A Stranger in Paris

by Karen Webb

  At two o’clock precisely, Lisbeth plugged the switchboard back in. It jumped into life like a rabid dog, bouncing on the desk with the vibration of a hundred calls. The ear-piercing beeps were as strident as a baby hyena left to starve and could not be ignored. There were ten lines down the left-hand side of the machine and all of these were busy. Lisbeth skilfully put each call on hold with a well-practised ‘Bonjour monsieur/madame. Un instant je vous prie.’ I practised the words, wondering if I would ever be able to speak as confidently to the clients as she did. From Lisbeth’s easy banter and the twinkle in her eye, it was easy to see that a lot of the callers were like old friends, although she told me she had not met most of them.

  ‘Many of our clients are based in Provence,’ she said. ‘but they know me now and we have a little chat when there is time.’

  Lisbeth was a confident telephonist, with her flirtatious banter, her deep smoker’s voice and gruff laugh. It was a facade which hid her insecurity. She explained to me in hushed tones that she couldn’t spell, at all, having left school before her baccalaureate. She told me that no-one would give her a chance in life, until she joined this company.

  When she wrote messages in a childish hand with unnecessary loops and curls, the nib of her pen pressing deep into the paper, even I could pick up on a few basic mistakes: the use of the ER infinitive where a past participle should have been used. How would she manage with the razor-sharp-tongued women in the secretarial pool? Was social mobility such a good thing after all if it crushed your soul? Lisbeth was happy on reception, her bubbling personality rubbing off on even the dourest of staff members.

  She showed me how to answer the calls and to put them through, before deciding halfway through the afternoon that it was time to leave me for yet another ‘pause cigarette.’

  ‘You see how it works?’ she said. The storm had died down in the last half an hour, following a frenzy of calls from irate accountants up and down the country who realised soon after a lazy lunch that they couldn’t fathom their software package in time to meet their tight deadlines that evening. Lisbeth grabbed her Marlborough Lights from her bag, calling ‘Je reviens,’ as she disappeared through the swing doors. The first call that came through was from the English office in the UK. I spoke to a pleasant-sounding man by the name of Mark Oakes and connected him through to the translation department with ease. Madame Calmelane passed by as I finished the call and smiled, reassured to see the situation under control.

  The reception desk was an elegant semicircle which filled half the entrance hall. There was a giant yucca plant in a pot and a small waiting area with black leather sofas and IT magazines on a glass coffee table. The view from the window was spectacular: nothing short of the New York skyline to a country girl like me. Lost in contemplation and praying for Lisbeth’s return, I sensed a presence by my side. It was Yazid. He sidled up to the desk, flicking an anxious look at the double doors which housed Human Resources and Madame Calmelane’s bureau. In his hand, there was a box of yellow Post-its and a box of biros.

  ‘Je t’ai apporté des fournitures,’ he said, using the informal form of address straight off, which I knew was impertinent. Then, seeing that I didn’t understand the word fournitures, said in English, ‘Supplies, you know, for the office. I brought some. I manage mail and supplies.’

  ‘Merci,’ I said, and took them from him.

  He didn’t leave, but leant on the counter, with a contrived air of ease. It was clear to see that he wasn’t comfortable on management level. Lisbeth had explained that all the offices around us were filled with the heads of sales, and other than the delivery of his supplies, there was no other reason for him to loiter. He should be back in the entrails of La Tour Washington. Yazid gave a nervous twitch as the door opened. A tall blonde salesman in a blue suit passed by with tanned features fresh from the côte d’Azur. We were invisible to him.

  ‘Do you want to see Lisbeth?’ I asked in French.

  ‘No, no,’ he said, slipping into English. ‘It is you I want to see. I want to make you an offer.’

  I hoped he wasn’t going to ask me out. He must have been forty. He took some time to spit out his load, as the French say, but finally reached the point:

  ‘You have a British passport.’ This was a statement not a question.

  I was surprised. Yazid didn’t oversee paperwork at the office. If I needed to renew my carte de séjour then surely Madame Calmelane would ask me. I didn’t answer and seeing my confusion, he changed tack.

