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WE MIGHT GROW OLD TOGETHER
When we arrived on rue Beaurepaire twenty years ago, at number twenty, where we still are today, the neighborhood looked completely different.
The Tenth arrondissement was by no means a magnet for hipsters, a place teeming with small independent boutiques, far removed from the indigestible clothing behemoths that I won't name but that we all know.
No, the tenth had a different identity, more popular, a little wilder too, a territory yet to be explored. I liked that atmosphere, which still exists today, but has become a little diluted.
So when we took over the premises that are still ours today, there was no organic grocery store, no restaurant that only served quinoa, no meditation or bikram yoga classes. It was Jacques Chirac's first term in office, the Beasty Boys were releasing Hello Nasty and Wes Anderson, Rushmore. It was a good creative year. We even had Windows 98, at a time when Apple wasn't yet selling iPhones for the price of minimum wage. In short, it was another era, with its best and its worst. In any case, it was a time that saw me arrive on this street, which at the time had a staggering number of carpet sellers. Every shop, every doorstep was occupied by a Persian selling luxury carpets.
Twenty years earlier, we were already working in shoes, but the brand hadn't yet been created. So, with Laurent, my husband, we were busy putting together collections for others, helping them to see more clearly into their walled-in world.
But while everything seemed to be going well for everyone, we experienced a major professional setback at this time, which almost crippled us for eternity. Victims of a colossal scam by customers we thought were friends, we hit rock bottom.
A gigantic unpaid bill left us in the lurch, on the verge of economic bankruptcy, but it was above all the feeling of betrayal that prevailed at the time.
It really shook me and my husband up. I couldn't sleep at all, or only very badly, with a succession of sleepless nights and nightmares when I could get a wink of sleep. I lost my appetite for fear of never getting back on track. And since one problem never comes alone, Laurent and I had a tricky time as a couple. A time when nothing was happening. A time when nothing was being said except words that were louder than the last. In short, it was a mess, and one morning he decided to take off and leave me alone. Alone to cogitate, to brood.
I wasn't even angry with him for leaving, because to tell the truth, we'd reached such a state of nerves that we might have imploded in despair. Finding myself alone seemed harsh and unfair, especially at a time when everything was collapsing, and the couple appeared as the last bastion to which I had no right to cling.
I didn't have much time to feel sorry for myself, because I had to pay off the debts left by that scum of a customer. So I went into that vast office every day, working alone on my customers' new collections, thinking about new heels, new materials, new innovations. I didn't go out anymore, I didn't play sports, I didn't have a drink, I didn't see anyone, and I decided to shut myself away in this job that had given me everything but also taken everything away. I no longer had a schedule and I paid no attention to my health. It was time to throw myself into places I didn't want to be found.
Occasionally, I'd put my foot out, or my little toes in, to smoke my cigarettes. Across the street from the office, but like the rest of the street, was a Persian rug store. There was stock up to the ceiling and in all the depths of the shop. I never saw a single customer come through the door. There was so little movement that it was fascinatingly inert. His one and only occupation was to smoke his hookah, tirelessly, for hours on end, from the opening to the closing of his store, all slumped on his carpets, stretched out, as if he were on a beach in Mexico, staring at the horizon: ME. He was staring into my eyes and smirking. I was alternately embarrassed and enraged by his insistence. Until one day, I decided to stop smoking my cigarettes outside and to poison myself inside the office rather than have to endure his glare.
I was putting the finishing touches to a customer's collection when someone banged on the windows. It was my neighbor. Perhaps he was looking for a job, as he spent most of his time lying in wait. I'd never really paid much attention to his looks, too bothered to deal with his incessant glances. Although we were only a short distance apart, I'd never noticed his pleasant face. Rather emaciated and broad. He was very dark, with big black eyes that lit up his forehead and cheekbones. He was attractive and I was surprised I'd never realized it. He held out his arm and opened his hand, in which was a small box. A very small, round, flat tin in which was caviar.
- This is Iranian caviar. You'll see it's white. It's very rare and very good. Would you like to go out with me?
I had absolutely no head for going out, or even going home. Freshly separated but by no means divorced, there was no way I was going to let myself go with the neighbor across the street for a tin of caviar. He was handsome, pleasant and polite, but I declined his invitation to go and listen to his cousin give a recital in the gardens of a mansion in the sixteenth arrondissement. But he insisted.
- Where I come from, we offer caviar to the girls. We prefer it to flowers. It's more ephemeral, of course, but it's so much better. Come with me, life is elsewhere.
