Girl from the banlieue

Is this Real Life? Or is this just fantasy? What's the difference anyway?

I need time, and space. So I'm taking a rain check on the rat race at present.Here in the banlieues, holed out with a friend. It's me in the photo, taken by Lucien.

You want her name, I guess? You always want detail, don't you? Kind of nosy like that.

Okay, the name is Ella - like the singer Ella Fitzgerald. Whoever Gerald is - Lucien thinks it's funny anyhow.

A photographic model, in fact. I got to know Lucien through posing, and now we've become quite close. She's very beautiful, don't you think?But then, he's a great artist, could make anyone look good.

Ella is from Paris, though you wouldn't guess that from her name. She used to live out in the banlieue with just her cat for company. Lately however she's been staying with Lucien here in the city. Maybe it'll pan out, who knows. For now, she really turns him on. I get the feeling it's mutual.

Lucien has a great apartment. Did I tell you about it? No, I didn't think so, not in detail.
It's on the second floor - known as l'etage nobile - of this art deco building in the old village of Batignolles. Lucien has great taste, as befits a photographic artist.

Soon though, it'll be time to move on. I'd like to stay, really, I would, but there's too many bad vibes here. Too much history. Paris itself is a curse, and the memories crowd in on me when I walk the boulevards. I can't go near St Germain. Sandrine in my head, telling me what to do, driving me crazy. I need to get somewhere she doesn't know about.

Is David right about me? Looking at that photo, maybe I'm a fantasy. An object of desire, perhaps that's all I am, just like Sandrine before me. It hurts though, that he doesn't believe in me.I'm going crazy again, I can feel it. If I didn't have other people - ones who believe in me, I'd cave in.

Here's to you Lucien, Helene, Etienne, Gerhard,and the rest. You know who you are. Je t'aime.

Haute Couture

There’s a man watching me. Men are always watching me, but this is different. He’s staring, intently. A tall man, in his late fifties I’d say. Distinguished, possibly aristocratic. Sophisticated. Why’s he looking at me?

I’m in Paris. It’s fashion week, and Helene has sneaked us into an after show party. I’m not sure who’s paying – possibly Balmain? Whatever, Helene and I are surrounded by fashionistas. Every other word is darling, cherie, love. Sickening, really. The champagne’s good though.

Helene is looking good in her little black dress. I’m dressed to kill in a scarlet outfit bought that very morning on the Boulevard Malesherbes. The tide of faces parts like the red sea. The man in the grey suit is coming. I nudge Helene but she’s too busy chatting up a dark skinned man in claret. Now he’s here, towering over me.

I know the face, he says, just can’t put a name to it.
I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, monsieur, I say.
It’s uncanny, he says, but you remind me of someone. Someone I used to know. A long time ago, he says. When I was young.
He looks wistful. I’m wondering when someone is going to refill my glass.
I’m not in the business, I say, I’m a gatecrasher.
He laughs. Aren’t we all. But you look like a model, he says.
Very flattering, but I’m not taken in.
My mother was in the trade, I tell him. She worked for Balmain too. In the 70’s .
He nods. Ah, those were the days. Balmain was the king of fashion, he says. He costumed Bardot, you know. Classic designs.
What about now, I ask.
It’s different. Christophe is talented, no doubt. But it’s not my taste. Too brash, too modern.
He taps the waiter and pours me another glass. We drink to Balmain.

He tells me about the YSL auction week, what a marvellous collection of art. I tell him that a friend of mine is an artist, and has met Dali, de Chirico, among others. He seems impressed.
Do you live in Paris, he asks casually.
I tell him no, I’m from the banlieue and I’ve lived in Batignolles. Which is where I’m currently staying.
He raises an eyebrow. I imagined you more on the left bank. St Germain, St Michel, somewhere like that.
I tell him I prefer Batigniolles. More down to earth.
He smiles. Your mother, what was her name, cherie.
I tell him, and his eyes light up in recognition.
Sandrine, he says. Of course. You’re very alike. Very beautiful.
You knew my mother?
Not intimately, of course. But yes, we moved in the same circles.
I’m excited, but try desperately to hide it.
I always wondered what became of her, he says.
I stare at him, sadly.
She’s not here anymore, I say.
My eyes are watering, and out of focus. The room seems hot. Maybe I’ve drunk too much champagne. I excuse myself.

