L’homme plus heureux de Paris

A few months after arriving in Batignolles I’m introduced to Lucien. That was also how I got to meet Amy.

Lucien – a freelance photographer, who rents a totally cluttered apartment overlooking the Square de Batignolles itself. This was only his studio, he lives up on the hill at Montmartre. We’re introduced by Victor, the artist downstairs, on one of the occasions when, as was often so, we’re drinking Russian coffee in a café on the Rue des Dames.

Lucien - tall, lean, thick black curly hair, stubble, large brown eyes, check shirts, frayed jeans, dirty trainers, perpetually smoking. A genius behind the lens though.

He’s always on the lookout for models, so he says. Maybe it’s true, but he never seems to be that interested in me, not sexually I mean. He used to say, the camera likes you, but really, it was just him. He liked me, a lot, and the feeling was mutual. Maybe it’d have progressed further, but there always was this reluctance on his part. I knew he was married , but I didn’t reckon that made any difference.

It’s only when I meet his wife, that I discover why he’s always so infuriatingly happy. Lucky Lucien, I’d call him.

One afternoon I meet him in the Square, and he invites me to dinner at his house in Montmartre. It’s here that I meet her – Amy, this stunning English girl, with a mane of glossy golden hair, blue eyes, T shirt stretched tight across her ample bosom. Shy but friendly, a great hostess, with superb taste in décor. Their house is beautifully understated, plain white walls and modern art prints, lots of house plants, plenty of light. I loved it.

Besides myself, there are three other dinner guests - friends of Lucien, I guess.
Emilie, aspiring young actress, tall, slender, elegant, fair skinned, raven haired, assured but no doubt hard work; Jacques, centre left political journalist, dark, suave, crumpled, intense; and Raoul, self important film producer, opinionated, tousled blond hair, penetrating gaze, goatee beard, open necked shirt, tendency to touch people [especially girls], sleazy.

The meal itself is outstanding, almost cordon bleu standard. Amy has produced a very expensive Chateau Lafitte in our honour, from their cellar. She’s been saving it for a special occasion, she says, a wicked smile on her lips.

These are sophisticated upwardly mobile people, and much of the talk is of property, careers, money. I’m soon feeling rather intimidated by them. Raoul seems to notice this for he pauses mid sentence and addresses me.
What about you, mademoiselle, are you in the money?
I glare at him. Of course, I say, I have a flat in the 6th, near the Jardin Luxembourg.
Really, he says, though I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
I also have a flat in Bordeaux, and a crumbling house in the Dordogne.
Raoul swills his wine.
Al this and you’re only what – nineteen?
Twenty, monsieur.
Quite a portfolio, you must be worth a million euros? What’s your secret?
That’s easy, I said, I killed all my relatives.
There is a stunned silence, then Raoul bursts into laughter.
Sandrine, he says, you really are such a tease.

The funny thing is, they all think I’m joking. It’s only Amy who’s staring at me, coolly sipping her wine.

Culture vulture

Some random discoveries this week......

The Guardian ran an appreciative article last weekend about the late Chilean writer Roberto Bolano, author of such novels as The Savage Detectives, and 2666. My friend in Sweden, the mysterious DS, has recommended the poetry of another South American author, one Julio Cortazar. Me, I’m still hooked on Fernando Pessoa.

JM Le Clezio, the French Nobel prize winner, has a new novel published, entitled Wandering Star. Although I prefer his early experimental works – La Guerre or Les Geants. Many of these have recently seen the light of day over here, due no doubt to his belated recognition.

David tells me that he once knew the photographer Angela Gorgas. She has an exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery - previously unseen photos from the late 1970’s, of people like Martin Amis [whom she was once engaged to, I believe].

Mention of the NPG reminds me of the iconic photo taken by Patrick Lichfield, of the beautiful starlet Talitha Pol, in Morocco. The Dutch beauty was once associated with the late YSL, whose art collection goes on auction next month at Christie’s in Paris. The estimated value is £300 million!

From The Observer comes another interesting article – this time about the provocative film maker Virginie Despentes, who has just published a book entitled King Kong Theory. Might be an interesting read is her films are anything to go by – she directed the controversial Baise Moi, among others.

Anouk, Mon Ami

Looking back now, I suppose it was inevitable. But it seemed at the time to be the dawning of a new era. The new millennium had just begun, and an aura of optimism prevailed. During that long hazy summer, everything started to change.

The first sign was when Etienne suddenly announced his departure, to set up an arts centre in the south, back where he comes from. All this on the back of the money he acquired from the sale of that painting -–the nude watercolour of yours truly. The cheek of the man! It felt strange without him, but somehow liberating too. Here I was, twenty years old, free and single.

I didn’t return to Montaigne in the fall, never finished my lit course. I figured that even if I passed my exams I’d never use them. And the other thing was that Helene had also left town, for an assignment in England. So I felt quite isolated.

Which is how I came to find myself back in Paris. I arrived on Bastille Day, the flags were out, the people on the streets, it was vibrant, exciting. Instinctively I knew I’d made the right decision. I managed to find a small apartment in the 17th arrondissement, in the quartier de Batignolles, not far from the Gare St Lazare.

