THE GRANDILOQUENT HISTORY OF THE
GERMAIMAINE
(and why you’ll tell your horse about it!)
From the Sorbonne to the tatami mat
A few years ago, back when the BX was still on the road, I’d worked all summer at Monoprix so that, when term started, I could treat myself to a membership at a Gymnase Club near Mouton-Duvernet station, in Paris’s 14th arrondissement. I was thrilled: I’d be able to build a body like Jeannie Longo’s, a six-pack like Bruce Lee’s and shoulders like the Terminator’s. At the time, I was enrolled at the Sorbonne, studying modern and ancient literature. In reality, I spent my time at the cinema on Rue des Écoles or in bookshops devoted to the seventh art, drooling over the bound Cahiers du cinéma, reissued in encyclopedic form.
When I’d finished, I’d dash off to the gym to pump iron and watch myself in the mirror, admiring how clearly each of my muscles was taking shape. Then I’d head to the hammam, followed by kung fu classes, because from a very young age I knew I had to defend myself against the alpha male, the one who thinks he can do whatever he likes: the Polanski, the Bruel, the Darmanin. I loved launching myself into the air and throwing high kicks, imagining I was dishing them out to those who sometimes made our lives so complicated. And when I reckoned I’d sweated the equivalent of a champagne bucket’s worth, I’d go shower and then head to visit my boyfriend at the time.
« He was so cute, so adorable, so precious and charming. »
I had met him through mutual friends from high school. He went to school at Porte de Vanves, at François-Villon. Unlike the others who attended that school, he was quiet and didn’t show off. He kept a low profile in every situation, but he knew how to fight and had proved it by standing up to a gypsy who was pressuring me to go out with him, knocking him efficiently to the ground. This boyfriend was called Anatol. I adored his long chestnut-brown forelock and his brown eyes, like a beach boy in Saint-Tropez.
He came from a very poor single-parent family. They lived in a tower block, near Pernety station. Despite their very limited means, I was invited to dinner every night. His mother insisted. I have to say, she was very welcoming. She adored me, she said.
As you might expect, this amazing woman was called Germaine. And since she didn’t like her name, she asked those close to her to call her Germaimaine. I did so readily, because it made me laugh.
Germaimaine was a tall blonde woman with short hair, a sort of Jean Seberg as a little mermaid, who puffed away on cigarettes as she sipped cheap whisky bought at the local Félix Potin. And when she was as drunk as a lord, she became tactile and very funny, lobbing affectionate verbal grenades at anyone in her path. She would often take me in her arms and squeeze me almost to the point of suffocation, telling me I was her favorite and that if her Anatol ever got the bad idea of seeing someone else, she would take it upon herself to emasculate him with her teeth.
« The image repulsed me deeply and, at the same time, its Tarantino-esque violence amused me, allowing me to keep my fiancé warm. »
Because that bastard was very popular. I wasn't jealous, and he didn't use it to his advantage, but one day, our lives took us apart for the summer holidays. He came back completely transformed. Even more in love, I should say. Still, I could tell that apart from his tan, his penis had turned purple. Yet he swore he'd only dipped it in the Aegean Sea. Reassured by his promises, I gave myself to him, but came crashing down as soon as the deed was done. The bastard had given me an STD the size of the former USSR. I was livid. I couldn't keep it from Germaimaine for long; she managed to read the disappointment on my face, flushed with pain and sadness. She held me one last time, then kicked me out of her apartment, telling me that from then on I'd have to manage without her, and obviously without Anatole, who no longer deserved to see me.
My heart was heavy, but I respected her wish, keeping away from the 14th arrondissement. Since then, I never heard from Anatol again, despite our mutual friends. Some said he'd fled, others that he'd killed himself, or worse: that his mother was involved in his disappearance. You'll easily understand why I dedicate this magnificent boot to the memory of this wonderful person, a protector of women and their bodily integrity.
