Sunday, 28 January 2018
The bullied takes on Goliath in the true horror stories in modern Paris part 59
Bitterly Mr. Pride read the recent email from Mme. Landlord whose cancer suffering had not deterred him from pounding demands on her. Her recent triumph over death was certainly not a welcome news to Mr. Pride. You know the saying ‘kick a man when he is down.’ In Mr. Pride’s case, it was ‘strangle a profit out of a cancer patient.’ You would think Mme. Landlord would be livid, but no. She calmly brushed it aside and focused on her next move.
Mme. Landlord had once told me that she would show me how the French must fight for their rights. I had learnt of the ordeal of one union leader whose health had been severely damaged. My near death experience by the hand of the restaurant from Hell was not that outrageous after all if one wished to live in Paris. I was not born a Parisian, nor had a great fashion sense to pass myself as a near Parisian, but I was under a crush course of transforming from a tourist to a resident of Paris in a painful way. Would the privilege of having a tiny space carved out for me in Paris be worth all the troubles and suffering?
Hell, let’s find out. Sure I did not wish to waste the money I had paid to my lawyer, but what had started from my sense of obligation as a Samurai descendent to fight a losing battle was turning into something else. I wished to see the place I was being taken to. I might be exposed to danger again on the way by the restaurant from Hell, but I had survived them to this point which was something. Beside me was Mme. Landlord who had continued her fight against Mr. Pride even during her cancer treatment.
Mme. Landlord contacted a section of the authority over which Mr. Honour had no influence. She did not receive replies initially, but she persisted and months later it was noticed. The authority came and confirmed that the restaurant had a machine installed on the roof without a permission of the authority. It violated the regulations that maintain the beautiful appearance of Paris. Mr. Pride and Mme. Empathy who were French only by national did not give a toss about it. Mr. Honour may have tried to sweep it under the carpet, but the tenacity of Mme. Landlord had this violation exposed in the end. She was born a French in every way and could not stand seeing this piece of French history dismembered by the restaurant from Hell. I am not a French, but I share her respect for the French people who built this old building. Thus I was dismayed every time I heard drilling noise from the restaurant. It meant that they were installing another machine that did not conform to the regulations (I would be further exposed to noise and electromagnetic), but I also lamented for the holes they callously dug into the historical wall. I almost felt its pain. To be continued.