There’s this little French boulangerie, ‘Victor Hugo’, where I get my weekly dose of pain au chocolate and Edith Piaf. Going there makes this exile feel more poetic – I can imagine the 19th century cafes in Paris, where great artists and great thinkers met to talk great ideas.
However, in this petite boulangerie, the Frenchiest place in this mouldy port town, there were no great thinkers or artists last Tuesday. We were just me and my friend, sitting at the street. She – a 21st century Eponine with a ‘je m’en fische’ look and life philosophy.
She lights up another cigarette: ‘So what now?’.
I shrug my shoulders. I wish she’d stopped talking for a while.
I go order another cappuccino in my poor French. ‘So what now?’ I’m saying to myself while waiting for my drink.
I get back to our table to find a Rolls parked in front of Eponine and my seat taken by another idiot.
‘That’s your cappuccino, thank you’ I say to Eponine, leaving her with the guy and my coffee.
The sun remembered this rotten town. It has been a while since we met last time.