  He smiled. ‘You have just arrived in Paris, n’est-ce pas? Do you have a place to live yet?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘That’s all sorted.’

  If only he knew.

  ‘Ah,’ said Yazid, ‘that’s a pity. I could have helped. I know of a house, there are many rooms within.’

  A bit like God’s house then.

  ‘No, I’m quite alright,’ I said.

  ‘This is your first job?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Before that?’

  ‘I took care of three children for a French family.’

  Yazid jumped on this piece of information.

  ‘Not much money. An au pair yes?’

  ‘Yes, it was very badly paid,’ I said, ‘that’s why I’m so grateful to Madame Calmelane for giving me a chance.’

  At the sound of her name Yazid jumped into action, abandoning his stance as casual loiterer, spurred on like a Shakespearian messenger who was afraid that if he didn’t get on with it, he might be felled at any moment.

  ‘I cut to the point,’ he snapped, ‘but this is confidential. If you repeat this, I will be angry, très faché, and we don’t want to get off on the wrong foot, right?’

  More threats. I was terrified enough as to what our Chinese benefactor might do, without Yazid starting. I didn’t say anything, wishing Lisbeth would hurry back. Even a client call would have been a relief.

  ‘I can give you money,’ Yazid said, ‘money that you need to live here in Paris. But you would have to do something for me.’

  ‘Really! Whatever do you think–!’

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ he said quickly. ‘You mis-understand, there is no sex involved. I am not this kind of man. In a way, you would be doing something good and kind. I don’t know how many days you will be here, or if you stay for good. But I’m saying this now and the offer remains.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you want from me?’

  ‘Your passport,’ said Yazid bluntly. ‘I know people, many people that need to get into the UK; good people, who want to work hard and make a living there. Not France. They want to go to England. Social Services are much kinder there.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘You give me your passport,’ he said, ‘and you wait one month. This is very important. Très, très important. You wait one month before going to the Embassy and saying to the officials there that you have been very stupid. You had not realised your passport had gone from your purse. You must have dropped it. You make a declaration to the authorities, and all is well. Money will be given to you: £10,000. Not from me, but it will come. Pounds you understand. Not francs.’

  I tried to speak but Yazid silenced me with a raised hand.

  ‘Do not give me your answer now, there is no obligation. If you do not wish to, then we say no more about it. But it is a very generous offer. I ask only that you think seriously of your answer.’

  I thought about Yazid’s proposition for all of five seconds. It was not the first time in my life that an indecent proposal had been made; one which was morally questionable. Back when I was dating Steve I had been offered £5,000 to pose naked for a magazine with a graduation gown draped around my shoulders. Shocked to have been asked at the time, my inner devil whispered that it was just the amount I need to cover my Barclay’s bank overdraft. I knew it was something I would never do. Nevertheless, Steve’s reaction had annoyed me: ‘It’d be alright if I was the only one to see it,’ he’d said.
‘Bit of a laugh really, and we could do with the money. But what if my father were to see it?’

  I’d asked Steve how likely it was that his father would purchase a copy of Parade magazine.

  ‘Well, likely enough,’ he’d replied. ‘He’s partial to the odd girlie magazine, you know.’

  ‘Hypocrite!’ I’d said, keen to provoke a dispute.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ he hissed, ‘and you know it. You can’t have your fiancée in this kind of a magazine.’

  Faced with this deal from the Devil, I knew I’d no more sell my passport that I would pose naked in my graduation gown. I gave Yazid what I hoped was a cold stare. I was proud of my newly acquired passport with its deep blue cover and inner inscription where the Queen both Requests and Requires that I be allowed to pass freely without let or hindrance, and afforded such assistance and protection as may be necessary. I felt that Her Majesty was with me, caring for me on a daily basis, whatever French life might throw at me, and I wasn’t about to betray that trust.

