The Persian Shah, King Hussein and Madame Claude of Paris

The Persian Shah, King Hussein and Madame Claude of Paris

The queen of Paris’s assignation houses, Madame Claude, who ran the famous network of high-class call girls and was certainly a legend in her own lifetime, has recently been sentenced in absentia to all sorts of prison terms and fines. Many people, in circles that are not at all popular, miss Madame Claude’s house of assignation today. We would like to mention here two people who have been through a lot since then. But all the same, it is pleasant to remember.

The revelations come from one of Madame’s girls, who has decided today, on the eve of her wedding, to tell her exclusive memories. And she has quite a story. Her clients, she says, were the (former) Shah of Iran and Hussein, King of Jordan.

The rules of etiquette were strictly observed at the house of assignation. “I was instructed to address the Shah as ‘Your Highness’ and not simply ‘Sir.’ When the Shah wanted to meet with me, one of his men would telephone Madame Claude. The meetings were always arranged at a luxurious hotel in Paris. It was very pleasant. The Shah is a very gentle man, and whenever I arrived I always found champagne and caviar. There’s nothing better for getting into shape...”

King Hussein, it seems, was in shape all the time. He is the real star of the story, if we may put it that way.

“As far as virility is concerned, the warmest compliments go to King Hussein,” says the experienced girl. “After we had been formally introduced according to all the rules of etiquette, we got down to business, and believe me, we were not bored. In the king’s company I experienced a real storm of the senses...”

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The customer gets eaten alive...

Funny restaurants are a well-known institution in Paris. Everything happens there to give the place an amusing character. They spray the customers; the toilet sings at full blast. You name it.

What is interesting about the whole thing is that, funny as it may be, the joke only goes one way. They laugh at the customer who arrives with a broad, expectant smile, ready for anything. Just try joking at the staff’s expense! Many of them, men and women alike, have no sense of humour at all. They are working. You came to have fun. So you get eaten alive. There is something to it. Of course, that is not always the case. More on that later.

In any case, the most effective invention is the pair of binoculars handed to the astonished diner instead of a menu. The menu itself is written in chalk on a board far, far away on the opposite wall. And even with the binoculars, you can barely make out more than the names of the dishes. The bill arrives at the end, individually and in writing. That is when you see the price too. We wanted to write a cheque that could only be read through a magnifying glass. We didn’t manage it.

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Another Saturday night in Paris

“Le Palace” is Paris’s disco palace. A theatre auditorium turned into the most beautiful discotheque in the world, with people who are always trying to be the most extravagant. So it was no wonder that when the opening of a summer branch of “Le Palace” was announced in the resort town of Cobourg on the Atlantic coast, all the who’s who, in their dazzling outfits and revealing necklines, hurried along with the regular Saturday-night crowd to the special “Trans Palace Express” train, which left Paris in the evening.

It really was a very special train. Relentless, storming disco music. Flashing lights. Legendary quantities of champagne and a five-course meal. And above all: dancing. Everyone was there. The man with the golden wings. The woman in red feathers. The melancholic character. The naked woman with something unclear on her chest. As usual.

At half past midnight the inebriated train reached Cobourg, and it seemed the tracks, too, had become somewhat unstable. There, dozens of cars in an early-century style awaited the arrivals. The late Scott Fitzgerald would surely have moved from alcohol to hard drugs if he had been lucky enough to be here.

Then about a thousand people danced there until dawn. The woman with the red feathers changed colours. The melancholy changed men. The naked woman took the golden wings for an early-morning walk on the beach. The palm trees turned pale and sweated, apparently from lack of chlorophyll. The champagne ran out quickly too. But the whisky, it must be admitted, lasted until morning. Breathing was impossible. Drinking — yes. And dancing, dancing.

At half past six in the morning the mad train set off for Paris. Inside it, a collection of snoring corpses, whose mouths were opened only by coffee and a traditional “croissant.” Another Parisian Saturday night had gone just as it should.

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A sandwich from Hitler’s hands

Ariane Mnouchkine’s “Mephisto” is the best theatre you can see in Paris this summer. Much less innovative and astonishing than the spectacle she put on about the French Revolution, but still interesting theatre, in a piquant location, with many powerful moments.

The play is based on the book by Klaus Mann (son of the great Thomas Mann, who took his own life). It tells the story of the rise and fall of a prominent German theatre actor into the arms of the Nazi machine. The setting: Germany in the twenties and thirties. The play moves back and forth, from a traditional theatre stage at one end of the hall to an anti-Nazi cabaret stage in the style of those days, presenting authentic texts by Erika Mann (the sister). The audience sits on very low, very hard benches. (We brought a cushion from home. We’re experienced by now.) The benches have movable backrests, so you can change direction according to what is happening. Mnouchkine dedicated the play to all the actors who were murdered during that period. Their names, shown at the end of the four-hour performance, are projected against enormous sheets of paper at the side of the hall, with moving footage of a concentration camp behind them.

The venue has been the traditional home of the “Théâtre du Soleil” for ten years. An old military camp that served as an ammunition storehouse, in the Bois de Vincennes near Paris. The actors who took the soldiers’ place live there communally and do everything around the production themselves: they sell tickets and run a buffet. The dressing room is also the waiting room, where the hungry audience (four hours!) pounces on sandwiches, beer, wine and everything else. As is customary, the actors serve the audience in their performance costumes. This time it came out a little macabre. Can you imagine what it’s like to get a cheese sandwich and two francs’ change from Adolf Hitler’s hands (more precisely: his cabaret double), or to drink a beer sold to you by two “S.S.” men in uniform, boots and all, a reminder of another, distant beer cellar...

Brrrrrr...