At least here there were no reminders of Sandrine. She had always been more of a Left Bank, St Germain type – but I preferred the backstreets, always have. What I discovered here was a traditional, working class district, with a diverse ethnic population. It was also an area full of young artists looking for inexpensive ateliers. Well, it had once used to be the haunt of painters such as Manet.

Upstairs lived a retired teacher, Madame Gratin, who smiled a lot and played chess. Downstairs a grumpy man named Victor [I think he was Russian] who liked to stand too close to me on the stairs. It turned out he was a famous street artist, I ended up posing for him and we slowly built something of a rapport.

It was here also, that I met Anouk. Small, kind, crazy, adorable, vulnerable, sad little Anouk. I wonder what she’s doing now? I wonder if she’s even still alive?

Anouk lived in one of the other apartments in my block, upstairs, in the roof. The views from her place were enchanting, across the rooftops of Paris. Romantic even, if you like that kind of thing.

Anouk was a new departure for me. For one thing, she wasn’t at all intellectual. She didn’t read poetry, or visit exhibitions, or anything like that. We did share the same taste in cinema though – both loved Betty Blue, and Diva, Subway, Nikita. We thought the opening scene in Betty Blue, where Jean Hughes screws Beatrice Dalle slowly, was so erotic.

Anouk never held down a regular job. During the day she’d hang around the streets up in Pigalle on the look out for clients. This was for money she needed to fund a desperate addiction to junk – at that time Paris was rife for all sorts of substances. Some good, some bad. Anouk always reckoned she wasn’t addicted, but it was hard to see what she did as anything other.

Anouk was smaller than me, with short curly natural blonde hair. A slim figure, she always complained that I had the breasts she wanted. She usually wore dark make up, dark clothes, lots of jewellery. We’d spend hours at the markets at Clignancourt picking up all manner of strange gear.

I tried to persuade her to give up the junk, to give up the sex. She said she was addicted to the sex as well, it made her feel human. I also asked her if she’d ever thought about women as sexual objects. She smiled.
I wondered when you’d get around to that, she said.
I asked her if she found me attractive, for instance. She laughed. You’re very pretty, Sandrine, she said. If I was a man, I’d screw you all night.
We both giggled at this, laughing till we almost cried. Then I jerked her head towards mine and pulled her closer. She didn’t seem to mind, but then, she’d been drinking quite a lot. I put down my cigarette and began stroking her thigh, moving my fingers higher and higher, between her legs. Anouk just lay back on the bed, like she didn’t care. It didn’t arouse her, anyway.

Eventually the landlady got fed up with the disturbances her male friends caused, and the indiscreet way she carried on. She was kicked out, on the street. Literally. I’m almost ashamed to say that I never saw her again. I don’t know what became of little Anouk.

New England

Its New Year’s Eve and the disco is in full swing. The host and hostess have taken their traditional first dance. The English rose is dancing with a young man in a suit. Caroline hands me another glass of wine.
I hope you’re enjoying yourself, she says.
Yes. Tell me, who’s the guy dancing with your daughter?
Oh him, she gives a look of disapproval. That’s Hugo.
Hey boyfriend?
Caroline chuckles. In his dreams, maybe.
I’m guessing you don’t approve?
He wouldn’t be my choice, but it’s up to her, cherie.
She could do much better. She’s such a stunning girl.
I know. But she hasn’t yet learned the power of that beauty. She’s quite naïve in many ways.
She reminds me of someone I used to know. Like an innocent child.
She’s pissed, my dear. Caroline laughs, sipping more wine from her glass, chuckling at Hugo’s attempts at dancing.
Alistair tells me you’re in the wine trade.
Yes, I’m supposed to be here on business.
But as Alistair always says, why not mix business with pleasure?
Exactly what he said to me, earlier tonight.
Caroline is giving me a stare. I try to reassure her.
Don’t worry, I’m not after your husband.
I should think not, she laughs. A gorgeous girl like you. What a waste that would be.
We seem to understand each other perfectly. If I go near Alistair, she’ll have me mounted like those animals that stare at you from the walls.
Come on, she says, taking me by the arm, let’s introduce you to young Hugo.