  I wondered what Yazid was up to. The news was alive with the first Gulf War and there were talks of new terror attacks and of Scud missiles landing on French soil. There was increased security of late in Paris, and people in the metro wearing T-shirts which said, ‘Non à la guerre.’ Madame Calmelane had told reception to be wary of all unmarked packages arriving at reception. As an American company, we were a target.

  I thought about Yazid and the house in Paris with the many rooms which he had to offer, and the people who wished to gain access into the UK. Did they mean to be good citizens? Or did they want to infiltrate the country for sinister reasons? I wondered if there was something about me which attracted weird proposals: first our mysterious benefactor, and now this. As the French said, I must have ‘pigeon’ written right across my forehead.

  Chapter 19

  My first few weeks on the switchboard were hell. I couldn’t understand the names of the clients, the name of their companies or their telephone numbers. French numbers are a minefield. It was a given that Parisians were rude on the phone. Over the years, I have learnt that 99 per cent of all French people who answer the phone despise you before you’ve even begun. It’s just the way it is. The customers were rude, but to be fair, so were the receptionists. It wasn’t a winning combination. In my case, most of the callers were either irate, because the product they’d paid several million francs for wasn’t working, or stressed because they were on the point of signing a million-dollar deal and afraid they might be making a mistake

  Lisbeth was the exception to her profession. Her husky voice filled with laughter, blowing away irritation and fear. I was a pale imitation of this born-to-be switchboard operator. Looking back, I now understand the frustration of so many French clients at the time, who, when calling head office were greeted by the incoherent ramblings of an English woman with the vocabulary of a five-year-old.

  The following is a typical conversation:

  ME: SDB Software Solutions, Bonjour.

  CLIENT: Monsieur de Vries à l’appareil

  ME: [In bad French] You want to speak to Mr de Vries [looking frantically at my list of extension numbers and wondering how this is spelt].

  CLIENT: [In perfect French] No, I am Monsieur de Vries.

  ME: Oh, sorry, right.

  [Silence, at which point I realised that Mr de Vries was such an important client that I was expected to not only know the name of his company, but the name of the person to whom he wished to speak.]

  CLIENT: [In exasperation] Francis de Serves, s’il vous plaît.

  ME: [Following my training instructions and knowing that Monsieur de Serves was the revered Managing Director] Can I have the name of your company, please?

  CLIENT: Schlumberger

  ME: Sorry?

  CLIENT: Schlumberger [It sounded as if he had sneezed or put in an order at the Hollywood Canteen.]

  ME: Slum Burger.

  CLIENT: Berger not Burger

  ME: Yes, one moment, please. I’m putting you through. [I was pleased to have learnt this expression in French – Je vous le passe.]

  [Some minutes later]

  ME: There is no reply. Can I take a message?

  CLIENT: Vous lui dirai que j’ai appellé, et qu’il me rappelle de toute urgence.

  ME: Pardon?

  CLIENT: [Loud sighs, repeating original sentence slowly]. You will tell him I rang, and you will ask him to call me back urgently.

  ME: Ah, yes. Can I have your number please? [It was bloody hard luck that there wasn’t a screen on the switchboard to display numbers.]

  CLIENT: [In a fast and furious gabble] Zero un, quarante-sept, quatre-vingt-huit, soixante-seize, quatre-vingt-douze.

  [This should have read 01 47 88 76 92]

  ME: [Writing] 014074208601642012

  Madame Calmelane came to see me later that same afternoon holding out my telephone message. There were a series of crossings out all over the paper. I learnt, slowly and painfully, with much hair loss over the switchboard and several painful outbursts of eczema on my hands, arms and legs, that French numbers needed to be added up to deduce the correct number. If you were French, you did this in your head. If you were me, you did it on a jotter. For a long time, I made the following calculations on my reception notepad.

  4 20 16 = 4 × 20 + 16 = 96

  4 20 8 = 4 × 20 + 8 = 88

  It was the only way to keep up with the rapid fire of French thrown at me.

  Names were also problematic. I spelt both the name of the company and the caller incorrectly. The kinder sales-team members played games in the smoker’s lounge, reading out names phonetically, trying to guess who might have called. The not so understanding reported me to Madame Calmelane – when a big commission hung in the balance, not to mention yearly turnover, office patience was tested.

