Paris People #3
by Jilliana
Ranicar-Breese
The year was
1977 in the late summer afternoon when I got on a
bus at Solferino Bellechasse in the 7em. It was
rush hour and the bus was so crowded that you had
to hang on for dear life to the hangers swaying
with the movement of the bus. Talk about close up
and personal, I found myself opposite an older
very attractive being of the male species. We
gazed into each other's eyes without speaking for
a few bus stops. A steady knowing mutual sexual
look. We had both silently decided we 'wanted'
each other. He looked very well educated with
silvery grey hair, probably in his 50s when I was
in my 30s.
I had planned to get off at St Germain and wander
around my familiar quartier Rue Jacob
and the Rue de Seine. I didn't have any real
friends but had recently met Geyula Dagan, the
South African Israeli artist at Willy Maywald's
Salon and befriended her. The 6em was where all
the art galleries were located and I would walk
into the vernissages on the opening nights to
educate myself art-wise.
We stepped off the bus in unison and he
immediately invited me for an appetitive at Les
Deux Magots, famous for literary and the
intellectual elite such as Satre and de Beauvoir.
I don't even recall what we spoke about and have
forgotten his name. A man of mystery.
I, at the time, was working in the large typing
pool at the OECD at La Muette. An old Irish
teaching colleague had introduced me to his ex
fiancée who in turn, through her recommendation,
had got me a typing job even though I failed, in
my eyes, the entrance exam! Not what you know but
who you know is the key to life outside your
comfort zone.
Monsieur was a very good looking man who
immediately went to the phone box to make a
reservation for dinner at Brasserie Lipp across
the road where the politicians would meet. We
lusted after each other but I do not recall our
conversation or what, if anything, we had in
common. After dining on Choucroute, the
speciality of the maison, we finished with
Millefeuille for him and a Dame Blanche for me.
We then silently took a taxi back to my cozy
first floor flat overlooking the courtyard at 27
rue Campagne Premiere in the 14em and that was
that! I do not recall an eventful night of
passion. It was all in the mind and the law of
attraction. I told him where I worked and a few
days later I received a phone call asking me if I
would like to fly with him that weekend to his
favourite island Sark - a world apart!
He had to educate me about Sark and its unique
history being pivotal in WW2 on the plane. How
exciting a weekend with a total stranger in the
Channel Islands! We flew to Guernsey and thence a
ferry. He knew the carless island well. His hotel
awaited us with a warm 'Welcome back Monsieur.' A
romantic weekend thought I. But no, a total
disaster from the start until I walked out
leaving him in the dark of the bedroom moaning
and groaning in mental agony.
His change of behaviour began before dinner on
the first night. I had brought a small soap in a
plastic travelling box and inadvertently placed
my soap on top of his soap in the wash basin. He
raised his voice at me for being ignorant as to
mix the perfume smells. Well I was uneducated
when it came to the art of scent. Odd how later I
would get involved in the perfume industry
supplying Regine de Robien at her wonderful
boutique Beaute Divine for many years, selling
perfume labels to Mandy Aftel for her American
company and supplying Erasmic vintage soap images
for the company archive. It was then that I
decided to find and look at his passport. Today
the owner's profession is no longer written down
but in the 70s it was. My volatile lover was an
accountant in the perfume industry!
The next morning he disappeared after breakfast
to walk miles along the beach. I could not walk
fast and frankly I loathed beaches and the
texture of sand. It was summer time and he was in
seventh heaven like an excited puppy chasing its
tail. Basically he abandoned me for a couple of
hours and I never understand why he invited me in
the first place as I was not up to his high
cultural level. He was not after sex but a
travelling companion.
I recall we went to an expensive seafood
restaurant in Sark that he knew well. Then he
attacked me again over how I held my knife and
fork. Obviously I did not come up to his
gastronomic French table manners. I chocked on my
tears and could not swallow the expensive Lobster
Thermidor. O me miserum! The intimacy had gone
and we were two strangers sitting uncomfortably
at a lunch table in beautiful surroundings.
I remember him going to bed early, lying in the
dark not wanting my company. I immediately went
to the reception and booked a rail and boat
ticket back to Paris after I had discovered
Monsieur had bought one way tickets! Thank God I
had brought my credit card with me. At least he
had paid for the hotel. Never rely on a man
has always been my motto! This mystery man was
deranged and desperately unhappy deciding to vent
his pentaprism anger on moi, his victim. I left
that night abandoning him to his insanity. He had
mentally abused and humiliated me and made me cry
real tears. Had it been today he would not have
got away with his abuse. Back I went to Paris and
my boring OECD job in the merde of the 16em.
Some months later I was in my flat one evening
with my anthropologist boyfriend Pierre, when
there was a knock on my door. Few people came to
visit so I thought it must be the Portuguese
concierge. But no, it was the Mystery Man looking
disheveled and humble. Although it was an
inconvenient moment, I had to invite him in and
offer a whisky because he looked like he needed
something stronger than wine. He said he had lost
his address book with all his 'friends' in and
was doing the rounds on foot trying to recall
where each one lived. I couldn't believe he
considered me a friend especially as the feeling
was not mutual. He gulped down the scotch and
beat a retreat with his tail between his legs. I
only saw him once
again years later walking aimlessly in St.
Germain from a bus. This time I did not get off
the bus.
Not a Belle Chasse experience in the end.
Written
at Villa Perla, Kaleiçi, Antalya on 16/3/17.
References
Brasserie Lipp
Les Deux Magots
Google - The island of Sark
OECD.org
Wikipedia -Willy Maywald
|
