A fashion clueless struggling in Paris. The world is attracted to the light of this city,and me to the history, but the shadow beneath her reveals herself to you eventually. The Parisians are forged thus so attractive is their culture. Why ‘the third red apple?’ A hint maybe in the page available in English and French.
Saturday, 17 June 2017
The true horror stories in modern Paris Part 27
The hell-turbo engulfed my apartment. The invisible but strong force gripped my
lungs and pinned me down onto the floor…which transmitted the vibration from
the extractor of the restaurant directly into my body. I had to push myself up with all my strength
while losing balance to the vibration from below. I was fast losing breath and felt the blood
I managed to stagger towards the small
kitchen that was half shielded by a wall.
I gulped water down instinctively in hope to ease my heightened blood
pressure. With my shaking fingers I
called Mme. Landlord. She immediately
perceived my distress. There was concern
in her voice which felt like a ray of light in dark. She promised to come the first thing the
following morning to speak to the restaurant.
This small new hope gave me enough strength to go back out to the hell
turbo, walk across to the door and leave my apartment. I ran out of the building, passing the
restaurants where guests were making merry with drinks. Mme. Empathy was flirting away with guests,
not shedding a thought to the hell she had subjected me to. In fact, I did not even exist in her mind judging
from her jubilant face.
I could see that the opening party was to
continue until midnight, or even later, so I started to roam around. The beautiful city of Paris suddenly looked ominous. The river Seine at night looked rebuffing. You might advise me to move out of the hell
apartment, but I had already changed my address several times because of an
attempted burglary, crooked locksmiths, a dishonest landlord and rats. It was not recommendable thing to change
addresses frequently if one wants to renew one’s visa in France. It may spell the end of my humble dream if I
moved again and I was no longer young. And yet, I already knew that Mme. Empathy would not make anything better.
I rang my home in Japan and did a thing
that I had not done in many many years—crying to my mother like a lost child. To be continued. <a href="//english.blogmura.com/ranking.html"><img src="//english.blogmura.com/img/english88_31.gif" width="88" height="31" border="0" alt="にほんブログ村 英語ブログへ" /></a><br /><a href="//english.blogmura.com/ranking.html">にほんブログ村</a>