February 2018, Paris, France
"This is a disaster!"
A smile covers my lips at the shrill voice of one of the neighbors, whose graying hair and fake fur coat enter my field of vision as soon as I get to the second floor.
"Mrs. Moreau," I say, descending several steps of the staircase, "have a nice day!"
"You are not leaving without doing anything, right?"
I frown and look behind me, where the mess the sexagenarian mentioned is placed.
Her quick and exasperated gestures point at the boxes scattered around the small space on the landing. I quickly attribute said disaster to a moving, so it doesn't bother me. However, Mrs. Moreau seems to be concerned about the effect such mess could have against the elegance of a building located in one of the worst neighborhoods in Paris.
"It's not mine." I shake my head and stop walking. "Do you really not remember that I live at the top?"
"I don't have the time or the will to remember where everybody lives." She sighs heavily.
I'm about to leave because the conversation is no longer interesting to me, but then the second-hand coat lady begins to lift the flaps of the boxes. My eyebrows arch in disbelief.
The woman realizes that I haven't left yet and rolls her eyes, annoyed by my presence.
"It's the least I can do."
A beige mug is held between her wrinkled and trembling fingers. Mrs. Moreau analyzes the ceramic slowly, until she, satisfied, turns around and gets back in her house.
Outside the building, two men carry a mustard-colored sofa covered in transparent plastic, probably hired by the same person who caused the disaster on the landing. I wish them good morning and leave the door open for them, who thank me briefly.
I unlock my phonescreen and reach in the pocket of my denim jacket for the headphones.
"Colette!"
I look up for who has called my name, not really surprised to find Jacques firstborn walking in my direction and away from a shiny Mercedes that is out of tune with the neighborhood.
Nobody near Montmartre has such a car or the audacity to leave it in this area.
"You can't park here," I comment, without concluding my walk.
I don't refrain myself from making my trip to work more enjoyable with music and connect the earphones to my phone.
However, Sébastien doesn't get the hint and follows me until he's able to match my rhythm.
"Would you accompany me to find another parking lot nearby?"
I arch my eyebrows and look in my music for a song that I want to hear, a little muddied by the very unsubtle proposition of my unwanted companion.
"A brave proposal coming from someone who basically called me a whore," I answered bitterly.
"I didn't call you a whore."
"You didn't stop who did either." I turn my head to meet his eyes for the first time this day. The greenish brown of his iris is the exact copy of Jacques's eyes. "Does it really matter who the word came from?"
A sigh escapes his lips, with the heaviness of lead and the impatience of someone who never seems to find obstacles.
"How do you know where I live?"
"Because my father lived here and you were his neighbor," he answers obviously.
"As far as I know, Jacques never told you where he lived."
Comprehending that the conversation is going to drag on, I remove the headphones and focus on Sébastien.
"I haven't spoken to him since he left, indeed," he responds bluntly, "but Léopold gave me the address in case I needed anything."
I let out an exasperated sigh.
"Well, what do you want?"
"To talk." He shoves his hands into his pockets, looking around us, judging. "We could go to my office."
"I have to go to work."
"I can give you a lift."
"It's five blocks away," I answer with an amused smile.
"Then I'll walk with you."
"I don't think you want to leave your Mercedes unattended," I say, taking a step away from him. "I'm late. And I'm not going to accept any deals, so I recommend that you don't come back."
I finally turn around and put on my earphones to start listening to music on the way to work. This time peace surprises me since Sébastien decides not to continue insisting and leaves in his Mercedes, passing right in front of me as if he were trying to demonstrate something, a behavior typically seen in toddlers.
Serving coffee, tea, confectionery and some delicious cake is how I spend my morning, even striking up a conversation with the nice lady from the hair salon across the street. She arrives tired and hungry for the amazing roasted coffee I serve for her every morning. Clients like her or tourists excited to visit the city of love and lights are reasons why I like my job, even though my payroll is not large or the boss hates me.
Coming home two hours after the time I should actually be back, I allow myself to get lost a bit in the streets of Paris. I was born and raised here, between the districts, I know the city but I still manage to get fascinated by its charm as soon as the sun disappears and the lights of the street lamps illuminate the picturesque French streets. It is enchanting and hypnotic.
The historical and artistic value of the city succeed to make me forget that rats abound, but the entrance of the building helps me so that the memory does not disappear from my mind.
"Gross," I mumble in anguish.
The rat scurried past me along the baseboards of the back wall, but it was unmistakable.
"Brut," I exclaim the same thing as before, with a lump in my throat.
"You should be used to it. Charme parisine," Adelaide says sarcastically, descending the steps slowly, due to the years she carries.
"It's not my favorite detail."
She winks at me and, after a short goodbye and good night, she continues down the stairs with the bucket of dirty clothes in her arms, towards the laundry a few streets away.
As I go up the stairs I listen to the hustle and bustle on one of the landings and it is when I reach the second floor that I find the reason.
"... you'll have problems in the building." It's Mrs. Moreau, in her fur coat and her hair neatly tied back, yelling at someone in front of her. "This is disgusting, I can't even get home."
"I'm sorry, I promise..."
"Forget it!"
I finish climbing the stairs and look at the brown-eyed girl, who is mortified and remorseful at Mrs. Moreau's complaints. She lets out a sigh and looks at me.
"I'll pick it up right away, don't worry." For a few seconds she watches the old woman walking into her house with pity on every sharp feature of her face.
"It's okay," I reply calmly. "She made a fuss about me too when I moved in."
The brunette rolls her eyes, obviously annoyed, but she gives me a grateful smile.
"It's relieving to know not every neighbor is like her." Both of us giggle.
"I'm Cannelle, and you?"
"Pauline," she replies politely. "Have you been living here for a long time?"
"Way too long." I wrinkle my nose and she laughs. "I live in the attic. If you need anything, you know where to find me."
"Thank you very much, Cannelle."
Her cheekbones rise and her eyes narrow, giving the young woman a tender look.
"Bonne nuit, Pauline!"