I was not sure what that meant. When you land in the middle of nowhere, you don’t expect a stranger to approach you and give you like that, a phone number without really specifying what it is. It seems unbelievable, or even a little foolish.
I spent a few minutes thinking about this, looking for a reason, an explanation. I could have phoned immediately and solved this sort of riddle that was asked to me but it is not my nature to act and moreover, I was still too absent-minded, confused by the air of Paris which was new to me.
I took my things and started walking. I ended up Rue Vaugirard. The name amused me because I felt like I was pacing a plateau of Monopoly, life-size. At the end of the road there was one of the entrances to the Luxembourg garden. I was hungry and I thought it was probably the best place to ask me and eat a sandwich.
The Luxembourg Garden is a strange place for those who are not accustomed to it. It’s like a giant coffee terrace without coffee. It’s like a square, like a wood where you see moms, dads teach their offspring to ride a bike or swing. It’s a place where some people like to be seen in front of a population of anonymous fans who don’t care a bit. It is a place where groups join together to talk, to play sports. It is a bit of a motley area where you can breathe the air of the capital without choking.
There are a lot of places, neighborhoods like this in Paris. Everyone gathers diverse and diverse people who juxtaposed sometimes mingle in a disorganization that is both disturbing and enjoyable.
I ate on a chair in the sun. I had nothing to drink but my head was starting to spin. I took my bag and started walking again.
I was thinking about that girl. I didn’t quite know why. Maybe that was a little bit the fact that I was scared, that little by little, I realized that I had not calculated anything. The hour was advancing and I had to find something, a place to ask myself. I was digging through my pocket and rereading the number. What was that number? His? What was it like if I called her?
I ended up going into a bar under the eye filled with reproaches of a waiter. A guy with a bag, a little badly shaved, it’s homeless and it’s not good for the clientele. It is a cliché but it is like this: here, as elsewhere, people do not go further than the scope of their gaze and the boundaries of their prejudices.
“You would have a phone book?” Did I ask.
In front of my interlocutor’s distrusted mine, I added:
«With a draft Leffe, of course… »
I thought he was not going to help me. I was wrong. He finally came back with the phone book and my beer.
« What are you looking for? » he asked.
« A phone number. »
He gave me a smirk look.
« No way… In a phone book? You amaze me… I’m not sure you can find any… »
I sketched a kind of smile to make him happy. As if his humour had me a little rejoiced.
« I have a number… I’d like to find his name. »
He hit his forehead with the dish of his hand.
« I hope your girlfriend is not on Red List… » »
« My girlfriend?… »
The waiter looked up at the sky.
« Forget it… » He gave me a condescending tone.
And then he moved away.
I drank a big gorge of beer. It made me turn a little more head again and I opened the directory. Page after page, by helping me with the prefixes, I targeted my research… I do not know how long it took me. I do not know either why, I have not given up. The waiter was right. After all, nothing said that this number was in the phone book. Nothing told me that it was not the number of some kind of association to come to the rescue of the poor or something approaching. But anyway, I didn’t really have anything else to do and maybe it was a lead.
I searched, searched, the eyes scratching the grey of the paper and the ink rubbing me on my fingers. And I ended up finding:
Gabrielle Desvignes . Rue de Charenton.