  In an overcrowded lift one day, the grumpy woman with the scowl alighted on the 24th floor. She scrunched her face at me like a pit bull terrier, saying to no-one in particular: ‘Why should she get the job when there are so many French girls who need work?’ I wanted to drop through the bottom of the lift to Minus Three level and land on a toasted cheese sandwich. No-one replied. Most of the staff were kind, but not everyone was prepared to welcome an incompetent English woman with open arms. Hiring me was the most unconventional move Madame Calmelane had ever made.

  Yazid, who was crammed in the corner of the lift that day, winked at me, as if to say: ‘When you’re fired, remember, you still have choices.’

  * * *

  I had joined the company at a time of internal war. Two companies had recently merged into one, and this had resulted in two conflicting factions. The staff list was a veritable Noah’s Ark. There were two of everything: two Managing Directors; two Heads of Human Resources; two Heads of Marketing; and two Heads of Accounts. This caused untold stress, as theoretically anyone’s head might roll. Now that I’d been recruited, there were also two receptionists, as Lisbeth had failed to make it into the hallowed ranks of the secretarial pool. There was still resistance because of her poor orthographe or spelling. I knew that most of the staff didn’t want her to leave reception. If she did, they’d be left with me and company profits might plummet.

  Throughout my working day, I came to recognise that the lift up to the 31st floor was a microcosm of French society. It was here that I learnt the useful French expression: les absents ont toujours tort (those who are absent, are always wrong), observing my colleagues tendency to bad-mouth anyone who had recently vacated the group. I noticed how the behaviour of my French female colleagues changed whenever they were in the presence of a man, as the women adopted a girlish tone and skittish manner. Hair was tossed, and eyes encouraged to peep from beneath fringes in that coy Lady Diana manner, as creatures of my sex feigned subservience in both gesture and in speech. These women would show great respect to a male colleague when wishing him bonjour, aurevoir or bon appetit. But it was gloves off once monsieur had gone.

  ‘C’est un vrai
con celui-là.’ He’s a right bastard that one.

  ‘Oui, et en plus, il tape sa secrétaire !’ Yes, and on top of that, he’s screwing his secretary.

  Femininity evaporated from the huddled group as they picked at the bones of the absent male. Voices grew guttural, descending a register to their natural level. The company of men, I now knew, required stage presence. Never more so than with un cadre. A flighty and feminine manner was de rigueur in the presence of any male member of staff but once alone, the women reverted to type.

  Simone de Beauvoir’s described such transformations in her book The Second Sex, where she described having left her girlfriend one afternoon, her friend’s hair unwashed, her clothing drab, and her skin as grey as a school dishcloth, only to pop back later to find the same girl glowing and transformed beyond recognition as she flung the door open in anticipation of her lover. Of course, lovers the world over pamper themselves before a date, but it was at the office where I first noticed that French women changed their personality in the presence of the opposite sex. It was the same on the radio and television, where they acted silly for the benefit of a man: orgasmic over a new washing powder or a cut-price bargain at the supermarket, they oozed sexuality in their ads, whimpering and gushing to anyone who might listen. In adverts featuring offices, the woman would invariably play the sexy stern secretarial type in the heavy-framed glasses, waiting for a man to unwrap her, and reveal her true passionate self

  I cringed to observe how women would whip themselves into a frenzy on French radio over banal and uninteresting domestic issues: ‘Cheri! C’est incroyable! Carrefour supermarket has a promotion on sirloin steak, two for the price of one. Oh, my love, you could be in for a treat tonight!’

  It was an act, a pretence and a conspiracy, in which all French women were happy to collude. In real life, when the whimpering and gushing stopped, the voices of these wives and mothers were deep and authoritative. They were in full control of their emotions, their husbands and their children. The married women that I knew were rulers of the roost, governing their households with the authority of Bonne-Maman, their husbands falling in with the arrangement and obeying their spouses iron command. Women ruled and dominated the family home. Men sought revenge at the office.