A Stranger in Paris

by Karen Webb

  Jacques reappeared holding a silky object out warily as if it might bite. I recognised my pink French knickers on sight, specially purchased before my trip to Paris from M&S in the hope of seducing my one-time Jewish boyfriend. They were typically English, William had told me, French girls preferring snazzy little undergarments the width of a piece of string. Popular in the late 1980s (in Aberystwyth at least), my oversized bloomers would have fit an elephant, but I was fond of them, as they were soft to the touch and, I fancied, with their scalloped edges, rather fetching.

  Jacques wafted towards me holding the offending article. He wasn’t even trying to find the funny side, his face white with anger as it a dozen leeches had sucked him dry.

  ‘Vous avez oublié ceci,’ he said.

  There was emphasis on the word these. You have forgotten these. He dangled the knickers over the aperitif glasses like a plague-infested mouchoir. William reached up and swiped them from his hand, rolling the offending knickers up into a ball, stuffing them into his pocket like a hanky.

  ‘Je suis une sans culottes,’ I said, remembering the word from my A level history lessons. No-one so much as smirked, least of all William. I thought the French were meant to be liberal what with all that Last Tango in Paris, and Emmanuelle sitting naked on her wicker chair back in the seventies. Surely one pair of pink panties wasn’t une affaire d’état!

  I was frustrated that the knickers implied a far more sinful night in the Peugeot than we had had. My unfortunate undergarment must have given rise to fears about smudges of a different kind on the brushed upholstery. I wanted to explain (in French) that the whole issue was not about ‘shagging’ in the family motor but the removal of an offending knicker line – but those words were impossible to formulate with a hangover, so I gave up.

  Claudine cleared the glasses and the bowls. I felt I should help but didn’t. Men remained seated in France, whereas women were genetically programmed to jump up before they’d finished their food to prepare the next course without once considering their own personal comfort. I reckoned I’d burnt my bridges whether I moved or not, so I stayed seated. Besides, now they knew I wasn’t wearing any knickers, having arrived without an overnight bag, I didn’t want to move around the room. Whatever happened I would forever be the English girl who had whipped off her undies in the car.

  Besides, I wanted to throw up. Alcohol and Pringles on an empty stomach. And that smell! What was it? Claudine returned with a steaming platter of meat. It was not an odour that I recognised.

  ‘Veal,’ William said, ‘recently slaughtered from the family farm in Normandy.’

  Baby calves swimming in blood and curdled-looking cream wasn’t on my wish list at the best of times, but I swallowed, held out my plate and smiled.

  Etiquette counts for a lot in France and I knew this family were far more likely to forgive the shedding of my underwear than my vomiting à table.

  * * *

  My life with William developed a pattern that winter. We met on Friday evenings, after his long week hibernating in the suburbs with his parents. Before we met, I changed hurriedly in the office toilets, slipping into a skimpy dress that I had purchased from Galeries Lafayette especially for the occasion. William liked feminine clothes; stockings, silky dresses and revealing tops. I was happy to indulge. During the week, I continued to alternate my blue and red work suits, earning myself large pleased smiles from Madame Calmelane as she passed reception, and petit à petit my French began to improve.

  I followed the advice my old friend Richard had given me, binning the baggy clothes and beginning to dress less like a hippy student from Aberystwyth and more like a French girl. During the week, I joined work colleagues at the downstairs bar or in town. I had become the best of friends with a black-American man from Atlanta who had joined the office, sending tidal waves rippling throughout the whole organisation. His name was Ronald McKenzie and he was Head of Human Resources Europe, which gave him directly authority over Madame Calmelane. Ron was nothing if not controversial in the office, as his presence indicated the imminent firing of a number of staff and this unfortunate role had earnt him the title, ‘the Angel of Death’: L’ange de la Mort.

