Читать книгу 21 Steps To Happiness - F. G. Gerson - Страница 9

I’m it!

I am the real thing!

Lynn Blanchett, daughter of famous mother Jodie Blanchett and genius in the making!

I have picked up my ugly Adidas bag, farewelled Roxanne and, as I cross customs, I find a tall Arab-looking man holding a piece of paper with my name on it.

“I’m Lynn Blanchett,” I tell him.

“Je suis Massoud, et je suis votre chauffeur.”

“Do you speak English?

“No no, no English! Français!”

“Right! This—” I point at the name “—is me.” I point at me.

“Oh!”

He points at himself.

“Moi, Massoud.”

We’re doing the Tarzan-meets-Jane thing.

“Should we go to the car? The car? Le car!” I turn an imaginary steering wheel.

“Car! Yes, yes! Par là, mademoiselle.” He walks toward one of the exits.

I follow him outside and we walk toward a stretch lim— No, that’s not a limousine at all, that’s just a…er…silly-looking car. Like a cross between a hearse and a spaceship. That must be the compact French version of a stretch limo.

He opens the passenger door for me.

Mmm? Cream leather upholstery. A phone. A minibar. A little video monitor for the passengers to enjoy a selection of DVDs.

Not bad at all!

“Vous voulez aller à votre hôtel?”

“Er…”

“You want hotel?” he tries.

“Yes, let’s go to my hotel.”

“Good!”

We’re off and I take my first glance at France. It’s not what I expected. It’s dawn, but the sky is nothing but mud-brown mash. The airport is located in the middle of grimy fields and lines of dirty highways.

“Paris!”

“Er…”

I open my eyes.

It feels like we have been driving for hours. Horrible traffic jams. I look to my right and all I can see are gray buildings. But…

I turn to my left and I see it, Paris!

Paris, Paris, PARIS!

We exit the highway. “Trop de bouchons,” Massoud repeats like a motto as we slide into the city.

Bouchons?

It feels so unfamiliar. The streets are narrow. Everything looks old and hides the dark rainy sky. People are walking along the wet sidewalks, heads down, and dressed in plain boring colors.

There is a feeling of sadness.

Nobody plays the accordion.

There’s no Café Terrace with people drinking wine and eating French bread by their parked scooters.

But then, we turn and drive along a lovely little river.

“Is that the Seine?”

“What?”

“La Seine?” I ask, tapping my window.

“No, no, Canal Saint-Martin. Very very beautiful!”

“Oh, yeah, it’s so beautiful,” I repeat excitedly.

Now it looks like the city I have been dreaming of. Romantic, slow paced, vibrant and full of culture.

But before I can take on this perfect image of Paris, we make another turn and we get blocked in a street that might have been in Cairo for all I know. People of all races yell at each other in different languages while carrying racks of clothes, vegetables, meat. Cow carcasses are unloaded from dirty trucks. Animals are hanging upside down above butcher stalls.

I can’t believe my eyes. Here I am, in the comfort of my hearse-spaceship combo, and outside, it’s mayhem.

We drive along a huge old monumental arc.

“Arc de Triomphe?” I ask.

“No! No! This Porte Saint-Denis. Arc de Triomphe very much big!”

He shows me how big with his hands.

The Arc de Triomphe is much bigger, he tries to explain. Apparently Paris is full of arcs. They have an excess of arcs.

“Ah, Paris,” he says happily and winks at me. “Look, look!”

When I look outside, I realize that we are surrounded by an army of prostitutes. Most of them are very old, overweight and wear ridiculously tight Lycra.

Is this Paris according to Massoud?

But before I can make up my mind about that, we change landscape again.

This is not a car, it’s a time machine.

“Et voilà, la Seine!” Massoud points. “Là!”

Look!

Paris opens up in front of me. And here is the Seine. Two lines of magnificent monumental buildings run alongside this huge river. I don’t think I have ever seen anything so beautiful. I would cry if Massoud wasn’t checking me constantly in his mirror.

“It’s very…beautiful,” I say.

“Paris, Paris!” Massoud stars to whistle, turns away from the Seine and stops the car.

Before I realize that we have arrived at my hotel, a porter opens my door and offers his hand to help me out.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle, bienvenu au Georges V.”

“Bonjour…”

I look at the hotel. It’s magnificent. Way beyond what I expected.

Massoud gets out of the car and passes the porter my ridiculously small luggage.

“Voilà! Goodbye.”

“Hey!” I call after him. “Massoud?”

