Finally, Mme. Landlord received the news that Mr. Pride was going to re-install the ventilation properly. It was done while I was at school and the noise from the ventilation indeed dropped. However, Mme. Empathy had not yet insulted her kitchen ceiling. Other decent restaurants in Paris would either install their noisy machines in the basement, or rent or buy the first floor above the kitchen to protect their neighbours from the noise. Of course, Mme. Empathy would install her kitchen on the ground floor directly under the residential apartments. This meant I would continue to be exposed to the mechanical noise during the night.
Then puzzling incidents unravelled. As a rule if a restaurant in Paris got caught more than 3 times for breaking the regulations of public health the authority would suspend the restaurant for one month. Well, the police had already caught Mme. Empathy 5 times breaching the regulations. However, the restaurant from Hell was still open. The police would have reported her case to the authority, but oddly the report was ignored. Furthermore, the old Major who was particularly sympathetic to my case could not be contacted anymore. As if he had been transferred elsewhere.
It was about this time when I saw a man with the air of self-assurance dining at the restaurant and Mme. Empathy was serving him herself. Mme. Landlord was adamant that it was the man of high-profile whose friendship Mme. Empathy boasted about, but I never believed a word Mme. Empathy said. Besides, 2/3 of the noise was removed finally and I was happy to invest in insulation materials to combat the remaining noise. Mme. Landlord was pleased and as my first French friend, her smile alone was my rewards.
And then out of blue, Mme. Empathy sold her business to a group of amateurs. To be continued.