Artwork by Orly Maiberg
Thinking back on it, I’m surprised it took my mother a full year to kick me out of her flat: I spent 12 months figuring out how to earn just enough money to go out, using the lowest possible amount of effort.
This was a daily endeavour. Waking up past lunchtime, I would grab something from the house fridge before running to the hotel and attending to whatever tasks the manager needed done. I prayed for client interaction: I had a knack for wrangling tips out of even the meanest customers, playing on the fact that I was only somewhat employed by the hotel to share their experiences, happily gossiping about this or that maid who might have forgotten to replace empty shampoo bottles the last evening.
My credentials as a young Parisian also came in handy for those tourists who, anxious to discover Paris beyond the Eiffel Tower, asked me for alternative recommendations. I sent those to the catacombs or Montmartre - or, for the younger generations, the very same places I used to book for my mother.
It took me around 4 hours to earn the 300 francs I needed: one half contributed to house expenses and the other half to the evening’s proceedings. Running out of the hotel, I would join my high school friends (now university students or in the cours preparatoire) at whatever small restaurant looked most appetizing in the 3rd arrondissement. We then wrangled our way, for free, into some high-end club I knew from my fixer days and tried it on with women we clearly had little to no chance with, convinced that buying them fancy (expensive) drinks would help us somehow.
It may not surprise you to find out that we rarely, if ever, went home with one of them. We left nightclubs at 4 or 5am, then wandered around the streets of Paris, each of us dropping off once we reached our respective homes. I would then sleep until it was time to repeat the routine the next day.
A year of that rhythm was too much for maman (and who could blame her?). I came home one morning to find her, very stern, sitting on a dining room chair that she had pulled up to face our front door, fully dressed despite the fact that it was 5am. Her hands folded on her lap, she pursed her lips as I stumbled in and nearly knocked our umbrella stand over.
I finally managed to steady myself and looked over to her: seated, her angry stare still gave me the impression that she towered over me. We stayed watching each other - she sitting, I swaying unsteadily on my feet - for a few minutes before she broke the silence.
“We can’t go on like this,” she said. Her voice was a little shaky but the sentence rang so clearly that I was sure she had practiced saying it over and over again, mentally setting the scene for one of the rare times she told me off.
My drunk self, incapable of formulating a coherent response, sank down to the floor and attempted to lay my head down on her lap. She pushed me away, forcing me to look up at her.
“X. For a year I have tolerated your excesses. I thought what you needed was a safety net to allow you to blossom. But you turned down every opportunity I’ve given you so far to succeed, and I think it might be my fault. I may have coddled you into seeking the lowest amount of effort possible, but I know you’re capable of more than that.”
I only nodded at that: of course I was capable of more! I was my mother’s prodigal son and the whole world could belong to me if only I got myself up off this floor.
“I see only one way of pushing you to action. I spoke with a family friend - he was here for me when your father left, and has always been a great support. He is the head of the most prestigious palace in Paris, the Arena. He’s agreed to take you in and find you a place in the hotel.”
She had started off shaky but her voice grew steadily stronger as she spoke of this new opportunity. Still too drunk to speak, I nodded. I would need a few months to pack up anyways: this would probably give me time to talk maman out of this insane project. If I spun this right, I thought, I could probably guilt trip her into staying at home for at least another year.
As if sensing my train of thought, maman added:
“You leave tomorrow. I’ll wake you up in 5 hours to pack up your bags. Vittorio is sending a car for you at 4pm.”
I did try to speak up then, to protest the complete injustice of what was about to happen to me - but the mix of alcohol and stress brought something entirely different to my mouth, and I ran to the bathroom for fear of throwing up in my mother’s lap.
She came up behind me, patting my back as I shivered above the toilet seat:
“I know this comes as a shock. But you know as well as I do that you have been wasting away for a year. You may not realise it yet, but every day you spend stuck in this rut is a step away from your ambitions. Vittorio is one of the most ambitious people I know - if he can’t help you, I don’t know who can.”