Paris, 2022
NOT FOR THE UNINITIATED
Don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to settle a score with Georges. Despite the man's relentless ramblings, his annoying display of flamboyant über-French savoir-vivre, and the torrent of condescending remarks he would throw around whenever he was drunk—a condition he often preferred to sobriety, especially when induced by champagne, which was the coveted source of his intemperance—I genuinely liked him. I guess, after all these years, I still miss him.
Paris plays tricks on foreigners that hang around for too long: they trade their origins for a larger-than-life portrayal of parisianism. They overachieve with faultless French and become inimitably arrogant. Georges had nurtured both competencies to perfection and propagated them generously.
I met with Georges in Paris every couple of months for years on end. Mme. Mairesse, an aging accountant equipped with an armor that left her unscathed from even the most determined attack of charm or humor, commandeered the colorless antechamber of the once luxurious but now threadbare apartment that served as his office. The drawing room was rearranged to fit two stately curved desks installed at an angle in opposite corners against a backdrop of faded burgundy flock wallpaper. Despite the unflattering neon lights, Georges' demeanor, his de Fursac suits, and Hermès ties stood out as the only perceptible touches of elegance.
While the day's schedule was routinely identical, the result was mostly unpredictable. Office meetings were kept to the fundamentals of everyday banter, the latest gossip, and amicable horseplay. They were short. Business only started after the first bottle of champagne at one of Georges' favorite restaurants.
When things went well, the day ended with a short wrap-up meeting at the office. I'd return to Brussels with a handful of contracts. On other occasions, Mme. Mairesse dropped off my briefcase at the restaurant around six p.m. We'd still be arguing incoherently while the maître d'hôtel stood by, armed with another bottle of champagne. The train ride home was a blur. We had discussed our business, our families, and the global state of affairs. We shook hands on huge deals that were honored unreservedly.
The market changed. Georges didn't. Our business ended abruptly. I never heard of him again.
But he still emerges whenever Paris radiates in all of its generosity, splendor, and gallantry. When its brashness slaps you in the face, utterly unprepared. It's not a city for the uninitiated. But I have had an expert teacher.
