The compassionate Major came out to meet me
himself at the police station. French people are aptly described as ‘fire and
ice.’ There are those with warm hearts and the others who can cut you off instantly. I was most grateful to the
warm words of this Major who was aghast by my predicament. He gave me the name and contact address of
his superior because things were getting out of his hands. I went to seat myself on a bench but the
major arranged to have a secured detention cell to protect me from the
criminals and drug addicts. I was given
full privacy for the night. The reality
did not hit me until I smelt the unusual odour of the cell. However, this was the only safe sanctuary in
the whole Paris to me that night …while Mr. Pride and Mme. Empathy each relaxed
in their own fluffy bed: one was counting profit and one was planning another
loud parties.
The following morning, as soon as a library
opened I used their computer to book a room because my laptop was in my
apartment. After securing a room, I contacted
Mme. Landlord who was horrified by the crisis. She immediately complained to the Syndic who
in turn would have informed Mr. Pride. Did
we hear anything from him? Of course
not. In fact it was up to Mme. Landlord
to book an electrician to check her apartment and it was again me who has to
wait in my apartment to provide access because Mme. Landlord was not in Paris.
I opted to wait outside the building for the
electrician...near the restaurant. Then he came out. The chef from Hell, Mr. Sincere. He had come out for a smoke but when he saw
me his eyes widened. Now this was the
man being criminally prosecuted for multi-frauds. It took him a lot more serious accusation than
a fraud to startle him. He gave me an awkward
smile and murmured ‘We will use more wood so that electricity does not go into your
room.’ So Mr. Pride had contacted him to
cover his track. As you may imagine, 2
hours later when the electrician came…late which is usual in France,
electricity leakage was no more. The
electrician found no fault with the system of Mme. Landlord, of course.
There is a list of codes by which Samurai
warriors lived by and one of them was ‘let the opponents cut your muscle so
that they would come close enough for you to clash their bones.’ I guess, the last several months of my suffering
was the process of letting the restaurant cut my muscles. Now, in order to cover their track, the
restaurant was forced to re-install their ventilator in the regulated way. To ensure this I wrote a letter to the
superior of the Major as advised. I knew I still had a long way to go.
To be continued.
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