I went back to my desk to work on this collection I couldn't see the end of, without deigning to answer anything to my neighbor. As I sat down, I felt a little discomfort on my right buttock. I stood up to discover the little tin of caviar. It was nearly three o'clock, my stomach was empty and so was my head. I still had a piece of Poilâne bread, a little stale, and half a lime. I squeezed it over the eggs and popped them into my mouth. They burst instantly between my teeth. A gustatory wonder that brought me to the brink of my first and only culinary orgasm. After that, my hunger subsided, even though I'd only eaten a meagre mouthful. I was able to finish my work within the hour, even though I'd been stumbling over several models for hours. So much so that I was able to move on to other projects, other worksites and even glimpse, for the first time, the possibility of creating my own brand, designing and imagining my own models. I had energy to spare, imagination to lend. I couldn't stand still, so I decided to call Jean-Ba, a childhood friend who had turned pro in Parkour, a discipline combining running, jumping and climbing. I needed to burn off some energy and push myself.
After twirling around half a dozen rooftops in the neighborhood, I returned to the office to shower, finish some paperwork and look for new clients. But my attention was blurred, and I couldn't concentrate for more than a few seconds at a time.
So, in order not to get bogged down in bad work, I decided to leave the office again and go home and immerse myself in melodrama. I wanted to eat Douglas Sirk by the bucketful. I dreamed of watching them until the wee hours of the morning. As I closed the gate behind me, I sensed a presence. I turned to see my neighbor from across the street.
- I hope you enjoyed my caviar, Patricia.
- Oh yes, it was exceptional, I must say. Thank you so much.
- Oh, you're welcome, good food makes good neighbors.
- Oh, I didn't know that expression, monsieur...
- No sir, please, call me Ashem. And before you go home, I'd like to invite you to a party.
- I'm a bit tired and I'd really like to get going.
- It'll only take a moment and I swear it'll be worth it.
Ashem disappeared into the depths of his store for a few seconds, long seconds that became minutes, long minutes. Overjoyed at the opportunity he offered me, I made a quick getaway. But I'd taken too long to make up my mind. There he was, coming out of his store with a big, bright red carpet woven with gold threads. He unfolded it in the middle of the street and invited me to join him. It was now almost dark. He sat down on it and ordered me to do the same, without telling me more. He mumbled a few words I didn't understand, and the next moment I felt the fabric rustle under my legs, under my weight, something unusual was happening, something extraordinary. The carpet we were sitting on began to lift off the ground. Painfully at first, then it gained altitude. Before I knew it, we were above the roofs of the buildings on the street. The next moment, we were sailing above the clouds. Paris was all lit up and sparkling, thanks to a light rain that reinforced the prodigious luminous effect. It was like living in a fairytale. I was hundreds of meters in the air and yet I felt no fear, no apprehension of falling into the void and breaking my neck. Perhaps because Ashem was behind me, holding me tight. I didn't know any other carpet pilots, but it seemed to me that he maneuvered his with great mastery. He gave me the grand duke tour. We flew over the Grand Palais, passed between the legs of the Arc de Triomphe. He showed me the Elysée Gardens, where I caught a glimpse of Bernadette Chirac enjoying a floating island with David Douillet. Then he took me to the Eiffel Tower. At the very top, on its highest antenna, where he laid his carpet.
He stood up and took a trinket out of his pocket, a sort of lamp on which he rubbed.
- Patricia, I love you. Patricia I've loved you ever since I first laid eyes on you. Patricia I want to prove my love by showing you that I'm not just another boy. Give me three wishes and my genie will grant them. Three wishes, the ones dearest to your heart, and he'll grant them right now.
Ashem was a nice guy. A naive, handsome, good-natured young man who was certainly helpful to those he loved. What I was currently experiencing with him was unique. I, in turn, plunged into the well of his eyes in search of the beginnings of an answer. And the more it went on, the more he rubbed on his lamp, until a tiny genie appeared in fuchsia smoke.
- Patricia, give the genie your three wishes and he'll grant them.
- Genie, get rid of Ashem for it's Laurent I love.
No sooner said than done, my neighbor instantly vanishes into the unfathomable depths of infinity.
- Patricia, you have two wishes left. Make them and I, Genie, will grant them.
- Genie, I'd like to free you from your lamp because no one ever thinks of you. And when that's done, I offer you my third wish so that you can use it as you wish and be happy in your turn.
Back on dry land, I instantly called Laurent to express my love and ask him to return to Paris. Which he did that very night, after more than eight hours in the car.
Even today, after more than twenty years, I still hear from the genius. He calls to tell me what he's doing, how his life is going. After several odd jobs and a life of vagrancy, he decided to settle in the Swiss canton of Valais to become an organic raclette producer. He discovered an endless passion for this delicious cheese and became a world-renowned producer. He married a beautiful, intelligent woman who gave him three intelligent, brilliantly beautiful little girls. So he never had to use the wish I'd given him on the night of his release. We often laughed about how we could use it: - Demand the reformation of the Bananarama - Get rid of Trump - Give Clint Eastwood immortality... before coming to our senses and saying that we'd use the wish to make everyone happy enough that no one would ever want need a wish again.