Paris Dreaming Page 15

  ‘Of course! But only when I have time.’

  ‘Email or Skype me, this’ll be costing a fortune.’ Lauren had become thrifty since hooking up with Wyatt and saving for their wedding. I knew that although I was paying for the call, she would’ve considered it an absolute extravagance when we could talk for free.

  ‘Okay, love ya, say hello to Wyatt and the girls, and Bonnie and Clyde. I’m off to the Champs-Elysées now. Au revoir.’

  I hit ‘end’ on my iPhone and looked at the arc – a monument that honoured those who fought for France, particularly in the Napoléonic Wars. I considered the size and design of the structure, in awe of its presence, and wondered what our equivalent would be back home. The Australian War Memorial perhaps?

  Canelle met me at 11 am.

  ‘Elizabeth, it is good to see you,’ she said, kissing both cheeks. ‘I do not come here so much, it is for the tourists, but you are a tourist so I will walk with you. But we will go to other places to shop for your wardrobe.’ She looked me up and down smiling and I felt immediately self-conscious. ‘It is okay, I know Canberra is not Paris, but you are here now.’

  And so I was. I wished Lauren was there too. She and Canelle would’ve got on perfectly in terms of fashion and certainly in terms of re-fashioning me.

  As we walked along the Champs-Elysées, I saw huge posters of Vogue magazine covers in glass boxes lining the street. All the major designers had stores along the stretch: Lancel, Armani, YSL, Lacoste, Louis Vuitton, Hugo Boss.

  Canelle resisted but I forced her to stop at George V on the Champs-Elysées, a canopied café with an interesting mix of people. Four German men sat next to us, and threw the odd lengthy look our way.

  The menu had a special ‘drink of the day’, champagne and crushed strawberries, which I didn’t think was that special but I ordered one anyway because it was Saturday in Paris and I needed to celebrate that.

  Canelle ordered a mineral water and I hoped that she wasn’t going to be a teetotaller; I needed a buddy to do the bubbly with in Paris. It was the real champagne here, not the sparkling wine we called bubbly back home. So I had to drink it in Paris.

  Canelle made a phone call while I watched tourists file past. I looked to my right and saw Frenchmen in designer suits standing in a shop doorway smoking cigarettes as they perved on stylish European women strolling by. While I watched the street traffic, the café filled up with American tourists, families and couples at tiny, tiny tables. Tiny tables, tiny cars, tiny hotel rooms and tiny-waisted women. And yet, the city was so bloody enormous!

  ‘The tables in Paris are all so small,’ I stated to Canelle as she put her phone back in her bag.

  ‘Just enough room for a coffee and resting your hands,’ she said, placing hers elegantly on the table. I could learn a lot from Canelle about local art, culture, fashion and, apparently, table manners.

  We walked the back lanes for thirty minutes. I loved strolling the old streets that felt safe and somehow authentically French, with trees lining them, couples holding hands, tiny cars and horns beeping.

  It was hard to ignore how romance played itself out in Paris, and served to make my own city of Canberra appear romantically sterile. Lovers everywhere held hands, cuddled and gazed at each other in the street. I hardly ever saw that in Canberra, except with the younger, drunk crowd in Civic on Friday nights.

  I watched with interest and an unusual and unwanted pang of envy as I saw a couple kissing passionately as if enjoying their first and last kisses rolled into one. It was bizarre experiencing other people’s romance. Then I heard Caro in my ear whispering, It’s someone else’s wife he’s kissing! I suddenly felt a little less interested and envious.

  When we arrived at the Printemps Haussmann, the first thing I noticed was how the sheer size of the department store made ours back home pale into insignificance.

  When Canelle and I began to shop, I decided that if I never fell in love with another man it didn’t matter, because I had fallen in love with Paris. More specifically, I’d become besotted with buildings like the Galeries Lafayette which dated back to the nineteenth century and made the Canberra Hyperdome look like a school fête.

  I wished I were rich so I didn’t have to look at the price tags of anything and could just buy something stunning. ‘Just buy one quality “item piece” for your wardrobe,’ Lauren advised when I was packing to leave.

