CHASING LIFE

by Steve Jovanoski

  ‘Oh, right, for large women,’ Dave nodded. He had to admit, he’d never met a plus-size ladies’ apparel designer before. ‘Having your own business in Paris must have been profitable.’

  ‘It can be, but not as much as it would be in Australia,’ he said. Dave chuckled at the slight dig. ‘It’s hard work, and I don’t like talking to people. I am not a good manager. It’s difficult to get good workers, you know? If someone is not working, I tell them to fuck off, but you cannot do that. One girl was stealing from me, but I couldn’t prove it, and you cannot just fire them anymore. They will take you to court. It’s terrible, I got sick of it all.’

  ‘The world’s gone crazy,’ Dave agreed, enjoying himself. ‘Are you still in the industry?’

  ‘I sold the business, and I told my father I will do real estate now. There’s more money in real estate.’

  ‘That’s quite a change. What did he say?’

  ‘He told me that I was fucking crazy. “What do you know about selling or buying houses”, he said. He was right. I knew nothing about it, but how hard could it be? The fashion business is not for me anymore. This world is full of people with drama, and you must put up with a lot of crap. I am getting too old for that bullshit.’ He waved his hand as if brushing off a loathsome memory.

  ‘I hope you don’t take offence, but I hear people say Parisians are stuck up and rude. Is it true?’ Dave was having a little dig at him now.

  ‘Of course!’ the man waved his hand dismissively, as if Dave had asked whether the sky was blue. ‘We are the rudest people in France, probably in the world.’

  ‘Well, at least you’re honest,’ Dave grinned, expecting an educated explanation in defence of the Parisians.

  ‘Yes, I tell you, this is true. We can be real assholes, we Parisians. I perhaps am one of them. We think very highly of ourselves. And, look, I did not even ask your name.’

  ‘It’s David or Dave, whatever you prefer.’

  ‘I am Jean Pirredu de Clari and I am dying for a cigarette, Dave,’ Jean Pirredu said. ‘This is why I hate flying. On a train, at least you can hide somewhere or go to the smoking carriage.’ He gulped the wine, got up and excused himself for the toilet. This guy’s mad, Dave thought as he reached for the in-flight magazine. He observed the tall Parisian with curiosity. His leather boots made a metallic cling like Clint Eastwood’s in a Western. Dave imagined him walking off into the horizon after a gun battle, disdainfully swigging from a wine bottle.

  A few minutes later, Dave heard a scuffle near the toilet compartments and looked up to see what the fracas was about. Jean Pirredu was in the middle of it, waving his arms about and arguing with the flight attendants. Dave didn’t know many French words, but he definitely heard ‘merde’ used quite frequently in the heated exchange. The Frenchman was escorted back to his seat and sternly instructed not to move. The flight attendants spoke fast and pointed fingers at him in anger.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Dave asked, unable to fathom what could possibly have happened.

  ‘Nothing. I just had a few puffs of a fucking cigarette and the alarm switched on in the fucking toilet. Fucking airplanes.’ Jean Pirredu fidgeted nervously. ‘Can you get a glass of wine for me please, Dave? I need to calm my nerves and they are angry with me right now.’ The Frenchman spoke in a low voice, as if embarrassed by the experience.

  ‘Sure.’ Dave called the flight attendant, who hesitantly obliged. It was a déjà vu moment. His seatmates kept getting in trouble with the flight crew. ‘How is your real-estate career going?’ Dave tried to calm the hot-blooded Jean by getting him to talk again. He assumed from the man’s clothes that he was quite successful. The man was dressed like a model. He wore fashionable jeans and a polo jumper, sporting a rocker-like hairstyle and long sideburns. He was taller than Dave and slightly slimmer.

  ‘I am just starting out right now. I have invested in one property, but it’s difficult in Paris. It’s very expensive, which is why I am thinking perhaps London.’

  ‘Why London?’

  ‘There are still a lot of opportunities there and it’s cheaper.’

