The Paris Bottom
Pincher
by Jilliana
Ranicar-Breese
It was 1980
and I was living in a garret in 28 Rue Bobillot,
Paris 13em next to the corner chemist shop. The
vivid painted red walls with a foam red sofa bed
took up almost the whole room and was boiling in
the summer. In fact I kept the sofa permanently
down so there was only room for a table and two
chairs. The integrated kitchen was cleverly built
like in a caravan. Not that I cooked much. The
reddish tan brick roof tops were picturesque as I
was on the 10th floor with a lift that only went
up but you had to walk down. I was renting a cozy
chambre de bonne. A maid's room.
The studio was
owned on the curious French legal system of Viage
by the patchwork quilt teacher and connoisseur
Sophie Campbell. Hailing from Chicago, this
strong character had been born on a train. She
had bought the studio with key money and told me
it was 4,000 Francs. Sophie lived in a
nearby rented flat with her American partner
elderly Brett who was sent to collect my rent of
800 Francs each month. We would play tric trac
and chat about this and that. I looked forward to
his afternoon visits especially as he would
generously bring croissants and pain chocolate
from the local patisserie. One of my regrets in
life is that when Sophie offered the studio to me,
I thought why would I want to buy a second flat
when I own one in London already? I was not
farsighted enough to pay this bargain price. In
fact after I left Paris because I had become
nervous about walking back in the dark, Sophie
moved in because Brett died unexpectedly. Within
months of her moving in, the owner died and
Sophie became the proud owner of the studio which
today is worth a small fortune. C'est la vie!
In that era of
my life I was getting up at 5.30 am and taking
the metro all the way to the Mairie de Porte de
Montreuil where I would deball my vintage goods
brought from London. I would return in the
afternoon after 14.00 and crash for the afternoon.
What a life. There had to be an easier way!
It was a
silent peaceful studio. Rue Bobillot was a tree
lined street leading from the Place d'Italie down
to Porte d'Italie. Today the area is hopping with
Asian restaurants but in 1980 it was quiet and
frankly dull with not even a cafe in my part of
the street. However there was a small street to
the right, with a sprinkling of Arab bars I was
told, that snaked round and joined up with the
pharmacy on my corner. But I had never ventured
down that street. Why would I?
One night I
was walking back alone after midnight. Not a cat
in sight. I was aware of a hooded being of the
male species pass me to go down that dark street.
He pinched my bottom! Mon Dieu. I was in shock
and screamed at him in correct or incorrect
French. 'Maniac sexuel'. It was the only thing
that came to mind having never uttered those two
words before!
The being
vanished into the night. I quickened my pace
almost running. It was the witching hour and
there were no pumpkins to be seen. Then I thought
'what if he comes around the corner, there will
be no one to help me if he attacks me.' I started
to panic. My heart was pounding. I sensed he
would come around that dreaded corner. I reached
the black wrought iron decorative gate of my
building and pushed my door code into the metal
plaque on the wall. I was just pushing the heavy
door open, my heart beating so loudly that I
could hear it in the silence of the night, when
he appeared!
He mounted
both of the steps and gazed at me directly in my
startled eyes no doubt seeing the terror in them.
He was a French student type with long greasy
unkempt brown hair in his 20s and clearly on
drugs. Slowly he said 'je ne suis pas un maniac
sexuel.'
Written
in the Mudejar lounge of the hotel Las cases de
la Juderia, Santa Cruz district of Seville, Spain.
October 2015.
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