  ‘I need a new scarf,’ Canelle said, directing me to the accessories.

  I wanted to say I was a scarf wearer also, but didn’t want her to think I was mimicking her like some Single Black Female stalker or something.

  As Canelle looked at scarves, I was drawn to the designer handbags showcased on much of the ground floor. I held on tightly to my one and only decent tote that Caro had given me as a farewell gift.

  ‘Accessorise,’ had been the general advice from all the girls for my new look in Paris and I decided I needed a new bag: a bag to congratulate myself for doing the pitch, selling the idea and landing in the fashion capital of the world.

  I was overwhelmed by the choices and the price tags and guessed that French wages must be very high to shop there. I was drawn to a red Lancel bucket-bag, totally impractical but ever so classy, and I knew it would go with all my black, grey and white outfits. This would become my ‘item piece’ for the time being.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked Canelle, who was by my side as I checked myself out in the mirror.

  ‘You must have it!’

  I started to think that everything about Canelle was a ‘must have and must do’ and I liked that about her. Definite about things immediately, no mucking around, no wasting time. I already felt as if we could easily be good friends and colleagues while I was in Paris, and I was grateful on so many levels given I knew no-one else there.

  On Sunday, I walked to the station feeling grateful for my new life and for how incredibly friendly and hospitable Canelle had been, giving me tips on where to go and how to get there. She told me to head out that morning to check out some famous markets.

  I took the Metro to Porte de Clignancourt and, as per Canelle’s advice, I followed the crowds to where it was impossible not to shop. I bought a gorgeous pink-and-cream wool pashmina and an orange scarf. I could see my accessory collection growing quickly, and was proud of my new-found ability to be fashionable, even by Paris standards. Lauren would be very impressed. And I was already thinking about what shoes would go with the pieces.

  I walked aisle after aisle and saw rows and rows of imported jeans, boots, bags, and cheap costume jewellery – for three euros, I could buy some pretty glam pendants. There were hoodies, running shoes, sunglasses and dress shoes from China, jewellery from Africa, clothes from India. They reminded me of Paddy’s Markets in Sydney, and were nowhere near the quality of locally produced jewellery at the Kingston Bus Depot Markets back home.

  I grabbed a coffee in a Turkish café across the road and watched what looked like deals being done: money exchanging hands between men, then money offered to what looked like wives and daughters.

  That afternoon the pièce de résistance was sitting under the Eiffel Tower, the symbol of Paris. It was overwhelming in its presence. I assumed it must have been how visitors see the Sydney Harbour Bridge or the Opera House. I sat below it reading my guide which told me it was the tallest building in the city, built in 1889 for the Paris International Exhibition.

  I took the lift to the top of the iconic structure so I could get a view across Paris and as I did so I thought about a terrible argument I’d had with Lauren when I was in New York. I wanted to go up the Empire State Building and she didn’t.

  I wasn’t aware at the time that my dear friend was prone to anxiety attacks triggered by confined spaces like lifts. The memories made me homesick for the girls and as the lift ascended I felt guilty again. I took a photo when I got to the top to email to Loz later that night.

  As I stood there amongst hundreds of tourists, the sky was clear and I wondered if
I was actually looking as far as the potential sixty-seven kilometres away. Unlike Lauren, I wasn’t afraid of heights and so had no problems peering down below, wondering if there had been any suicides from the tower.

  The commentary on the tour bus I had taken when I first arrived had told me that an Austrian tailor who was experimenting with a new form of parachute had jumped from the Eiffel Tower back in 1912, but his experiment didn’t work and he died instantly. Shaking my head, I laughed out loud remembering the story.

  Back on the ground, I looked at all the buskers and sellers of everything: mini-tower keyrings, bottles of water, postcards, Slinkys, every piece of touristy crap you could imagine.

  Then I spotted a lone girl with a piece of material on the ground selling handbags. She looked familiar but as she started talking I remembered it was the girl I’d bought my blue-stone ring from back in the 20th.