  ‘A very drastic switch, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, but if you want to make a real change, why not make it drastic? I’m getting older now, and I have no, how do you say?’ He paused and clicked his fingers, trying to recall the right words, ‘Tolerance? No, patience. Or perhaps both.’

  ‘But what made you think of real estate?’

  ‘I had an older friend in London that convinced me to try it, and so I did. But this business with money, it’s all bullshit no matter what you do.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If I get a lot of money I will be on another level, wealthier, yes? But then I will want to make more money to get to the next higher level.’ Jean Pirredu was trying to get a point across, but had lost Dave. Jean tried another tack to explain. ‘My friend, the one in London, she had cancer and died not long ago. She had no family, and I was the only one that went to visit her. She was married once but never had children. You know what she told me before she died? I will never forget it. She said that her life was a failure, and her wealth meant nothing. This was a very close friend of mine, and she was very rich, but she died lonely. So, I will try anything not to be like my friend.’ Jean ended his story in the same tone as he started. There was no change of emotion in the man’s expression—just brutal honesty.

  He was discussing a serious subject as normally as someone would if quoting a simple fact. Dave was taken aback. What he’d said was close to Dave’s heart. Cancer, a terminal illness in general, took everything away from a person. He’d been left with nothing when Julia died. His life was worth nothing. This man was telling him how scared he was and, cynicism aside, how he hoped to change his life for the better. Before it was too late. Jean Pirredu was making a drastic change, just as Dave was. Dave sat back to ponder their discussion and they lapsed into silence. Breakfast was served and, thankfully, the remainder of the flight was uneventful.

  When the plane landed, the flight crew welcomed passengers to L’Aéroport de Paris Charles de Gaulle, wishing everyone a pleasant stay, first in French and then in English. Dave and Jean Pirredu walked out together, commenting on how good it was to finally stretch their legs and get off the damn airplane.

  They crossed the aerobridge and to the terminal, heading for customs. Two official-looking men in uniforms approached and blocked their way. For a second, Dave felt a jolt of panic, but it was Jean Pirredu they were interested in. They politely asked Dave to move along, but he hung around to see what the problem was. Jean Pirredu flew into a tirade of abuse, his arms waving and pointing in all directions, arguing with the officials in the same manner as he did with the flight attendants on the plane.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Dave asked, trying to help.

  ‘They want to fine me for smoking on the plane and disturbing passengers. It’s an outrage!’ He stomped his foot. The two men were obviously airport security. They pleaded with him to calm down, but he had to create a scene. This was Jean Pirredu—it was his right to protest, and no one would stop him. Arriving passengers looked on and kept walking, too tired to care what was transpiring. Dave couldn’t understand the profanities coming out of the Parisian’s mouth, but could imagine how colourful they must be. The man’s liberal attitude got him in trouble once again. Just shut up, man, Dave felt like saying, watching him get dragged away.

  ‘Au revoir, David! Enjoy your stay in Paris,’ Jean Pirredu called out, handcuffed and moved along.

  ‘Good luck, Jean Pirredu!’ Dave called after him, shaking his head in amusement as he headed for the customs line. Their meeting was short, but he liked the crazy Frenchman. There was a parallel between them: a search for something better, something meaningful. Jean Pirredu had walked away from a successful career in fashion, despite the money and reputation in the most fashion-conscious part of the world. The fear in Jean Pirredu, of dying alone without having given life a shot, was also
ingrained in Dave.

  Chapter 14

  Unlike those in Hong Kong, the directions in English at Charles de Gaulle airport were neither common nor conveniently displayed. Dave felt disoriented after his long flight. It took him a few moments to realise he was now out of Asia. A few hours of flight had taken him to another continent, another language, another culture and an entirely different world. When he asked a couple of official-looking women for directions to the shuttle buses, they just shrugged their shoulders and gave instructions that Dave found incomprehensible.

