Paris bulletin 4 2017

The Brasserie Barbès on the corner of boulevard Barbès and boulevard de la Chapelle sits like a small island of gentrified comfort in the midst of the whirling, noisy mess of that carrefour.  I am upstairs, today on the side of the restaurant that is open to the skies. It is hot and humid and the place is still almost empty. At a nearby table a woman about my age is bent over a magazine: bright-red lipstick, silky sleeveless top over black joggers. She has a tiny dragon tattooed on the soft dimpled skin of her upper right arm, two necklaces, a bracelet on one arm, a watch on the other, sunglasses pushed up on ash-white hair; can’t see her shoes. Trainers? Cork-soled sandals? Flip-flops? Her top slips off her shoulder to reveal a lacy bra strap in vivid lilac. The restaurant begins to fill. Her steak tartare arrives. She’s not waiting for anyone after all.

The neo-Ancient Egyptian building of the cinema Louxor is right across the street from the brasserie. 

For only 31.50 euros you can buy a 5-place season ticket, which lasts six months from the first time you use it. Even better value at 53 euros is one with 10 places, valid for a whole year. And it runs most of the films I want to see, most recently ‘I am not your negro’ , ‘Après la tempête’ and ‘Les fantômes d’Ismaël’, which, not being a cinéphile, I couldn’t make head nor tail of.  They’ve begun running a programme of virtual reality films on Saturdays and Sundays too. Each session costs 11 euros, is 30 minutes long and there are 15 places per session.

The Louxor is a less than ten-minute walk along the boulevard from my flat. If I go on a Thursday afternoon I know I’ll have to step into the road by the square Jessaint because there’s a brocante of clothes, shoes and bric-a-brac all along that stretch, milling with buyers and probably a fair few pickpockets too. By the time I come back there’ll be nothing left but some bits of flattened cardboard, one or two odd shoes in the gutter and the usual flocks of pigeons pecking about.

The square Jessaint itself is a small patch of greenery which used to be open to everyone but for some time now has been managed by Emmaüs Solidarité, who were contracted in 2016 by the Mairie de Paris to deliver a ‘programme de réinsertion’ for homeless people (all men as far as I’ve been able to ascertain) who are paid the minimum wage for 9 hours of carpentry and gardening per week. The construction phase of the project is now complete. The raised beds made from recycled pallets are stocked with plants and Emmaüs has begun opening the garden to the public on Tuesday and Saturday afternoons. The saddest part of this well-intentioned project is that the garden now feels permanently locked, even when it’s open.

The square Jessaint, empty on a hot summer's day

There is only one other green space in the immediate vicinity: le square Louise de Marillac (died in 1660, canonized in 1920). It too is padlocked at present, ostensibly for ‘dératisation’.

The real reason for the locks, wire fences and concrete barriers in our quartier is not rats, but the tides of people I have written about often in these bulletins: cigarette sellers, hawkers, dealers, passeurs, idle, ill-educated young men with nothing better to do than gossip among themselves and annoy passers-by – and of course migrants (rarely referred to as refugees these days, even less often as asylum-seekers).  It’s largely to deter the latter from settling that the authorities have gradually cordoned and barricaded off so much public space – anywhere where people might put a mattress or a sleeping bag. All that’s now left are the overflowing pavements and quite often you get the impression they’d clear those too if they could.

padlocks on the gates

There isn’t a cloud in the sky. It’s just past midday and very hot. I’m on my way back from the post office. Ahead of me an elderly woman - long dress, headscarf - is walking slowly, carrying what looks like a bag full of bottles of water.  She gets to the shade of the square Louise de Marillac sets the bag down and goes to sit on the low wall surrounding the garden. Her bottom has hardly connected with the stone before two policemen are standing over her. As I walk past I hear one of them say, ‘Allez, madame. Vous ne pouvez pas rester ici.’ 

As for the recent claims of harcèlement des femmes (harassment of women) by others than the ubiquitous police, I won’t repeat the arguments and commentaries that have been featured in all parts of the media in recent days (including, unsurprisingly, The Daily Mail). médiapart.fr, theconversation.com and bondyblog.fr have interesting and thoughtful contributions. 

one of the posters women have put up in the neighborhood

Life goes on.  I go to the country for the long holiday weekend, stopping in Tours on the way where I discover Olivier Debray's Norwegian paintings.

We plant courgettes, tomatoes, aubergines, peas, beans and flower seeds. I swim in the river at Lésigny.

I am at the Théâtre du Chaillot to see Malandain Ballet Biarritz  performing Thierry Malandain’s Noé, to the music of Rossini’s Messa di Gloria. Two glowering eyes tattooed on the nape of a young woman’s neck stare up at me from the row below. There’s much flapping of programmes in the warm air. At 20.25 precisely, the usherettes begin escorting people higher up behind me to empty spaces in the better seats: one more reason to love the national theatres of France.