… Sarutmana, doamnelor! Si despre vopsitul copitelor calului in verde (foto)

… o americanca a ajuns sefa biroului din Paris a New York Times in 2002 si tot atunci i-a fost sarutata, pentru prima data in viata, mana. Scena s-a petrecut in Salonul Napolean al III-lea, din Palatul Elysee (Nota: scuze, inca o data, nu stiu sa pun accente sau diacritice). Protagonistii erau Elaine Sciolino si pe atunci presedintele de doisprezece ani al Frantei, Jacques Chirac. Momentul a marcat-o intr-atat de tare pe ziarista, altminteri obisnuita cu toate, incat a dezvoltat o mini-obsesie finalizata – altfel cum? – printr-o carte: ‘La Seduction: How the French Play the Game of Life,’’ (Seductia: Cum joaca francezii jocul vietii) si va fi publicata peste cateva saptamani de Times Books.

Sarmanta cum e, povestea nu m-a surprins catusi de putin. Prima mea slujba in America, vreo 272 de ani in urma, a fost la linia de asamblare a unei celebre fabrici de ciorapi de dama. Pentru un nou venit, a fost o binecuvantare. Dar, ca toate minunile, nici asta n-a durat mult. Doua luni mai tarziu, fabrica s-a inchis si eu m-am trezit, pentru prima oara in viata, somer oficial. Neoficial mai fusesem, dar n-apucasem sa inteleg diferenta. Motivul inchiderii? Absenta cererii. In State, prea putine femei mai poarta “ciorapi de dama”. Se poarta sosete, se poarta ciorapi. Dar nu “de dama”. “Damele”, in America, se numara pe degete, de obicei la biserica sau pe Wall Street. (Exagerez, insa foarte putin).

Ca omul crescut in Europa, traitor o vreme in Franta, diferenta intre feminitatea americana si cea europeana, indeobste (dar nu exclusiv) cea franceza, mi-era evidenta. La fel si diferentele intre “curtatul” european, cu toate nuantele lui, si cel american, care nu se mai osteneste macar cu vopsitul copitelor calului in verde. Pentru necunoscatori, bancul suna cam asa:

Fat Frumos i-a pus gand rau (bun?) Ilenei Cosanzeana, dar nu stie cum sa procedeze. Merge pentru sfatuire la tatal sau, Imparatul Rosu. Ca orice batran caruia i se cere sfatul, regele nostru se simte magulit de increderea noii generatii si devine sfatos: “Uite, fiule, cum se face. O iei pe ocolite. Stii ca Ilenei ii place sa se plimbe in fiecare zi prin gradina? Ca-i plac florile? Atunci uite cum faci: iti vopsesti copitele calului in verde si faci in asa fel incat sa-l calaresti prin fata castelului ei la ora potrivita. Ea te va vedea si va ridica usor din sprancene: de unde si pana unde un cal cu copitele vopsite in verde? Si uite-asa intrati in vorba, tu-i spui ca verdele e culoarea naturii si esti indragostit de natura, e isi va duce mana la piept si va exclama “vai, dar si eu!”, dupa care te va invita in gradina. Odata aflat in gradina, vei admira fiecare floare, pana ce vei ajunge la trandafirul potrivit: nici prea inmugurit, dar nici deschis cu totul. Nici rosu aprins, dar nici galben. Cand il vei afla, il vei rupe si il i vei inmana spunandu-i: “Mi-as fi dorit sa gasesc ceva care sa se asemuiasca mai bine, dar mi-e teama ca natura nu a creat ceva atat de frumos”. Ea se va inrosi si-si va pleca ochii. Tu o vei prinde de mana. Si uite-asa, din una-n alta, ii vei ajunge si-n iatac, o vei lua de sotie si jumatate din imparatie, dupa care veti face o multime de plozi si veti trai fericiti pana la adanci batraneti.

Si-am incalecat pe-o sa, si ti-am spus povestea-asa”, mai zice batranul rege, ca la povesti era tare priceput.

Zis si facut. Fat Frumos vopseste copitele armasarului in verde si-l calareste prin fata castelului la ora la care Ileana Cosanzeaza isi facea plimbarea de dimineata. Ileana il vede si-i zice: A! Fat Frumos! In sfarsit ti-ai vopsit copitele calului in verde! Hai, fuguta, in iatac!”

Si-am incalecat pe-o sa, si v-am spus povestea-asa, ca la povesti, ca si batranul rege, sunt si eu tare priceput.