  They walked off leaving him more confused than ever, and with nervous tension building up in his temple. I need a coffee, he told himself, and, after exchanging some money, he sat down at the first café he saw. He was now in a western society and one a lot closer to him than the one in Hong Kong. Everything felt different here. That melodic French everyone loved bounced around him and made him smile. The air he breathed, the sounds he heard, the way people walked and talked. An entirely new experience awaited him, and the thought of it excited him. Everything from here on would be done differently, whether he liked it or not. It was the beginning of a new adventure with a different set of rules.

  No matter how much sugar he added to his cup, the bitter taste lingered in his mouth. But coffee is coffee, and even a bad one is good enough for a caffeine addict in need. As Dave went off in search of transportation to Paris, soldiers carrying machine guns walked past and scrutinised him from head to toe. Dave was baffled, he’d never seen soldiers with weapons in public before. Why would they need machine guns? After a long walk, he finally found the metro information booth, where he bought tickets for the Réseau Express Régional train.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he turned to a young man walking by, ‘do you speak English?’ Dave smiled and hoped for the best.

  ‘A little,’ the man replied.

  ‘Oh, great. Would you mind helping me find my way around the station? This is where I’m meant to be.’ Dave pulled out the apartment details that showed the address and pointed excitedly. ‘See? Do you know it?’ he grinned.

  The man scrunched up his eyebrows, mumbled the address and paused for a moment. Then his eyes lit up, ‘Oh yes, I know it. Come with me, it’s on my way.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Dave let out a deep breath and felt his entire body loosen up like a shoelace. He was exhausted and in no mood to learn new directions at that point. The man happened to be a student from Lyon on a weekend holiday. He guided Dave to the correct station and even gave him instructions to find his apartment. His English wasn’t very good, but he was eager to help the directionless Australian.

  On a Paris Metro map the young student, circled the stops Dave had to take to get to rue Buffon. At times, he would forget himself and speak in French, and Dave would have to remind him to translate. The grand scale of the Parisian subway was impressive. Staring at the map was akin to observing a multi-coloured painting of lines of various thicknesses. The train stations came with names he couldn’t even read, let alone pronounce. It was all perfectly designed to confuse tourists like himself, he was convinced.

  They boarded the RER, short for Réseau Express Régional. It kicked off its journey from the outskirts of Paris, gathering passengers along the way until the carriages were packed. According to one of the brochures he picked up, the Metro was another train system, purely for Paris city lines. What Dave found amazing was the number of commuters from African and Arab backgrounds. Skin colour ranged from dark brown to black and the handful of whites stood out. He felt embarrassingly self-conscious.

  Had a person been plucked out of anywhere and put on that train, they would be forgiven for mistaking it for an African nation. The student explained the reason for this demographic peculiarity. It was a result of the Paris projects, built many years earlier. Providing cheap housing for the lower economic classes had in fact created a ghetto problem. Unemployment and crime were the results of government neglect. This was the largely impoverished workforce that kept Paris going, and this was what the riots of recent years had been protesting. The student called it ‘the shame of Paris’.

  Dave’s stop came, and he thanked the young man for his kind assistance before taking his first steps into the city of Paris. Out of the train station and above ground, the demographic change was striking. The cultural mêlée of African descent he witnessed in the train dispersed. The streets were busy with cars and pedestrians, and in this part of town at least, the people were predominantly white. He was a common westerner again. The idiosyncrasies that made him awkward and stand out in China were far less evident. However, now he was just another white tourist in Paris.

  It was getting late, and the only thing on his mind was a hot shower and a clean bed. The small map he took from the airport was handy enough to get him to the apartment on rue Buffon, a five-minute walk away. He crossed a busy street and stood in front of what looked like a museum. A large garden sign said ‘Jardin de Plantes’.

  For the first time he stood still to take in the idea of being in Paris. That was when he saw it. Some distance away, illuminated with lights in response to dusk, high above the city loomed the Eiffel Tower. The very symbol of Paris was in his view—the postcard image he’d seen so many times. Dave was mesmerised. It felt surreal. Amongst hectic traffic of vehicles, scooters, bike riders and students, he observed it in silence and smiled. He was partly scared out of his wits and partly excited. I wish you were here to see this, Julia, he said to himself and bathed in the stunning sight.

