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.