Mouny

How can a woman, after only a few encounters, leave such a mark upon a child? Is it because her life is shrouded in mystery? Is it because, even at age 90, she radiated beauty and intrigue? It is because the few stories that are passed around portray her as intelligent, ambitious, and fiercely independent? Or is it simply because she lived in Paris in a time when Paris was the place to be?

Whatever the reason, my great-grandmother has done that for me. She, having passed away so many years ago, has left me with a burning desire to discover everything… perhaps in an effort to find myself? Who knows – but I do know that the family is phenomenal at helping me put the pieces together… and reminding me I’m not the only one with passion and curiosity for her life.

Francoise and Guy (whose apartment in the 7th is unbelievable) were so kind to me, sharing tales of Mouny over afternoon tea. They spoke of life in Paris in the mid-20th century, they spoke of her relations with friends and her undeterminable presence, which led to her inexplicable sense of intimidation. Women were too intimidated to call her informally before getting to truly know her. Men who originally admired her beauty and fervor fell even deeper in love after truly knowing her, but they were to intimidated to speak a word of their feelings. All agreed she was the best listener they ever met, and the most loyal friend. And, of course, she was fiercely independent.

Perhaps that is the reason she inspires me so much; in her I hope to see some of me. She is so well regarded, so well liked, so fondly remembered. She took the world on in a time when women weren’t supposed to do that. She was successful, and mostly happy. She was a writer too – a journalist, an editor, a strategist for publicity. More than any other reason why I admire Mouny is that she did leave a mark; I can only hope that 90 years from now, when my great-granddaughter sits in the corner of Camarat years after my death, she too is in fierce pursuit of my life story. (Except, perhaps, I will make life a little easier… I will leave clues – buried treasure, maybe! Haha)

This morning, before hearing the stories of her life, Ludo told me of his relationship with Mouny – Yvonne Michel – and took me to a place I have sought every visit to Paris: her tomb. She rests there with the two children she buried in the mid-eighties, my grandfather’s brother and sister, Antoinnette and Olivier.


On a side note, also buried in the tomb is her ex-husband, Francois Michel (not a very nice man), and his second wife, Hélène. Honestly, only the French do these things. My grandmother tells of time that she had dinner with her new husband and mother-in-law in Camarat… except it wasn’t just she, Papa, and Mouny; it was also Mouny’s ex-husband, his new wife, and his new mistress. Again, only the French…

The tomb is beautiful, dark, glistening and respectful. The cemeteries in France are so different than what we think of in the States: In America, they are sad, sullen and – quite often – a little bit scary; whereas in France, cemeteries are beautiful, peaceful, and comforting… probably more suitable for eternal rest. The ceremonies are like those in the movies: All the family dresses in black, gathers around the open tomb, and throws red roses onto the casket as the cover slides back into place, sealing their loved one into the next life.


But enough of death. In France, I am more alive – and tonight, je vais faire le fête in the 17th. The arrodisiment is have its annual celebration with good food, live bands, and carnival hysteria. Ahhh, la vie en rose!