On the way to Menton for the Katherine Mansfield Fellowship, I met the team at the New Zealand Embassy in Paris. We discussed writing, publishing, the arts. Did I feel optimistic about the literary scene in New Zealand? Was I hopeful about the future of arts and books?
I mentioned a trend I’ve been reading about: people are tiring of online life and are craving the real. They don’t want to be spied on by their phones. They don’t want to film everything they’re doing. They seek presence, tactile experiences, personal contact. They’re turning to dumb phones, vinyl records, paper books.
The news seemed too good to be true but we tossed it around for the bonhomie. A charming young person in the room confirmed that books are still cool, that she spends hours in the American Library in Paris.
I kept thinking that literary concerns and my writing, while of enormous importance to me, were a small matter on that sunny Paris day. Europe was riven by forces; there were so many issues to keep the diplomats distracted. I imagined saying to this urbane group: “Right, we’ve done my books. Now should we discuss the possibility of World War III?”
During the D-Day ceremonies at Normandy, President Vladimir Putin had been absent, yet terribly present. He should have been there, but he was banned, for obvious reasons.
Ukraine President Volodymyr Zelenskyy and US President Joe Biden had just met in Paris to discuss Ukraine’s war with Russia. Biden had pledged that the US would stand with Ukraine to the end. But how does one define “the end?” It could mean victory, or truce, or it could mean the moment when Donald Trump wins the White House and serves Ukraine to Putin on a plate. To paraphrase William Carlos Williams, so much depends upon a red-capped grifter glazed with power hunger before the white supremacists.
That week, elections were being held and everyone was talking about the rise of the far right in Europe. As victory over fascism was elaborately commemorated, fascism was taking a seat at the European table.
French President Emmanuel Macron, having hosted Zelenskyy, was due to hold a ceremony with Biden at the Arc de Triomphe. Paris was split in two, roads were closed and the streets were flooded with heavily armed police. After numerous checkpoints involving questioning and bag checks, we entered the Champs-Élysées to find it closed off and lined with armed security.
In the distance, a band played. There was a sense of stalled calm, of expectation. Van loads of security people drove down the empty street at high speed. Without warning, four fighter jets screamed low overhead; the roar had people ducking in fright, hands clamped to their ears.
There was a shocked silence, until the parade of beautiful horses began. It was an odd mix of traditional and high-tech. The mounted soldiers were followed by streams of motorbikes and then the motorcade: armoured SUVs, mini-tanks, van loads of special forces and The Beast, the US president’s limousine. It goes everywhere with him and can reportedly withstand heavy attack.
The Beast is not a vehicle I would get into. It carries weapons, a store of the President’s blood, gadgets for repelling invaders. It’s bomb-proof, sound-proof. Just looking at it gives you a sense of appalling claustrophobia. If it malfunctioned and the President was trapped, could they even extract him?
At the 2018 meeting in Helsinki between Trump and Putin, the Russian leader won a competition: his armoured limousine was longer. This June, all of Europe was wondering. Would the bromance be rekindled? Would that pair be comparing Beast sizes again?
