1 – Jean-Paul

The boulevard glistened in the sombre dusk twilight, the street lamps hadn’t quite switched themselves to on.  Mdme’s evening business hours were fast approaching; or perhaps she was fast approaching them.  A Parisian sunset is something to behold, every piece of plastic souvenir somewhat takes away from its glorious prestige however.  But when it’s right there in front of you for you to indeed behold it somewhat takes the breath away. The effervescent glow of the setting fiery ball in the sky gives way to a series of silhouetted landmarks.  Le Arc De Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower give way to their true majesty in black on sunset orange. You’re allowed to forget about the symbolism of French imperial strength.  Forget about the architecturally flawed chunks of metal framework, the tired clichés of romantic fiction and the inspiration of the mass manufacture of aforementioned pieces of plastic merchandise you’ll find in every shop from Calais to Nice, and everywhere in between.

In deux heures Mdme was to rendezvous with Paul.  Paul was an English businessman.  Monsieur Paul dealt in electrical goods.  His mother was a keen admirer of all things l’français.  Cinema, art and literature, wine, cheese and all types of cuisine and culinary expertise.  She even christened Paul – her eldest son of three – Jean-Paul (which he would later shorten to Paul, just Paul).  How his face would turn a peculiar shade of red every time a new teacher, mentor or lecturer at school, college or university would read a register, name-check or roll-call.  He would always humbly request the nom de plume of Paul, just Paul.  This didn’t even cease in the workplace, oh non! For bullying isn’t merely a past-time of the infantile and adolescent, it continues well into adulthood.  Particularly in this case when you add a British Neanderthal element and a generous sprinkle of xenophobia aimed at all things l’français.

In spite of all this Jean-Paul managed to work his was up through the English school system, jump through the endless hoops of exams and through the stress and torture consuming those in the pursuit of a “normal” respectable life.  He slaved his way through one the best courses in Business & Leisure that an old southern English polytechnic had to offer.  He charmed his way through the whirlwind office romance with Stephanie.  He shot his way up through the promotions, company car plus bloated salary with bonuses and benefits.  Now he was a globe-trotting businessman dealing in electronics and racketeering duty-free cigarettes and booze all the time in ill-fitting suits and plastic shoes.  Now Jean-Paul was Paul. He was finally Paul, just Paul.  His nose was browner than brown, he was morally bankrupt and all this time his mother couldn’t have cared any less.  She was immersed in Satré and Debussy.  Buried face deep in l’histoire, revolution, riot et renaissance.