Which is how I come to be sitting in the lounge with Hugo, about ten minutes later. The room was spinning before I got up to dance, but now it’s starting to vibrate as well. We’re sitting on one of the large red leather sofas. He orders another bottle of wine. He insists on buying all the drinks and refuses to let me pay.
I’ve just done a fabulous deal in the city, he says. Anyway, blokes buy the drinks, you chicks just hang around looking gorgeous.
I laugh, although I think he’s a bit cocky. Miranda is undeniably beautiful, with the sort of figure that you don’t often find in France. She definitely puts me in the shade. JD sends her to the bar to get more alcohol.
He leans closer. I’m not going to waste time, he says. I want you tonight.
I’m startled, but try to remain calm.
I appreciate the honesty, I say.
Always my best policy, says Hugo.
Since we’re being honest, I say, You’re really not my type.
Fair enough, he says, but I don’t take no for an answer. Especially not from a sexy French mademoiselle. Please?
I laugh. What about Miranda? Isn’t she enough for you?
She’s a fucking pain in the arse, to be honest. He drains his glass.
I’d be prepared to pay you, he says.
My eyes must have widened at this point. This was a new angle, but let’s play the game, I think to myself.
How much? I ask.
How about a grand? Just for tonight.
One thousand pounds, is that the going rate?
Take it or leave it.
It’s very generous, I reply, but there are some things money can’t buy.
I start to stand up to leave.
Okay, okay, he says, name your price.
I watch over his shoulder as Miranda approaches with the drinks.
Tell you what, I say, quickly, throw in Miranda and it’s a deal.
Hugo jerks his head as Miranda hands him another glass. He’s thinking about it.
Deal, he says.
I shrug my shoulders and stand up.
Its room thirteen, I whisper. Just before midnight.

I’m in room thirteen. Unlucky for some, but not for me. I don’t do superstitions. I’m standing by the window, in darkness, waiting for my guests. Dressed only in a silk night gown, my body almost quivering in anticipation.

Just before midnight, a knock on the door.
It’s open, I whisper.
Surprisingly, it’s not Hugo, but Alistair who enters.
Hello Cherie, he says, snaking a hand around my waist.
Expecting somebody else, were we? He says. His breath smells of stale alcohol.
I had a deal, I say, with Hugo. Two for the price of one.
He laughs loudly.
Hugo couldn’t make it, he says. Too smashed.
He starts to unravel the sash on my gown.
But we had a deal, I say, struggling to escape his grip. He pushes me up against the wall, his face close to mine.
Hugo is just a boy, he says. What you need is a man.
Despite it all, I feel excited. He’s quite strong, pulling me onto the bed. His erection is enormous. There’s something about the aristocracy isn’t there?
I struggle to break away but he pushes my legs apart.
Don’t bother shouting, he says, in thirty seconds the fireworks will drown any noise you make. Indeed, fireworks start going off as his hands slide into my knickers. I feel desire encroaching.
Happy New Year, Cherie, he says preparing to enter me.
It's dark, but the fireworks light up the window behind Alistair's head. I catch a glimpse of blonde hair.Hugo.
There you are, Alistair. Caroline's been going frantic, old man. Shall I take over here?
Alistair flings an arm backwards, bringing his elbow with full force into Hugo's face. Knocks him right onto his back, blood everywhere.
Tell my wife I'm busy, you bloody faggot, he shouts.

All is quiet. It’s new year’s day in the New Forest. The only sound is the throbbing inside my head. If only I could stay in bed, but I’m invited for morning coffee with Caroline. It feels more like I’ve been summoned though.

Coffee is served in her private quarters. Very spacious, with great views through the French windows looking out over the New Forest. Caroline is gazing out at the scene, and as I enter she turns to greet me.
Bonjour mademoiselle.
She’s very gracious, Caroline. Or to give her the full title, Lady Caroline Elspeth Lavinia Rochester Harkness [I may have got it wrong]. She’s about forty five but looks younger, with immaculately coiffured honey blonde hair, slender neck, fabulous jewellery. She epitomises a certain kind of English charm.
Thank you, I say, accepting a cup of coffee and seating myself at one of the two large sofas.
They tell me you’re in the wine trade, she begins, rather casually. Her blue eyes seem to penetrate mine.
Yes, my cousin owns a vineyard in Provence. I’m in England on business.
A raised eyebrow. Are you enjoying your stay?
Very much, madame. Your hospitality has been wonderful.
Caroline pauses for breath.
And yet you have taken advantage of that hospitality in a most spiteful way.
I beg your pardon?
Her eyes flash at mine now, in anger. But her tone is still light, almost mocking.
You do know that Alistair would never leave me , don’t you. You see, all this, the house, the estate, our business, its all in joint names. It’d cost him a fortune.
I can’t seem to look her in the eye, I’m fidgeting with my cup now.
Mademoiselle, what is your name?
I’m called Sandrine.
Very pretty, tres jolie, like you.
It was my late mother’s name.
Sandrine, you’re not the first, and you wont be the last. My husband has always bene like this.
She sighs, and takes a sip of her coffee.
Don’t you ever think of , you know, paying him back?
Cherie, there’s no-one quite like Alistair. Tell me, you must have had many sexual partners. How would you rank him?
A typical Englishman. In too much of a hurry.
Caroline chuckles. That sounds about right.
She finishes her coffee, sets the cup down, gets up from the sofa. I gather the audience is over, and also stand.
Sandrine, you may think you’re some kind of femme fatale, but I have some advice for you. I want you to leave England.
Madame, I think you misunderstand Alistair. He just wants the best of both worlds.
He wants to have his cake and eat it, you mean.
No, I mean he wants us both, in the same bed.
Caroline slaps me hard across the face.
I guess I had that coming, I say. Just think about what I said.
Caroline is staring at me, but her reserve has crumpled, and a tear rolls slowly down her cheek, spoiling the carefully prepared mask.