18 TALES OF THE JAZZ AGE The cobblestones of boulevard Raspail glisten in the rain that has been tickling Paris since morning. At no.45, in a famous Art Deco hotel on the Left Bank, James Joyce is typing in the lounge, while Picasso pays the bill for a sumptuous repast by doing a drawing on the tablecloth. They say he never actually signed that tablecloth . . . Well, after all, he was prepared to pay the bill, but not to buy the hotel. The cobblestones of Paris glisten in the rain that has been tickling it since morning. Evening has fallen and Parisians throng onto the Pont de l’Alma, walk up the avenue Montaigne and turn their heads mechanically towards the not-toowhite marble of the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, a landmark in the Art Deco style that is omnipresent these days. As it is at Le Boeuf sur le Toit, a little further north on the Right Bank. People will tell you that the future of art is being played out there. What highfalutin words! As you walk through the doors of the cabaret, you soon hear Jean Wiéner playing Gershwin, just imported from the United States; another pianist taps him on the shoulder, takes his place at the keyboard, and starts playing music by Cole Porter. The pianist is Clément Doucet, who is having the time of his life mocking the music of yesteryear by injecting swing into Wagner. Wagner? Swing? It seems that they can do the impossible in the music hall. Wiéner resumes his seat at the piano, plays a few notes, and now Doucet bursts into song, belting out a number by Kurt Weill, fresh from the world of Berlin cabaret. It’s indecent. It’s perfect.
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