Paris Plays

Note: PARIS PLAYS is part autobiography and part anthology of the Paris years of the American playwright Jack Fitzgerald. Going to Paris in 1971, he founded The Paris English Theater and presented the premiere productions of nine of his plays. Fitzgerald’s plays are humorous but dark in tone and filled with wit that wounds, delicious irony and dialogue that skewers the vapid beliefs of everyday society.

Cold Duck closed on February 16, 1974, after ten very successful performances—ten being the maximum performances allowed by that obscure French law of 1945. We were so successful that we now could even boast of having a following. What with the availability of the mimeograph machine, The Paris English Theater could even send out a newsletter to its patrons and members.

We thought immediately about mounting another production and I approached Fabiénne Mai and her partner Pierre Arnaudeau about the availability of the Tertre. They were delighted to have us, they said, but they had no openings—and the worst part was that their lease on the theater ran out as of the end of the year. I had never asked them about the present day circumstances of the theater because they were such a wealth of information about its past.

We had become good friends during the run because we enjoyed a mutually productive arrangement, had made them money and presented them with no demanding ego problems. I could tell the two of them were sad that they could not accommodate us.

I asked about the future of the place. I knew it was pretty run down but still the vestiges of its former elegance shown through. I thought perhaps some group or the city itself might be taking it over to refurbish the site because of its historical importance. I asked her if that were the case and, almost in tears, Fabiénne told me she wished it were. She enlightened me to the present state of affairs facing the Tertre. The owner had recently died and the heirs intended selling the historic site to a corporation who planned to put in a large parking lot and a mini-supermarket in its place. I couldn’t believe it. She said that there were people fighting the proposition on grounds of its being a national treasure but they were not having much success against the corporate group that was involved. She said that the heirs only wanted money—that they were not interested in its historical significance. She added that perhaps before their lease ran out with the heirs, someone or some group could come up with enough money or influence or both to save the place. I told her I certainly hoped that someone would come to her rescue.

On March 1, 1974, about two weeks after I had gone to visit Fabiénne, she phoned me with some good news. A group had cancelled the date of their production and she had an open ten-day space for me from May 23 to June 2, 1974. I immediately said yes with great elation. However, just as in the case of News from Frieda, I did not have a play written to put on. Again I was not going to give this last opportunity to put on a play in English at the fabulous old Theatre du Tertre to the likes of Ibsen, Shakespeare, Williams and crowd. Their plays were playing over and over at every little theater in the world. I decided that I would come up with something on my own.

I pulled a good search in that one closet of our apartment and this time did find those notes from Mexico. Among them was the beginning of a play that I had started entitled Maundy Thursday—named after the day before Good Friday.

Before my teaching stint at the State University in Plattsburg, New York, both Ken and I had taught high school in Southern California. Even though we shared a home, he taught French in San Bernardino and I taught Spanish in Riverside. In those days, I began to have an inclination (I should call it an “itch”) to try my hand at becoming a published writer. In an attempt to satisfy my urge, I wrote short stories. I sent them off everywhere but they all landed up in the same place—rejection city.

Most summers though, Ken and I traveled. That why we told people we taught. We loved having the free time to go places and see thing far removed from our daily routines.

Once summer Joe Leuenberger, a fellow Spanish teacher where I taught, and I took a trip in his van down through Mexico and into Guatemala. Ken was teaching summer school and when it was over would fly down and meet us in Guatemala City.

Things went just great with Joe and me on the trip. A trip like this from the top to toe of Mexico would be a very enlightening and fun cultural experience. As we neared Guatemala, we were getting excited because we had heard so much about how colorful it was and how its folklore still influenced the daily life there. As we were waiting to cross the border, the Mexican border guards told us that the country was in a bit of a political upheaval. They explained that the countryside was rife with rebels. Some people had been kidnapped and held for ransom—and others harassed. Joe, a married man with five kids back home, didn’t know what to do. I wanted to go see this beautiful country and so did Joe. We talked to some other tourists who were about to drive over and they said they were going to take the chance. They heard the most the rebels did was to stop people and demand money to pass through their roadblock. We ultimately decided to cross over because we hadn’t come this far to chicken out.

Immediately on the other side of the border, Guatemala beckoned to us like another world. It was totally Mayan. So many of its inhabitants still dressed as they did when the Spaniards first arrived. Their clothing was extremely colorful and all based on a colorful parrot of the country, the Quetzal. This bird is strikingly beautiful with a crested head, bronze-green back and crimson and white under parts. Its tail feathers are about 2 feet long and shimmering green. This bird was associated with Quetzalcoatl, the god of the air whom they worshipped. The unit of currency in Guatemala is the Quetzal—and at that time was on the par with the dollar.