  There was much whispering in corridors at work because Ron was both black and gay. In 1989 our French colleagues were at times openly chauvinistic and sexist, not to mention homophobic. During my time on reception I had grown accustomed to men’s arms slipping around my waist when colleagues popped by to reception for a chat, cigarette ash dropping onto my switchboard in the days before strict no-smoking laws were introduced. It was acceptable for cadres to give you lung cancer from passive smoking, but non-cadres had to retire to the designated smoking zones. It wasn’t uncommon for male members of staff to slap a girl’s arse. One culprit, with eight grabbing octopus arms, worked in packaging – the official superior to Yazid and Bertrand. His name was René Bonnard. He spent much of his time leaning on reception and sharing his philosophical views of the world with anyone who’d listen, while parking a fat stubby-fingered hand on the closest portion of flesh available. He informed me that the head of marketing, a voluptuous blonde lady, impeccably dressed, had come into her own since she had hit forty and that she was now a cherry ripe for the picking. He told me that she was married but that she had had sex over the boot of her colleague’s car in level-three parking. The man with whom she had copulated was a stringy looking cadre with a handlebar moustache, sprawled over the bonnet of an Alfa Romeo. René had viewed it all on CCTV – as head of security – and was as au fait with this woman’s sexuality as if he’d held her coat while she’d been in the act.

  Sexist comments in the company were rife. Women drivers were scorned and openly told they were at their best in the kitchen or the bedroom, though I had noticed that some men visibly shrank from reception when Madame Calmelane passed by. She was an exception: the iron lady of the company; the Margaret Thatcher of the enterprise – revered because of her salary and her position. The secretarial pool was an easy target for lustful salesmen and there was little respect for administrative staff, much less the receptionists. Lisbeth was considered with little more respect than a prostitute by those that guessed at the nature of her relationship with Mr Charles-Henri Rocheran. The talk was all around the corridors. It won’t last. Only shagging her because his wife left him; His ex was a cadre, you know. Marketing manager and top of her game. Brighter than her husband some say.

  One quiet lunch hour I was engrossed in Anna Karenina, when a salesman skidded to a halt in front of reception and said with a look of utter astonishment, ‘You read books like that?’ This wasn’t a reproach of my time-wasting activities, rather an expression of surprise that I wasn’t filing my nails, applying nail varnish, or reading a magazine for girls. The assumption that receptionists must be stupid was hard to bear. I’d not forgotten my school days and still wanted to aim for the stars. I wondered if I’d moved back to the UK, whether I would have pursued my dream to work in theatre. Would I have settled for working on a switchboard back home?

  I scribbled stories in my notepads when no-one was around and sent them off to competitions. I finished a full-length children’s book about wizards and witches and wands, and sent the manuscript to a London publisher who, long before the arrival of Harry Potter, wrote back with utter certainty, ‘Wands have waved their last.’

  With Ronald McKenzie’s arrival, the shockwaves of change were felt on every level, including my own. It was intriguing to watch the agony some members of staff felt they must endure, at having to take orders from a black, English-speaking homosexual. In similar vein to my old headmaster, Ron believed that it was possible to jump rank, challenging the age-old French attitude of ‘once a receptionist, always a receptionist’. The winds of change were blowing through the corridors of La Tour Washington.

  The concept of a career change was foreign to most of my French colleagues. Academic choices were made by students early on, their future lives mapped out before they were out of mat
ernelle. Once a profession had been chosen, it was hard to switch paths. There were a few examples of firemen going back to college and becoming doctors, or typists taking night-school classes and moving up to HR. But these were the exception. If you landed in a rut, that’s usually where you stayed. This was the message I was given on a subliminal and literal level day after day, year after year. The French were well-oiled trains, taking their holidays at the same time each year, following the same rules. It was easier and more appreciable to be a sheep than a loose cannon – or worse, an individualist.

  Ron’s immediate suggestion that I be plucked from the switchboard and put into a position of authority, using my skills in English and working with the head office in Atlanta, was something which was disrespectful of tradition. I was getting ‘above my station’ – a danger my mother had repeatedly drawn my attention to, and for the first time, Madame Calmelane gave me the cold shoulder.

