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.
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