  ‘You sold me this ring,’ I said, excited about reconnecting somehow.

  ‘Oh yes, that’s right.’ She looked surprised that I actually remembered her.

  ‘Don’t you work there anymore?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘And you work here too?’ I asked, picking up a black canvas bag the shape of a teardrop with pink handles.

  I looked at all of her handiwork: well-sewn bags, some practical, some more stylish than others.

  ‘These are fantastic, where did you get the materials from?’

  ‘Why are you asking all these questions?’ She sounded slightly annoyed and scared.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to pry, I just like the work and making small talk,’ I said, hating myself for obviously upsetting her. Even I knew that street vendors like her were usually operating illegally, desperate for money.

  Her tone softened. ‘I’m sorry, I thought maybe you were the government.’

  ‘Me? No, I’m a tourist, well, kind of. I’m working here for five months.’

  ‘I’m working too, but I only have a few days’ work and it is not enough money to feed my family,’ she said as a whisper. ‘And I am scared I might be sent back to Romania even though I have a permit to work. No-one is safe anymore.’

  ‘My name is Libby,’ I extended my hand, thinking of Petru at the same time, wondering stupidly if she knew him. Or maybe it wasn’t that stupid. Maybe it was a really close-knit community, like Blackfellas back home where everyone knew everyone. Maybe they had a Roma grapevine like the Koori grapevine.

  ‘I am Sorina,’ she said, shaking my hand while looking over my shoulder. ‘I have to go now,’ she added with urgency, grabbing her bags.

  ‘What’s the rush? I’d like to look at what you’re selling, if I may.’

  ‘I have to go,’ she repeated desperately, putting her wares into a huge red cotton sack. ‘I am what they call one of the visible minority. But I want to stay here, and I work hard, I speak French and English well because I practise every day. I just need to sell some more bags. I make these myself.’

  She started to walk off and I walked alongside her. The black teardrop bag was poking out of her sack and I grabbed it.

  ‘I’ll take this one, Sorina. It will go with all my black dresses.’

  ‘Thank you. Are you sure you don’t want two?’

  Sorina was a great seamstress, good with languages and a damn good businesswoman also. I handed her fifteen euros as we walked and she looked around nervously at the police in uniforms who watched us both.

  ‘I’m going this way,’ she said, disappearing into the Métro before I had a chance to say anything else.

  I continued along the Seine, thinking about what I’d just experienced with Sorina after a morning feeling blessed about being in such an amazing city full of culture and sites I’d only ever read about or seen on telly.

  I felt emotionally mangled as I wrote a quick email to the girls before crashing that night:

  Lauren emailed back:

  When I went to bed I couldn’t stop thinking about Sorina being one of the ‘visible minority’. I wanted to help her sell her bags and maybe have some security here, but how?

  The next day, Monday, I realised that I’d never really considered myself sexy until coming to Paris. When you’re not having sex it’s hard to feel sexy, or so I thought. But I sauntered down quai Branly on my way to work, rather than walking with purpose like I usually did. I noticed my hips swinging ever so slightly, which they didn’t do before. The man sweeping the street noticed as well, as he winked and said, ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Bonjour,’ I replied politely.

  The sun was already hot by 10 am but there was a slight breeze which took the sting out of it, unlike back in Canberra. I wondered how much of the ozone layer still existed over Paris. I noticed women in shorts riding bikes and I thought of Lauren immediately, wondering how she would comment on the fashions each day. Some locals were more casual than I imagined they would be, but still they looked stylish. I’d been warned that it would get very humid in July and August and I knew it would be difficult to remain elegant in the humidity.

  A small European car with its roof down stopped at the traffic lights next to me. There was a middle-aged man and a young gorgeous woman with him. They looked healthy, brown healthy. Everyone in Paris did. I wasn’t sure if they had sun cancer campaigns here like we did back home. I still put 30+ on my face every day from fear of getting melanoma, knowing the Canberra sun could be harsh. I didn’t want anything other than laugh lines on my face. Bazza always made fun of me back in Moree when I talked about sun cancer.

