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.