  He took a few more deep breaths. Making sure Paris was inside him. The air was clean and cool and the city itself had a busy but pedantic feel about it. That rush and organised chaos he experienced in Hong Kong was now replaced by euro standards, environmental codes and a low building skyline. The pace had slowed, and he was gearing down, just what he needed.

  Dave tugged at his suitcase and continued on. Along the street he came to pass by a Patisserie. For the first time, the smell of fresh croissants entered his lungs and made him stop. A delicious aroma of freshness and flavour could be tasted in the air itself. The croissants were on display behind the shop window, golden and crunchy looking. ‘Later, Dave,’ he pushed himself reluctantly and continued on course.

  He reached the large metal gates of the apartment complex. Part of the building looked brand new and the other had been integrated into it. He walked in over a cobblestone path and found himself inside a large courtyard surrounded by apartment units. He looked around for apartment number two. When he approached it, he saw two people inside. Dave knocked on the door and a woman let him in.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You are David?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Welcome.’ The woman spoke softly with a smile, gesturing to the other man in the office. She seemed harried with her work.

  ‘We are just finishing up with the cleaning, David,’ the man said. ‘We were hoping to have it ready by the time you came. But it’s okay, we are nearly done.’ The man was young. He seemed like he was probably a university student doing a part-time job. ‘How was your flight?’ he asked while Dave took a load off and sat down.

  ‘Too long,’ he exhaled and massaged his sore muscles.

  ‘Where are you coming from?’

  ‘Australia, Melbourne,’ Dave could suddenly smell his own body odour. He stiffened, hoping they would leave soon.

  ‘My goodness, that is far,’ the man exclaimed. His reaction was becoming a common theme. They worked fast, counting all the items in the apartment such as kitchen utensils and making sure that everything was confirmed before handing it over to its new tenant.

  ‘We will let you rest now,’ he said, politely taking Dave through the apartment maintenance policy, operation of the remote controls and details about his telephone landline. He then presented Dave with the keys and a complimentary bottle of wine along with some chocolates. How thoughtful, he said to himself.

  When they left, he immediately relaxed and began exploring his tiny living quarte
rs, inquisitively opening every drawer and cupboard. The studio apartment was hardly four metres by four, and that included the toilet. There were two lampshades with arm extensions, a couch that unfolded into a double bed, a combination washer/dryer, a flat-screen television, a DVD/CD player and a fully furnished little kitchenette. It was a funky little place, and he fell in love with it immediately. Brand-new and spotless, it was perfect for the needs of one person. It took him some time to realise that there were no windows. He could only open the main glass doors for fresh air, and that exposed him to the cobbled street outside. If that was open, it would be at the expense of his privacy.

  Mental and physical exhaustion started to bear down on him, and his body operated on autopilot. After a hot shower, he unfolded his bed and slid between the sheets for his first night in Paris.

  ‘You are in Paris, man,’ he said to himself. The realisation brought a grin to his face. His mind raced even though his body craved rest. If he couldn’t sleep he might as well make plans for the following day. Go for a walk and get to know the area, learn how to use the Metro, take money out for long-term expenses, call the apartment agency to extend his stay, find a French phrase book, buy groceries and take a look at postcards for Amy and Mike. As raindrops began to patter outside, Dave groaned. ‘Not rain again,’ he mumbled. The clip-clop of high heels as a group of girls passed his apartment was the last thing he noted before his mind finally succumbed to sleep.

  In the morning Dave jumped out of bed fully energised, stretching his aching muscles like a cat, eager to get out and explore. He drew the curtains just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Yep, he was in Paris. He did a little moonwalk across the kitchen tiles and adjusted his watch to the local time. After brushing his teeth, he got dressed in a hurry and walked out the door humming that U2 tune. A gust of cold wind and rain left him stunned. All he had on was a flimsy shirt. It wasn’t humid like Hong Kong, but the rain was a curse that seemed to be following him around. The coldness clawed at his skin and bore to his bones. He was freezing.