  ‘Have you ever heard of a Blackfella with melanoma?’ he used to say.

  ‘No, but there’s no ozone and cancer doesn’t discriminate by race like people do.’ Privately, I almost wished a Koori did get it, not that I wanted them to die, just to make my point that no-one was safe.

  The best part of my second working week was when Canelle took me and some of her friends from her building to an after-work picnic at Champ de Mars, the park at the base of the Eiffel Tower.

  In the French summer it’s twilight till after ten and people walk in the street and enter restaurants for dinner then. I was blown away at the lifestyle. Canberra is asleep at that time of night in summer, even earlier in winter. The Parisians and those who visit this city really did know how to milk the most out of each day.

  ‘It’s what the French do in summer: late-night picnics as people wait for the tower to light up,’ Canelle said, as we ate and waited for the first light to appear on the tower at 10.30 pm.

  Young people kicked balls, families were laughing, kids were playing with frisbees. It was extraordinary, especially for me, who had nothing similar to compare it with back in Moree or even Canberra.

  Before I left, I went and spoke to Sorina at her stall and took Canelle with me. I ended up buying three handbags from Sorina, telling her I’d send them back to Australia. One was made from maroon velvet with a tortoiseshell handle, another was made of pink silk from an old kimono that someone had given her. The third was made from a pair of old jeans and reminiscent of the styles from the seventies. Sorina’s own addition to it was a white dove with a red rose in its beak. It was her logo: peace and romance, she said.

  ‘The poor need both also.’

  At work on Wednesday I was busy preparing for the opening that night and the space was now mine. The carpenters had built new walls and plinths and painters had turned everything stark white. I’d supervised most of it and checked on all the artwork. I was glad Emma and Lauren had decided on some extra pieces before I left Canberra: Vernon Ah Kee’s critique of Australian popular culture through text and drawings alongside Merrill Bray’s stunning painting Sun dance. The work done on Belgian linen represented the celebration of an Aboriginal women’s ceremony with song and dance. Zane Saunders from the Butchulla (Bajala) mob of Fraser Island would show his linocut Withdrawing on my past, I withdraw on my future. One of my favourite inclusions was Andrea Fisher, who worked in many mediums but we chose to show her ‘body
adornments’ including brooches based on traditional shield designs from Wakka Wakka country.

  ‘How are you coping, Elizabeth?’ Canelle asked as we both stood in the busy space.

  ‘Actually, good. I’m pretty much just ticking the boxes now and of course waiting for one or two disasters to present themselves,’ I half-joked, but knew it was almost a given that something would go wrong, however minor.

  I looked at my list:

  Check and email final speech notes to Adrien.

  Send final running order for opening to Adrien and Canelle and security.

  Media follow-up.

  Check catalogues in the musée shop.

  Brief welcoming committee, photographer and switch.

  Check in with audio/visual staff and double-check videos.

  By 3 pm everything was coordinated and ready to go. I changed into a black dress, patent black slingbacks and my Tiffany scarf. I took my GHD into work and Canelle fixed my hair, making it poker straight. You couldn’t even notice the remnants of the layers that were still there. For a woman with little hair herself, Canelle was certainly good at doing other people’s.

  At 6 pm I was nervous when few people had arrived. But I had learned that the French were sometimes on Koori time. It wasn’t glamorous to rush or panic or get flustered. When I had first arrived in Paris, I noticed how long it sometimes took for people to respond to an email. Canelle was the exception to the rule in terms of a quick turnaround. Normally replies would only arrive after they had been crafted properly, and that took time, unlike back home, where a quick slapdash email would suffice. It was one of the things I had to get used to.

  Adrien had organised local arts television coverage and some print press for the opening. I was proud to be talking on behalf of the NAG and the artists being shown in the exhibition.

  By 6.30 pm nearly all the guests had arrived and Canelle was introducing me to local artists and curators, academics, staff from the Australian embassy and the ambassador himself, who was opening it. There were apologies from the President of France and his wife and from the Australian first secretary, who was apparently a Blackfella. I made a mental note to be in touch with him, just to connect.