“Oui.”

“Merci, Massoud. Thank you!” I give him my best smile, and I must be doing a good job at it because he smiles back and says, “pas de problème,” which, I believe, means something like you’re welcome.

“This way, mademoiselle,” the porter says, carrying my ugly little bag. He whisks me through the revolving doors.

Holy crap! Look at that. I freeze in the middle of the lobby, petrified. It’s so…

“This way, this way!”

Er, okay….

The porter drops my bag in front of the reception desk and I hand the man my passport.

“Mademoiselle Blanchett, yes. But of course, we have you in our English Suite.”

“Oh, that’s great.”

“You are very, very lucky.”

“Really?”

“Really, you are. You were supposed to have an executive suite but then we found out who you were,” he says with a you-know-what-I-mean smile. “We upgraded you, of course! It’s a magnificent suite. André will show you.”

André, my porter, grabs my card key and I follow him to the elevator. I can’t stop staring at him. He is such an elegant creature, with a funny walk. His body remains perfectly still while his legs go wild.

It has to be some kind of professional trick.

“A magnificent suite…” I repeat, trying to imitate the French accent of the receptionist.

“Oh, yes, floor seven. The English Suite. Very beautiful, mademoiselle,” André says and does his funny walk all the way to the door to open it for me.

Mama Caramba!

I take my first step into the room. It’s clotted with antiques, drapes and fancy material, yet an awesome sense of refinement strikes me through and through.

“That will be fine,” I whisper because I want André to go away before I faint.

I find a five-dollar bill in the deepest darkest part of my jacket pocket and pass it to him.

“Merci et bonne journée, mademoiselle.” André hands me my card key and closes the door behind me.

I’m still standing in the entrance. I cannot grasp the fact that this is my room. I feel that at any time the real guests will come in and call the police to escort me out.

Because, let’s be honest: I don’t deserve any of this.

Jodie just said, “I made a couple phone calls. You’re going to work in Paris. It will be good professional experience for you. And please, take off that dress. I cannot be seen with you in that dress.”

She didn’t say anything about being treated like a freaking New York princess.

But then again, that’s how Jodie is.

I slide like a ghost toward the bed. It’s huge and truly beautiful, but I wouldn’t dare touch it. I can see the door to the bathroom. I am like an insect attracted by the light. I push open the door to have a look inside.

I clap a hand over my mouth not to scream. It’s so gorgeous! I have never seen anything so beautiful as this bathroom. All the silver and tiles are shining like diamonds. The towels look so warm and cozy. I need to touch them. I approach them. I reach for them. My skin feels the comfort of them. I turn to the mirror.

Ah!

Something is wrong in this bathroom.

It’s me.

I see my reflection in the mirror and I am the odd one out. Not only do I look exhausted, I look like an ugly little duckling with a mad hairdo.

I can’t believe that I have been seen by all those people dressed like this.

André the porter looks ten times more swish than me. Roxanne must have had a hilarious time with me. I must be her best joke since the invention of the whoopee cushion. She must be talking about me to all her friends—she might even phone Jodie. “Guess who I met on the plane? Your ridiculous daughter. Isn’t she common! She was wearing this ugly dress and hideous jacket!”

I am about to leave the bathroom when the sound of an alarm stops me. I look around and locate the source of the noise. There is a phone above the toilet seat.

Wow, you can sit on the toilet and still talk with your friends and family.

Disturbing.

I pick up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Lynn?” a man’s voice says.

That’s me, so I say, “That’s me.” No, no, that’s not assertive enough. “This is Lynn Blanchett speaking,” I say loud and clear.

“Oh, hi! My name is Nicolas Bouchez. I’m the human resources manager at Muriel B,” the man says with a slight accent.

Oh, God!

First instinct: hang up, run away.

Second instinct: hide under the bed.

Third instinct: change your dress, don’t add disgrace to disillusion!

“Is everything okay? Are you…satisfied with the room?” he asks.

“The room?”

“Muriel wanted to be sure you’d be happy with the room.”

“It’s…okay.”

I have to sit down on the toilet. It’s quite comfortable for a chat on the phone.

“Muriel asked me to welcome you. Check on you. I am downstairs, at reception. You must be starving. Should we meet over lunch? Is there anyplace you’d like to go in particular?”

I try to think, but I can’t remember any restaurant name from my travel guide.

“Somewhere vegetarian,” I say.

Yes, I’ve just decided to be a vegetarian!

Just like Jodie!

Anything wrong with that?