal Lemoine.
As for poems, photography has become my primary image-making tool now, but I don't rule out the idea that the odd poem may arrive unbidden.
Hugs,
Richard (and Kaaren)
Suki,
C'est ca! Virginia was right--we all need rooms of our own.
Thank you for your good wishes. And greetings from sunny... Paris! Yes, the sky is as blue here as in Arizona today. One more week till spring.
Much love,
Kaaren (and Richard)
I am holding trust and faith and the vision for this to be yours, and that if not this chambre de bonne, another will present itself (and this one will just feed your vision for it to manifest). There will be an exception. There will be just enough change. Just the right person to fix the hem. It can be done.
I loved the image of the two women walking -- bright and pure.
So happy that you are both feeling better -- xo
Jennifer,
Thank you! I hope it's this one though, as I'd love looking out at the Pantheon.
Your words could be a mantra of sorts for keeping faith: "There will be an exception. There will be just enough change. Just the right person to fix the hem. It can be done." Nicely put!
Richard spotted those two girls a few weeks ago in the Marais. They are bright and pure, aren't they?
I just sent you my comments on your novel, and I think you'll be well pleased. What a great read.
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Kaaren, this is exquisitely wonderful! I enjoyed every minute of it. It is definitely your metier. I love it and ironically just started a Hemingway book of short stories which I found at my dump! He is such an author to re-read, isn't he?
love you,
cc
Dear Kaaren! (and Richard, too, of course)...
I hope that by now, on St. Patrick's Eve, you will have signed your lease for your very own Chambre de Bonne and soon will be gazing out at Voltaire's final resting place. Oh, how I hope this comes true for you!
Just curious: what is the translation for chambre de bonne? Good room? Or Room of Good Things? Perhaps, for you, both?
And I, too, suspected you might have been sick. I hope you're both feeling much better and regaining your strength, physically and creatively.
And Richard ~ your photos are exquisite as always. Such a treat!
Sending you love! Have been *really* missing you lately, dear Kaaren...
~ dawna
p.s. that image of the Pantheon reminded me immediately of that delightful film "The Red Balloon"!
xo,
d
Carol,
What a delicious message from you! Thank you so much. I've been re-reading Hemingway's stories, too. What knocks me out is his economy and sensory detail. I love what he leaves out. What alarms me about so many of them is how murderous he is, towards both his male and female characters. He was always pointing a gun at someone, till he finally pointed it at himself.
Much love,
Kaaren (and Richard)
Dear Dawna,
Having just posted "A Room for Dreaming," I can now respond to your question. As you'll see in reading our latest post, we did get that room. I'm impressed that you know that Voltaire was buried in the Pantheon. You know your French history.
"Chambre de bonne" means maid's room. At one time, when Parisians usually had maids, they stayed in the rooms at the top of buildings, usually on the sixth floor right under the mansard. Some are still used for cooks and nannies, but more are used as offices for residents, or rented out.
We are so glad to feel well again. But we keep running into friends who have the same cold (it might really be a flu, who knows?).
You're right, Richard's photo does bring "The Red Balloon" to mind! He thanks you for the compliments.
I've been missing you, too. So glad you'll be here this summer!
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)