Everything was a vivid rainbow of colors. I remember one night we stopped at a coffee plantation. The next morning when we awoke and walked to the main house for breakfast, we noticed that the white chickens grazing under the coffee trees had all been dyed different colors.

The vegetation was lush, floral and beautiful. The people in the countryside and small towns dressed in their white and rainbow colored clothing, still worshipped the old gods as well as the new Catholic gods. They had legends about everything and were a very dramatic blend of the past and the present.

We got about halfway to Guatemala City and were passing through a very thick jungle area. We had to be very careful in driving because the natives used the highway for everything from drying their laundry to drying out cashew nuts. Even so, all of a sudden some trucks came out and blocked our way. Rebels! We stayed as calm as we could. They smiled a lot and we smiled nervously back at them. They rubbed their thumbs on their forefingers indicating that we should come across with some money for them. We were already prepared for this eventuality and had a wallet with thirty dollars in it that we gave them. They seemed quite happy and let us go.

We continued on to Guatemala City and were glad to be in the civilization of a city for a breather. We picked up Ken at the airport and filled him in on all our adventures up to that point. We stayed a couple of days in Guatemala City at a very nice hotel that wasn’t expensive and even had a nice swimming pool.

One night we went out on the town to see what was what happening. We found very little nightlife except for the high-class type in the top hotels or at seedy bars catering to anybody who happened in. The bar we chose to go inside was called the Romance Bar. It was on the ground floor of a very cheap hotel and truly was something to behold. The lobby of the hotel and the bar had a plethora of silver and gold cutout stars, crescents, and exotic native décor. The live decoration was pretty much well wall-to-wall prostitutes plying their trade.

We were friendly but of course had no idea of becoming clients. However, that didn’t stop us from chatting with the girls and buying them drinks. The prostitute that struck our fancy the most was named Chucha. She was fat and in a very tight hourglass type dress. To say she was “a full-figured girl” would be putting it mildly. Her manner of dress, her jewelry, her frankness and her bigger-than-life personality fascinated us. Underneath all her showy façade though, I got the sense that she had had a very sad life. She reeked of drama. As far as I was concerned, she could have given Joan Crawford and Bette Davis acting lessons. Every statement she made and every puff on her cigarette was punctuated with a dramatic pose. It was very easy for me to visualize her as the lead in some heroic play.

Back in California when Ken, Joe and I would reminisce about our trip, Chucha would always come up. I decided I had to write a play about her. I started one but didn’t get very far. I just couldn’t nail her character down to anything plot wise. This unfinished play was Maundy Thursday that I mentioned earlier.

Fast forward to Fabiénne Mai’s asking me to do a new play and my agreeing—and our talking about a little over two months to have it ready. I took Maundy Thursday out of the closet and gave what I had written a read. After finishing, I began thinking back over the time Ken, Mamma and I had spent the night in that whorehouse hotel in Marseilles. Then I thought about those rebels in Guatemala asking for money. I put it all together—and in about two weeks I had come up with a new play that I called Hotel Virginia. And yes, Chucha was the leading character. I thought how amazed she would probably be to know that her personality and name would be the star of a play in Paris, France. Of course there was no way to let her know—but it was still amazing that she made it to Paris—every Latin American puta’s dream!

The play contains four native characters and six American tourists. The location is a whorehouse in a dingy, seedy hotel in an isolated small town in Guatemala. The casting was a bit of a problem in that no one from my former plays fit any of the characters. I had to advertise in the International Herald Tribune and hope I could come up with a strong cast. Fabiénne was gracious enough to let us hold the casting session at the theater.

Quite a few talented people showed up. I had never seen any of these people before but that was okay by me. I’ve always considered open calls a good thing. I did see two familiar faces in the crowd though. They were Roland and Lois Curtin, the parents of Barbara Curtin who had played Harriet in The Apollo Experiment. You remember them. Roland got to be the caretaker at the American Church where we did The Apollo Experiment. Lois was his attractively pleasant wife who was rather mousy and quiet. I was quite glad to see them but had no idea why they were there. Roland informed me that his son-in-law Bill (Mac in News from Frieda and Elliot in The Apollo Experiment) and Barbara had told him one of the characters was an older fellow—and that he’d like to read for it. I smiled and got him a script. There was no way I could say no. I read him for the role of “Doc” Webber. It turned out he was “Doc” Webber. He was very pleased that I was pleased. I thought that to be nice I ought to ask Lois if she wanted to read too because there was an older role, that of Doc’s wife, Miriam. She blushed and managed to giggle out a “heavens no”. Roland, who called her “Lo”, said, “Hey, Lo, go ahead and give it a shot.” She scrunched up her face as though she were about to receive a flu shot and agreed. She knocked my socks off. She was Miriam. I asked them if they had ever done any acting before and they assured me they hadn’t.

