Kissuendo
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Nimrod Kamer
Travelling from London to Paris with a girlfriend for two weeks is risky. Staying in certain areas of Paris is extra risky. My gf’s name was Ophelia. We envisioned a terribly romantic holiday of arts in Palais de Tokyo and crêpe suzettes from Carrefour. In our minds, we owned Paris, one of the cheapest destination to travel to from London King’s Cross. Ophelia had a few friends who lived there. We invited them all to a dinner party in our Airbnb. The invite had a black and white picture of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, a 1966 film. We felt like the perfect hosts, smart smoking class, bodacious, bourgeois.
The ISIS attack in Paris happened just before we left London. None of our friends died in the Bataclan. Neither of us liked Eagles of Death Metal, the band that was playing during the attack. Terror struck at the chicest neighborhood, yet still felt far, as we couldn’t afford to live there. I offered to cancel the entire trip but our Eurostar tickets weren’t refundable. It was impossible to sell them on eBay due to events. Then once we shared our concerns with the Airbnb host he reduced the fee from 500 euros per week to 250, post ISIS. Ophelia said celebs always die in pairs but suicide maniacs never bomb the same city twice. We arrived. The intercom code was 1968. The flat turned out to be in the middle of Paris’ North African quarter between Château Rouge and Barbès-Rochechouart stations. A hellhole. Our rejection of islamophobia was tested daily.
Two bedrooms, a living room and a dining room. The Wifi password had 30 digits. TV had HBO Europe and Al Jazeera. We made love that night in a bath filled with Le Petit Marseillais soaps left by our host. Sass and class. The sheets were thin, almost transparent. I brought water-based lube from London but we never used it.
Next morning I woke at 1pm and put on my long-johns. People were shouting in the street. I took a knife and undid 2 sewed pockets in Ophelia’s coat, so she could her hands inside. It was a new Kooples coat I bought her. We walked down to Barbès station to take the number 4 metro line to Les Deux Magots café. All adventurous tourists do. I prepared twenty single metro tickets at hand for Ophelia to use, so we don’t need to but one each time. I forgot to give her one in advance this time. We stood by the underground barrier, Ophelia anxious to go past. I pulled my wallet from underneath my coat to look for the ticket. When I gave her one she quickly walked across to get in, I stayed to behind to get my ticket out and put the wallet back in my pocket. An Algerian man followed Ophelia in, pushing her straight up against the barrier, as if trying to enter for free with her. Simultaneously he reached down to her open coat pocket and ran out with her mobile. A golden iPhone 6s. She bought this phone a week prior in Covent Garden for 540 pounds, SIM free. I went out and tried to catch him, but could only see two policemen and a dozen young Arab kids trying to sell me cigarettes.
That ruined our day. We ran around the area talking to countless men selling stolen phones, as if ours would be formatted and up for sale immediately. The two policemen who stood there had no idea what we’re talking about. Few Moroccan merchants thought we were interested in their phones and started chasing us with better deals. Terrified they’ll steal the rest of our belonging we ran to the metro.
We took the 4 line to a nicer area called Saint-Germain-des-Prés. At a calm and empty police station, a clerk told us that even if they’d find the phone they won’t be able to call us to a British number. Local rates apply, we needed a French number for them to reach us. I had none of Ophelia’s French contacts on my notes. Clerk asked about insurance. We had none. Our trip began in agony and an overdraft. We needed to make some money to psychologically compensate the loss. Ophelia cried, then me, in the lavatory of the café that we meant to go to hours before, and have now reached desolated and hungry for some justice.
The next day there we read a story on how every asylum seeker in Norway must attend classes on female rights and respect for women. The lessons were made compulsory after a string of sex attacks by immigrants in the city of Stavanger. Refugees are not the same immigrants, ut both needed those lessons. Ophelia emailed Al Jazeera’s Paris office. She told them what happened and convinced them to commission a film in which me and her go to the scene of the crime and try and trade rubber vagina for a stolen phone, thus showing the Algerians’ sexual frustration and angry demeanour towards women. We googled nearby sexshops. Ophelia wrote a quick poem titled We’ll Never Have Paris to be used as voiceover for the film.
I started editing the Wikipedia page of Château Rouge, the area where our phone was stolen. I creating a new category called ‘larceny’ and typed: ‘Since the late 2000's Château Rouge has been known for pickpocketing and the trade of robbed goods, especially mobile phones lifted from tourists in and around Sacré-Cœur and Barbès – Rochechouart.” People trust Wikipedia more than they do TripAdvisor.
