SORTE – the red exit sign visible through the train window in Palais Royal-musee de Louvre Station draws me out. I get off the southbound train and walk into rue de la Mortellerie. It is a Saturday afternoon - a fact which I am conscious of by the long haired street musician playing La Laideur Paris on his accordion as he does every Saturday knowing well that scrambled tourists coming from the Louvre, still dizzy from the paintings of the dead like Gauguin, Manet, and Roseau will dive deep into their pockets for toss-able francs. I pause in front of the musician’s coin collection and stick my hand into my tote. My fingers swim past my wallet, scrawls of agent numbers, overused street map, strawberry lip gloss, and a pack of gum. I reach for some coins to give the sweating musician but my eyes wander over to the magazine mound stacked on a newspaper stand across by the number twenty seven bus-stop heading towards rue Champilon. Preferring to donate my money to couture, I walk past the musician. His accordion screeches a higher note. I sense his displeasure.
At the newspaper stand, I pick a copy of La Femme de Mode to see the latest in Paris fashion and hand the magazine seller twelve francs. He takes the money and throws it into a can. The can rattles. I see his face lighten up, brighter than Champs-Elysees, while his eyes trial over my slim brown legs nailed into a pair of size six red heels. He grins: "Merci beaucoup, belle noire." I dig my brain for the meaning of his gesture, belle….beautiful woman, noire…black. "Merci!" I return his smile and thank him for the compliment thinking how much better it sounds in French.
“Vous parle Anglais,” I ask.
“Oui, I speak, small,” he replies.
“Madame is umm…une touriste?”
“No, no, no, je suis un modele,” I earnestly correct him.
“Ah, merveilleux! Paris, does Madame like?” he inquires.
“YES!” I nod, telling him how much I like it in Paris while at the same time trying to ask myself the same question.
“C’est bon, is good," the magazine man says and continues to smile as if he is grateful for this minuscule fact he knows about me.
“Merci Monsieur,” I thank him.
“Au revoir Madame,” he winks with a light bow.
I return his wave, place the magazine between my left arm and FCUK blouse, and continue to walk.
On the long stretch of rue de la Mortellerie, there are stores of all sorts ranging from antique shops with old French furniture stacked behind windows, some as old as the stones on the cobbled roads of Paris’ alleys, Patisseries filled with the scent of freshly baked bread, and the tiniest of art galleries. Brushing past hordes of passer-bys, I look at my watch; it is 3:18. My appointment at the couture house which I am anxious of is at 5:30. I am early. Recalling from the street map I passionately studied earlier today, as if it were an entrance examination into some indomitable place, rue d’Almbert is only a few minutes walk away from rue de la Mortellerie, at a right turn. I pause in front of a Cobbler’s. I see my face among rows of polished shoes and fidget with what do with the extra time. The scent of freshly brewed coffee finds its way into my nostrils.
Outside Café les Aimes, there are round metal tables and chairs for patrons who desire to sit under the sun and digest the boisterous scene of a Parisian street. Drawing out a chair, I drop my tote on the ground and place my magazine on the table. In a quick second, a waiter, dressed in a clean white shirt and black trousers, approaches me with a menu. He greets me with a vacant Bonjour and hands me a menu. My eyes run over the names of various delicacies, all in French and some which in the past few weeks I have been in Paris, have become as familiar to me as buttered English scones. I lust for the taste of a pain au lait but remember I am on my way to a ‘go-see’ where I possibly will be shoved into clothes two sizes smaller than my actual four; I order a cup of sugarless coffee, dish into my tote, and pay the waiter.
Taking slow sips, I skip through the pages of the magazine. Givenchy…Ungaro…Feraud…Lacroix…Chanel - I scratch the names of the French designers into my head. Somewhere inside me, I feel a tingle. I picture myself, dressed in the ethereal gowns, skirts, and jackets richly spread on each page. For many minutes or longer, my eyes are filled with elegance. I hear a snicker. Sitting at a table behind me are two men in t-shirts and rugged khakis, art students which I am guessing by their charcoaled fingers and paint stained shirts. The dark haired one has the Paris Daily spread-eagled in his hand. I stare at the cover. Above a big picture in dark print is: VERSACE est MORT.
Today is June 16, 1997. I am alone in Paris and I am not going to be the Josephine Baker of fashion.
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Copyright AH 2009
Elton John - The Big Picture, album released 1997 in honor of Gianni Versace
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