Retour a Batignolles

They say you shouldn’t ever go back. Revisit the scene of the crime. That sort of thing. They’re right, of course. But I can’t help myself.

Finding myself back in Paris for the first time in many years, I just have to take the metro out to Batignolles. It’s only a few metro stops Gare du Nord to Clichy. It’s been nearly ten years, but I’m hoping it hasn’t changed too much.

Walking down the Rue des Dames I pass the Bistro des dames – one of my old haunts. Eerily, my English friend David tells me he’s stayed at the adjoining Hotel Eldorado – our paths may even have crossed? Life is full of such intricacies and strange coincidences. My life is, anyway.

The road veers to the right and just around the bend is the narrow Rue Truffaut, where I lived for almost two years. I pass my old apartment block and carry on towards the Square des Batignolles. Lucien used to have his studio here, in the Place Fillion.

Soon I’m standing before the door of his apartment. Only now it’s probably someone else’s apartment. I can hear music coming from inside, heavy drum and bass. I ring the bell and wait a few minutes. I'm about to ring it again when the door is opened. A young teenage girl, sullen, cigarette dangling from her mouth, is glaring at me. I tell her I’m looking for Lucien , the photographer.
You need an appointment, she says.
I’m a friend, I tell her, I don’t need an appointment.
He doesn’t work here right now, she says.
He used to live up in Montmartre, I say, maybe I’ll go there.
The girl is shaking her mane of dark hair. The house is empty, up for sale, she tells me. Try the immobilier.

I retrace my steps to the Agence des Batignolles, on Rue des dames. In the same block as the Eldorado, in fact. I could’ve saved myself some legwork if only I’d known. The guy behind the front desk is about forty, with stubble and an open necked shirt.
You have a property for sale, I say. I tell him the address.
He checks on his computer screen, then looks up. Yes, it’s empty, he says. I can show you around today, if you want.
That’s not necessary, I say, I’m already familiar with the property. But I’m more interested in the vendor, monsieur leblanc? D’you have his current address?
The guy is shaking his head. No, only a mobile phone number. But mademoiselle, you must realise that we have a duty of confidentiality. Whatever your business is with this gentleman, under no circumstances could we give you this information.
Under no circumstances? I give him my best pout. I cross my legs seductively.
He sighs. I suppose I could arrange for you to meet him at the house, he says.

So later that afternoon, at 4pm to be precise, I arrive at Lucien’s former home, in Montmartre. The occupant is dishevelled, unshaven, scruffy. The same old Lucien, except there’s something missing. It’s the smile, of course.
Then he recognises me, and gives me a big hug.
I can’t live here anymore, he explains, since Amy and I separated.
I’m sorry, I say, I didn’t know. That certainly explains the absence of his normal bonhomie.
yes, he says, she’s moved back to England, with our daughter.
He shrugs. But you look marvellous he says, are you back in Paris?
Only for the fashion week, I explain.
Of course, where are you staying?
Maybe with my friend, Helene, you remember. He nods, scratches his head.
So what are you doing now? I went to your old studio.
Oh, I moved out of there too. I’m renting an apartment in Rue Truffaut. Didn’t you live there for a while?
That’s right. On the top floor. All those stairs.
We laugh together, awkwardly, as old friends do when reintroduced.
I’d love you to see my place, he says. I’ve got the whole floor. My studio is also there.
I don’t know, I say. I’m here with my friend Helene, I repeat.
D’accord, he says. Maybe tomorrow?
As usual with Lucien, I can’t resist.