We found a french camerawoman to shoot our report. Her name was Camille. Ophelia negotiated Al Jazeera to pay us 1,000 pounds total. The cameralady was budgeted at 500 euros including editing. It wasn’t clear who’s going to physically go around with the elastic pussy and whether all sorts of Tunisian men would found it funny. It’d probably be safer doing it in Tangier than in Paris, Camille said, as the police in Paris care only about terror, as opposed to culture wars.
Ophelia invoiced Al Jazeera for half the amount, to get props and a big hard drive. The money was PayPaled after an hour. I later called the Al Jazeera’s legal department to ask for an insurance package and two bodyguards. The deal fell apart right there. They won’t take any responsibility for our safety. Ophelia refused to send them back the half, as the cameralady already shot her walking around Barbès gazing at Egyptian kids buying cigarettes through the metro cages. She also shot metro trains go by and a long exposure shot of bridge. We ended up paying Camille 25 percent of her total fee and keeping the rest to ourselves. We bought the fanny vagina as memorabilia and faxed the receipt to the channel, without the time of purchase.
We felt sad again. When you’re no longer a journalist you’re back at being afraid. We Ubered constantly to random places via autocomplete. destination choices to forget where we are. As we got off in Place de la République dozens of Syrian refugees gathered to set up camp. They had at least fifteen single mattresses. Many of them have escaped the Assad régime. Someone wearing a Barbour jacket and holding a tripod told us he’s a VICE magazine journalist. Ophelia asked him to direct us to local VICE office. We got there and chatted up few staff in the lobby. The told us how ISIS only trust VICE and beheaded all other press except VICE. Apparently both ISIS and VICE don’t pay their interns, and both companies valued at 1 billion dollars. VISIS.
Near Gare de l’Est, Ophelia ate shwarma and called me kebabe and kebae. We bought tahini paste and lemons to bring back to our flat in the ghetto. We kept trying to pitch our film. Facetime fatigue made us eager to party and feel 25 again. We went to Silencio, a replica of ‘Silencio’, a club featured in David Lynch’s Mulholland Dr. (2001). They charged us 25 euros per each tequila cucumber drink. Writers Michel Houellebecq and Bernard-Henri Lévy were there smoking and shouting about Libya. The club was a three-storeys basement with no Whatsapp reception. ‘The ashtray of Paris’ they called it.
Ophelia was still phoneless, which made us inseparable. I managed to lose her at the Anselm Kiefer show in Centre Pompidou. We agreed to meet at the point we last saw each other, always, if we got lost. I waited for an hour by the loo but Ophelia never showed up. I went down to the same police station we’ve been to before. Then went home, desolated. I dreamed about giving refugees cash instead of leftover clothes. The last thing they need is more luggage.
The morning after Ophelia was still missing. I was on low spending mode and now my phone credit was up. The wifi fell apart. When it went back on I was notified by PayPal that Ophelia’s father wired me 100 euros to give to her. Refreshing instagram I suddenly saw a lady Kurdish Peshmerga fighter wearing Ophelia’s coat. Or a similar one. Another 100 euros entered my account, this time direct to HSBC. Ophelia’s dad didn’t know how to wire money just once. I continued to refresh the feeds and finally saw her active, commenting on a post by reggae vocalist Matisyahu. It made me sleepy. Half an hour later she had emailed her whereabouts; a friend’s apartment near Orly Airport.
On route for our rendezvous I passed Place de la République again and decided to make a quick detour to an A.P.C secondhand outlet shop. I bought a pile of cloths, went back to square to give them to refugees. None of them wanted them even though they weren’t leftovers. They wanted cash. I felt bad spending money in a vintage shop. Ophelia hugged me suddenly from behind and was happy to wear anything.
That night I had nightmares being a soldier in the movie The Battle of Algiers, 1966. The local FLN guerrilla insurgency were throwing grenade at me, a lieutenant in the French counterinsurgency army. Ophelia wanted to go on top of me and then go home, the next morning. I worried she’ll drop my phone in a canal and crack my screen. She started to use my device nonstop. It’s hard for couples to talk in usual circumstances, now Ophelia signed out of my gmail, which made me feel lonely. I stopped reading fiction. When you insist someone put down their phone to talk to you you’d better have something good to say.
I roamed some more, paying Vodafone 3 pound per day for more internet. Ophelia Skyped her sister. I cancelled a private trip to Marseille. Too dangerous. On the Eurostar journey back we tried to sneak into Business Premiere. Our train left Gare du Nord in the rain. On approach to King’s Cross Station in London I started reading Ask The Dust (1939). Ophelia finished an essay to submit to King’s College, about storing art in Swiss vaults for tax evasion. At home that night East London reminded her of Chelsea, in comparison to Paris.
A week later I got her an engagement ring. She made sure it’s cheaper than a new phone, otherwise she’d rather have a new phone.
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