Elaine Sciolino se pricepe si ea, altminteri nu ajungea sefa biroului din Paris a New York Times, asa ca porneste pe urma ideii. Nefiind nici Ileana Cosanzeana, nici Fat Frumos si, cu atat mai putin, regele Un Ochi Rade Unul Plange, face ce stie ea mai bine: ramane ziarista. Focalizeaza asadar nu pe personajele principale ci pe ceea ce, in aparenta, reprezinta un amanunt de trecut cu vederea: vopsitul copitelor calului in verde. Sarutatul mainii, arta seductiei. Si uite-asa, din aproape in aproape, din interviu in interviu cu personalitati marcante ale vietii franceze, Elaine a noastra realizeaza ca acest cuvant simplu – seduction – reprezinta mai mult decat ceea ce reprezinta in mintea majoritatii americanilor – o stratagema incarcata de conotatii sexuale. Mai simplu spus: ca, dupa ce tragi linia si faci socotelile, copitele vopsite ale calului fac mai mult decat Fat Frumos sau Ileana Cosanzeana, mai mult decat iatacul, gradina si chiar calul mancator sau nu de jaratec.

In drumul ei, Elaine descopera laturi nebanuite ale unor mari personalitati franceze, afla detalii despre arta sarutatului mainii si despre cum seductia se intinde – sa zic seducator? – mult dincolo de sfera erosului, in politic si nu numai.

Gata. V-am zis deja prea mult. Am incalecat pe-o sa si v-am spus inca o poveste-asa.

De-aici inainte, va invit sa cititi fragmentele de mai jos si, daca va interseaza, intregul text aparut pe site-ul NYT:

http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/05/17/operation-seduction/

Eu v-am vopsit copitele calului in verde. De aici incolo se descurca fiecare cum poate. Cat poate.

Chirac reached for my right hand and cradled it as if it were a piece of porcelain from his private art collection. He raised it to the level of his chest, bent over to meet it halfway and inhaled, as if to savor its scent. Lips made contact with skin.

The kiss was not an act of passion. This was not at all like the smoldering scene in Proust’s “Swann’s Way” in which the narrator “blindly, hotly, madly” seizes and kisses the hand offered to him by a lady in pink. Still, the kiss was unsettling. Part of me found it charming and flattering. But in an era when women work so hard to be taken seriously, I also was vaguely uncomfortable that Chirac was adding a personal dimension to a professional encounter and assuming I would like it. This would not have happened in the United States. It was, like so much else in France, a subtle but certain exercise in seduction.

The power-kiss of the president was one of my first lessons in understanding the importance of seduction in France. Over time, I became aware of its force and pervasiveness.

(…)

The woman warrior must avoid the sort of traumatic exposure that comes with vulnerability in front of the adversary. Dombasle has not hesitated to bare her breasts for a Paris Match cover or for a revue in front of hundreds of people at the Crazy Horse cabaret. But she insisted that nakedness is a vulnerability that must be used with care. Apparently on the battlefield of the bed, the rules are different. “Nudity is extremely violent to gaze at,” she said. “I would never walk naked in front of my husband. Never, never, never. One must maintain a certain mystery.”

“So you’re only nude in the shower?” I asked.

“I’m nude when I’m alone, and I’m nude when I’m in his arms, but never in a sort of casually stupid gesture of the morning or whatever. Never.”

“So nudity is not something trivial?”

“Of course not. But we know that.”

(…)

“You have evoked the baisemain,” he said, even though it was he, not I, who had raised the subject. He told me that a man’s lips should never effleurer the hand. Effleurer is hard to translate. The closest meaning is “to skim” or “to brush lightly.” The sound and spelling of the word is similar to the French word for “flower,” fleur. That led me to think, the first time Lévy said it, that it might have something to do with the petals of a flower, a sort of delicate act that involves touching something fragile.

“You must not effleurer the hand! You must not!” he said. “When you effleurez the hand, you are saying something else.”

He stood up and ordered me to stand as well.“The real baisemain, it’s like this,” he said as he bent down from the waist, took my hand and came within a hair of touching his lips to my skin. There was a barely perceptible squeezing of my hand before he returned it to me. “I must not touch, but you should feel that I am close enough.”

Then he drew back. “If I do it this way, I am too far,” he said. “I must do it close enough. You must almost feel my breath.”

I was getting nervous that one of his army of assistants would walk in and find us in midkiss. Then his second kiss came. He pressed his lips gently to my hand. He defined that kiss as affectif — with emotion. “There, that is someone I like quite well, with whom I have a good relationship, and she knows it,” he said. “There we go.”

“And the last,” he said, “it’s to effleurer. I do it like this.”

So we were going to effleurer after all.

His lips opened slightly and moved up and down, teasing my hand. The kiss could not have lasted more than two seconds. I felt the warmth of his breath and a slight tickling, as if I were being touched by a butterfly’s wings. I marveled at the mastery of the simultaneous double movement of opening and closing and up and down. The memory of the gesture lingered like the scent of an exotic perfume.

“In this one, I try to say that you please me,” he explained. “And if I brush my lips lightly, it means — ”

I interrupted: “ ‘I might have intentions that are more complex and mysterious — ’ ”_

“No, no, no, no, no, no,” he replied. “It means, ‘Will you sleep with me tonight?’ ”

Lévy was playacting, of course, but his message was serious: understanding the French would require a fine appreciation of ambiguity, process, tension and playfulness — in other words, seduction.