I cast them in the parts of Doc and Miriam—and I’m here to tell you that they knocked the socks off the audience every night. Miriam has a long monologue in Act II and I originally wondered if she would be able to memorize and do it. The end result was that she had people crying every night. The two of them were just naturals.

The other characters in the play were very well cast and I was happy we could proceed on such a strong footing. Just as we went into rehearsals, Frank James, my cousin from Pasadena, California, dropped by to stay with us for a few days while he was “bumming around Europe”, as they used to say. He was a theater major at Cal State. To say he was excited that I was putting on a play would be putting it mildly. I told him if he wanted to stay on with us in our one-room apartment and be our stage manager that would be great. He accepted.

The rehearsals went along just fine. We had a great set, light and sound designer. We even managed to capture some of those gold and silver stars and crescents from the original hotel and bar.

Our opening was set for Thursday, May 23,1974. On May 19^th I got a telephone call from my brother Paul informing me that our mother Ruth Fitzgerald had passed away from a heart attack in Houston, Texas, that night. As you might imagine, I was devastated for several reasons. First, because she had so recently been to Paris and had had such a wonderful time. Next, my play was in the final two rehearsals before dress rehearsal—and the critics would be coming on opening night. I would have to leave the play in charge of Frank and I had no idea how that would work.

I had no option except to immediately book a flight from Paris to Houston—which fortunately at that time was a direct flight via Air France. On the morning of the 20^th I left for this sad journey back home. Quickly I got out my Olivetti and wrote a note for Ken to read to the cast and crew as I had no time to talk to any of them. Here are the contents of that letter:

I am sorry at this critical time in the formation of the show to have to leave, but I received word from my family yesterday that my mother passed away. I am flying this morning to Houston, Texas, and from there will go with my family to Okolona, Mississippi, where the funeral will take place.

I am sure I can count on you to help me during this time by devoting all your energies to making the show a success. I have left Frank in charge and have full confidence in him and you that “the show will go on” and that you will do your best. I leave with a feeling that my child Hotel Virginia is in the best hands possible. I wish it were that I could have contacted each of you individually but it was not possible.

I will be with you in spirit opening night, and I am sure that you will give everyone a good show—and most of all, have fun doing the show.

I will return next Tuesday—and until then, I leave my thanks for all your efforts and my best wishes—BREAK A LEG!

It was in one of the worst periods of my life. Taking Mamma back to Okolona was quite emotional. She had left a note saying she wanted to be buried in the same outfit she had worn to Le Train Blue on her last night in Paris. It just didn’t seem fair that she was being lowered into a grave after having so recently regained her youth in Chamonix, Nice, Barcelona and Paris.

Also I just couldn’t worry about Hotel Virginia. I tried to visualize opening night but couldn’t—mainly because I had not seen the dress rehearsal. When I got back to Houston, I called Ken and he told me that all had gone quite well and read me the reviews. I was relieved and now couldn’t wait to get back to Paris.

I missed five of the ten performances. That Tuesday night, in spite of jetlag and being emotionally drained, I went to the theater to see my play. In one aspect it was strange because everyone else was already acclimated to appearing before an audience and I had worse than opening night jitters. The play looked marvelous and the audience really appreciated it. I was so proud of everybody who had come to my aid during this very difficult period of my life.

The play had wonderful attendance and again, Fabiénne and Pierre couldn’t have been more pleased. I just hated that Mamma had to go at such a time.

One thing I have to say here is that in spite of all efforts by Fabiénne, Pierre and their friends, they could not save the Tertre. It was leveled and presently you would never know that generations of ribald and lively entertainment had ever taken place in that space of our planet once known as the Théâtre du Tertre and Moulin de la Galette. Such is life.

I now leave you with Chucha and all that happens to her at the Hotel Virginia.

The time is the present. The play takes place in the lobby of the Hotel Virginia, a dingy brothel in a remote and isolated town of Guatemala.