Maggie sat on the front stoop, hothouse flower in her black robe with its exotic summer flowers – red, pink and yellow – vibrant and pulsing against the nondescript doorframe and concrete. Her hair had grown longer, curls of red hair spiking upward, the gray eyes and pouting mouth down. She was rounder, more womanly, the midsummer air heavenly against her skin. She felt herself transported by the sound of her long-lost friends the cicadas. They’d arrived quietly two weeks before, ancient visitors from a faraway land laden with silk or spice. In the dusk she could hide away unseen, images of the visitor in her room (yours truly) mixing in with thoughts of the swollen river and reeds by her father’s house in the Chesapeake, of a pair of golden espadrilles she’d once owned, of the dock, the wooden planks through which she could watch the river’s current picking up speed with the incoming tide.
She’d been dreaming that entire week, medication’s withdrawal restoring her vivid mind, thoughts circling around her like bloodthirsty mosquitos. Thoughts I did not understand. Thoughts of Pandora, of birds tweeting and instant telegrams or some such – things I do not understand, things I have written below in a style not my own, providing the reader with a sense of the voice of Maggpie , clearly not my own. Or rather, an amalgam, adept as I am up to a certain point at creating a pastiche of another’s voice.
Her thoughts turned to Cambrai, provincial town par excellence, Maggpie imagining how enthralled they might be at the thought they might play such a central role in the narrative of the Recherche! The town could be a comrade in arms, a potential partner, someone who stood to benefit from her two kings. She could float the idea of Cambrai as chamber in front of the chamber of Cambrai. Change the economy of the town! Initiate a rivalry with Illiers-Combray, haha! But no. That would not be smart. She mustn’t antagonize.
A customized Proust tour would need to start at lliers-Combray, of course. Madeleines and tea upon arrival. A visit to the house of Tante Léonie, the water lilies of Vivonne and so on.
Second stop- Paris. Breakfast of croissants and coffee with an actor playing the part of Mme.Verdurin followed by a tour of the Musée Carnavalet to see Marcel’s cork-lined room, the room where it happened! An evening of chamber music honoring Reynaldo – of course! – followed by a dinner featuring Françoise’s boeuf à la casserole with asparagus (homage to the household maid Françoise torturing the chamber maid, allergic to asparagus). Then a walk through the Luxembourg Gardens and a re-enactment of the park scene with young Reynaldo and Marcel wrestling somewhere off in a corner. And interspersed in all this, of course, readings from the books, explication du texte and so on.
Third stop- Cambrai. Martin and Martine ringing the bells. Candies (Bêtises de Cambrai) passed around. A lecture on Merovingien history and the fortifications of Cambrai. Follow with a carriage ride and a look back at the three towers in the distance. Hire an actor to play young Marcel in his yellow raincoat with an umbrella, walking the countryside, then in a wagon with a pencil and paper writing his first pages. A older Marcel accompanied by Fenelon, touring the countryside by motorcar. Finish off with a dinner- like that méchoui she’d been to in Gascogne one summer. Fifty-foot long tables eight or ten abreast, sacs of baguette, bottles of wine down the tables. Lights strung up over the patio, the town up and dancing in circles to the drums and hornpipes of the local players. A bonfire wider than a house, two tiers of coals -one flaming, one of glowing embers—and village men in long white aprons, bellies extended, grilling hunks of meat – roast lamb- drinking and laughing, faces ruddy in the reflecting fire. Any and all welcome, not just the tour group but the locals. Better yet if coinciding with a town festival.
Better yet, a BYOM with giants. Bring your own Methusaleh! A head table with Marcel presiding, along with giants Martin and Martine. Rabelais and Pantagruel as their honored guests! They drink from Methuselah bottles, then dance with their hammers held high in the air until the clock strikes midnight, witching hour, the Moors returning to their clock tower.
Four. Venice! A gondola ride through the canals, followed by a lecture, short, on The Stones of Venice by a John Ruskin look-alike. A climb to the top of the Torre dell’Orologio. Dinner in the piazza, sun setting on magnificent pink stone of the Duomo, cathedral with its four horsemen presiding over the group. A magnificent Bal de Tête finale with a Carnevale theme and masked guests.
So much to do! So little time. She climbed the stairs, logged onto Amazon and ordered a sign in French, hotel-style, one she could flip from Ne Pas Deranger to Do Not Disturb. Texted Fanny: Need to go shopping. Nothing to wear for the big Proust dinner. Fanny would love that!