  My friendship with Ron ostracised me from my French colleagues. I was seen to be ‘sucking up’ to a man in a position of authority. For Ron, it was worse. He was seen to be hanging out with the riff-raff. How was it possible that one of the European Headquarter Managers had chosen to become friends with the lowest of the low? A switchboard operator! It broke all the rules in the book and could only be explained by his Americanness, his blackness, his gayness. There wasn’t a stream of French people waiting to befriend Ron, and only the English speakers took him into their hearts – a small kernel of foreigners: Jay; a mutinous looking girl named Olivia from Norwich; an Irish girl from Cork called Roisin who had just married a Chinese man; and me of course. Not a single French name to add to the list.

  We hung out at Le Knit, a bar at the bottom of the Washington Tower, and drank beer late into the night – none of us keen to go home. René Bonnard joked openly with the other sales guys about how they should ‘keep their backs to the wall’ if they took the lift at the same time as Ron. I felt protective of him. He spoke little French and was genuinely one of the kindest people I’d ever met. He was an easy target for their jibes, smiling at members of staff all too ready to ridicule him,

  Madame Calmelane sent me into town to furnish Ron’s vast apartment on the rue de Rennes using company expenses. We sat in Darty the electrical shop and were treated like royalty as we ordered everything Ron needed at one go: fridge, freezer, music system, giant-sized TV. We hung out at his place in the evenings and watched black-and-white movies with Bette Davis, or re-runs of Dallas and Dynasty. We were both homesick in our own way. When I caught flu Ron let me stay at his palace and tucked me up on his sofa with some broth. We watched a film where a mother told an ailing child that, if you don’t eat your broth, you won’t get to see the almond trees in spring. Ron told me that I was far too thin and that if I didn’t eat my broth, I wouldn’t get to see no God darn almond trees either.

  Ron called me his Lady Di, seeing in my face something of hers. He joked about how I was his white princess mistress, and that I should kick his black ass back to the kitchen. He told me in deepest Atlanta drawl, that no matter who I dated, and whichever guy I fell for, or moved in with, a girl needs her own nest-egg. It’s one of the best pieces of advice anyone has ever given me, and one that all women should follow, but I didn’t listen. I was young, and I believed that life would sort itself out in the end. There was time around the corner for saving. I was spending my salary as quickly as I earnt it – and although I didn’t have any precious eggs, soon I’d have a bird.

  Chapter 22

  One night in Chatelet les Halles, I’d half an hour to spare before meeting Ron for drinks at the Irish pub. The Centre Commercial at the exit to the train station was still open and I fancied buying a new dress to wear for my next date with William. Feeling like a hobbit, I wandered into a labyrinth of underground shops, where there was little hope of sourcing a drop of Vitamin D from the harsh strip lighting above. On the lower level there was a pet store, and before I knew it, I found myself wandering in, lured by the familiar sound of budgerigars chattering in their cages. I’d not been inside more than a minute when I saw a sad-looking parrot who couldn’t have been further displaced from the Amazonian rainforests of his home if he tried. The bird looked at me sadly before pecking idly at his own foot to remove the ring from his ankle.

  I knew from my budgie-keeping years that this little fellow wasn’t happy. Happy birds sit in a puffed-up ball with one leg raised, looking sleepy, or run up and down singing and chattering, whereas this one was long and lean with anxiety. His plumage was dull and the look in his eye hopeless. He edged to the side of the cage as if sensing a kindred spirit. I made the kind of silly reassuring noises I knew birds liked and he responded, bowing his head so that I might scratch his neck through the bars of his cage. The bird was tame but miserable. I wanted to save him, but he came with a whopping price tag of 17,000 francs. But this feathered captive had pulled on my heartstrings. I decided on a plan.

  * * *

  ‘Alors, mademoiselle, you wish to have a loan, n’est-ce pas?.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘And how much do you wish to borrow?’

  I was sitting in a grand tower block on Le Parvis de la Défense at the head office of La Société Générale, next to the Washington Tower where I worked.

