Pauline and Julie D., the two girls with whom I share a 110 m2 apartment on Rue Damrémont, are twins. One of them works at a bank and the other one works for an insurance company. Rock ’n’ roll attitude, man. We have zero in common, which is the secret of our successful cohabitation: I’m at home when they’re not, and by the time they get home I’m gone.
They keep track of the bills and I sign for their packages (some PayPal bullshit). I bring home croissants and they take out the trash.
It’s awesome.
Yeah, they’re a bit airheaded, but I’m really glad they picked me to play the part of their roommate. They’d organized a series of auditions, like In Search of the Next Practically-Perfect Roommate (my God) (what an extravaganza) (yet another unforgettable episode in my crazy misspent youth) and I was the Chosen One, though I’ve never really understood why. At the time I was a ticket agent—and not only that, a guard, too! A security guard! At the Marmottan Museum. And I think the influence of good old Monet worked in my favor, because surely a neat and tidy young woman who spent so much time among the Water Lilies must be respectable.
Like I said, a bit airheaded.
This little stint in Paris is just something for them to put on their résumés. They don’t really like it here and can’t wait to move back to Roubaix, where Mommy and Daddy and their cat Tickles still live, and where they run off to as often as possible. So I’ll take advantage of my good luck (a great apartment all to myself every weekend, and the stock of neatly-folded microfiber baby wipes they keep under the sink, so handy for cleaning up my friends’ vomit) until they decide to move back to the country for good.
Well, let’s say I used to take advantage of it. Now . . . I’m not so sure. They’re really starting to get on my nerves—they wear Isotoner ballerina slippers around the house and listen to Chante France at breakfast; it’s hard sometimes—but I’m well aware the real problem is me. They’re always quiet, making sure to turn the volume down when I start to get lost in the steam from their instant coffee. I’ve got nothing to reproach them with.
No; I and no one else am to blame for my own trouble. It’s been almost three months now since I enjoyed anything, or went out, or had a drink.
Since I went wrong.
* * *
Three months ago, the apartment was still a construction site.
It was in a bad state of repair, and Pauline (the less scatterbrained twin) had convinced our landlord to let us renovate the place in exchange for a suspension of the rent equivalent to the final cost of the project (a complicated way of putting it that I didn’t come up with, I can assure you). Pauline and Julie were as excited as little kids about the whole thing, making lists of prices, drawing up plans, leafing through catalogues, and requesting loads of quotes, which they spent whole evenings discussing while sipping herbal tea. I wondered if maybe they’d both chosen the wrong profession.
All the commotion had irritated me, and I’d been forced to leave the apartment in search of peace and quiet, churning out comments in my brother-in-law’s beehive instead, alongside all the Geeks, Version 2.0—not ideal, but better than our place, where the electricity left a lot to be desired (my computer screen flickered if we turned on the stove), the paint was flaking, and the bathroom wasn’t exactly convenient (we constantly had to step over an old bidet). I didn’t take responsibility for anything, and when the girls suggested to me that we pay for the renovations in cash to get back the VAT (at least!) and ingratiate ourselves with Mr. Carvalho (businessman, Freemason, sly old fox, and in way over his head), I didn’t need to be asked twice.
I’m not timid when it comes to those things, either.
Why am I telling you all this? Because without the subtle blackmail of that man, so “overrrrwhelmed” by his social benefits charges; without the sudden VAT increase on the building, and without our greed—all of us, but him most of all—I wouldn’t be here, in this depressing neighborhood, waiting and watching for my nonexistent someone.
This is what happened.