  Madame Calmelane had insisted that I open the account when I signed my contract, as my salary was paid directly into it on the 28th of each month.

  ‘17,000 francs, s’il vous plaît.’

  At the time, this was about £1,700 – almost two months’ salary.

  ‘You have a good salary, mademoiselle. I suppose you wish to put down a deposit on a house. Perhaps you want to buy an apartment? Un prêt immobilier? If so you must wait a little longer, you have not yet been with your company three months. But I am optimistic we can help you with a mortgage in the future.’

  ‘Well, actually, it’s not an apartment I want.’

  ‘Ah, a small car perhaps? Une nouvelle voiture? This may at least be possible.’

  ‘I can’t drive.’

  ‘I see. So, works to your flat then I imagine?’

  ‘Non. If you will let me explain …’

  ‘We are open to all kinds of projects, mademoiselle.’ The man sat back in his chair and opened his arms expansively.

  ‘Allez-y. Go on.’

  ‘Je voudrais acheter un perroquet.’

  I had practiced my French, learning the French word for parrot. I could see that the man did not think he had heard me properly. From his window, there was a clear view across La Défense; an impersonal concrete expanse stretching all the way to the Grande Arche de la Défense and beyond it to Paris itself. Smartly dressed business men and women were walking like determined ants in every direction. There was a sense of purpose here. It was all so cutting-edge. I was no doubt the first person in his career to ask to take out a personal loan to buy a parrot. I was almost certainly the first English woman to do so.

  ‘Pardon?’ he said at last.

  ‘Un perroquet.’

  A brief silence.

  ‘You want to buy a parrot. Pourquoi?’

  It was a good question. Why did I want to buy a parrot when I didn’t have a flat yet of my own? I couldn’t tell him that I had bonded with the bird and been back to see him at least five times; that I had asked the pet shop owner if she would take him out and let him sit on my shoulder, though it turned out he had a far worse temper than my childhood budgie, who had never once bitten me, and had nearly nipped the top of my finger off not to mention drawing blood from the tip of my ear. I could not bear the fact that he was sitting in an airless glass cage more suited to a guinea pig than a wild bird.

  I couldn’t tell him this, nor the fact that I had already named him Basil – after Basil Fawlty and his bad temper. I was sure that he wouldn’t be so grumpy once I got him home. Nor could I tell the man that my budgie Joey died of a broken heart when I went to university and that I missed him still. I needed to look all determined and grown-
up.

  ‘Je ne sais pas,’ he said cautiously. ‘I must ask my manager. Were you not to honour the repayment of the loan, I’m not sure we could repossess a parrot as we might a car. And on my form …’ he looked down at the paper on his desk, ‘I’m not sure which box to tick.’

  I was learning that to get anywhere in France, you must tick all the boxes. France was an administrative country, and before anything could be achieved, the person sitting in front of you had to tick the right box.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said.

  * * *

  A week later I was travelling home with Basil in his cage on the metro. The train pulled into La Défense station on the RER A line from Chatelet. The cage was heavy, and I was wedged between passengers when a homeless man boarded the train. As we lurched forwards the man began to explain that he was hungry and had lost his home and job. I didn’t have any money in my purse and I busied myself fussing with Basil as the man passed, too ashamed to look up without being able to offer him something. It was a tough crowd that evening, and no-one dug deep. Angered, the man paced up and down the carriage waiting for the next stop. The train had come to a halt in one of the long tunnels, and we waited, knowing that no explanation would be given by the driver. The man came to a halt beside me and as I looked up he caught my eye. He stared at Basil in disbelief. Angered by the sight of the bird in the cage, he started to shout at the passengers, forcing them to look up from their hardback historical and philosophical novels.

  ‘Nous sommes tous des prisonniers. We are all prisoners! Just like this poor bird in its cage. La pauvre bête. Trapped behind bars just like you, Pauvres cons. You’re trapped in your lives. I am trapped in my poverty. The bird is trapped. Liberez le! I say. Free the bird!’