The scene is decadent and somehow deliciously debauched the young man looks about 19, too skinny for his own good. With loose dark curls, shadowlight eyes high cheekbones, and hawk face. In the tight black jeans and garcon T-shirt, he sat outside the Paris café with his bare feet resting on a spare chair. He held an un-lit, un-filtered Gitane Brune in his hand, and his other hand played through his hair.
His companion was a young woman of a similar age, her long blonde hair was tousled like the mans, her make up was expensive but badly applied, touched up from the night before without benefit of a mirror. Her legs under her red microskirt were long and smooth, and her stiletto heeled feet rested lightly on the chair the man sat upon. The sleeveless black shirt she wore was cut so low, that her breasts without the support of a bra were visible. She played with her expresso cup, and picked at her croissant.
The café faced les place Saint-Germain-des-Prés and the girl occasionally looked up towards Les Deux Magots, scowling at the mixture of tourists and left bankers. They barely spoke but when they did it was in accentless Parisian French. The man in a deep throaty baritone, and the girl in a casual careless alto, occasionally the girl would pick up her book Le Grand Meaulnes, and the man would criticize its romanticism and they would argue gently.
The tourists looked upon the scene in passing, their look screaming wild sex and bohemian living. The Left Bankers showed no such interest in this couple they had sat at this table, in similar states of undress for two weeks. It was August and Paris was full of holidaymakers, these two had taken a room above their chosen café. They had English passports, and had explained they were French Language Students, hoping to pick up some French, some sex and some culture during the long University break. The worldly couple who ran the café, who assumed they had some other reason for being in Paris, doubted their story. Especially when after two weeks of post coital breakfast dressing, they hadn't heard anything interesting at night.
The man always read La Monde; in fact he scanned the paper, then complained there was nothing in it, and would throw it down on the table in disgust. He rubbed his neck where the collar bone stuck bruisingly out of his skin, and men and woman walking past gave him appreciative glances, his look was so fashionable, he was the spirit of Bohemian French chic. His friend who received her own appreciation seemed oblivious however to his charms, and despite their liberal attitude was more interested in the occupants of the famous hotel across the way.
"Parlez-moi de cette femme" the man asked his friend suddenly.
"Elle est de plus de 30 ans se faisant passer pour plus jeune qu'elle est."
"OK, autre chose?"
"Elle est un artiste, célibataire, avec un amant, elle marche à la maison après avoir passé la nuit avec son amant."
"autre chose?"
"Non" she laughed as he shook his head.
"passablement, vous avez raté tous les points importants. Elle est espagnole, elle travaille dans une galerie d'art, elle est entreprise de travaux de faux.?
"travaux de faux?"
"peintures forgés"
"Est-elle pourquoi nous sommes ici?"
"Non! J'aimerais que ce soit."
The unseen observer picked up all points of this conversation, and smiled to himself. The Spanish woman and her nefarious paintings, would have to be reported, but he could allow himself some time to sit and watch the young couple, especially as they hadn't noticed him. He had been sent to Paris on a most boring assignment regarding UMP funding and the new French Foreign Minister, and in a rare act of defiance had immediately engaged the young man in front of him to carry out the surveillance on his part. Partially it was for the delight of watching his little brother using his powers for a better course than usual, and partially because the longer he kept the lad and his friend away from England, the longer he could keep them from the attention of his father.
Thanks to GinTsuki who suggested I wrote translations for the conversation.
When I came to write this translation I was going to apologise for my rubbsih French, then I realised with some horror that it is in fact 17years since I last lived in France, so I will blame that rather than my younger self having no interest in learning properly.
"Tell me about this woman?"
"She is over 30 pretending to be younger than she is."
"OK, anything else?"
"She is an artist, single, with a lover. She is walking home after spending the night with her lover."
"Anything else?
"no"
"Acceptable, you missed all the important points. She is Spanish, works in an art gallery and is undertaking false works."
"Works of fiction?"
"Forged paintings"
"Is she why we are here?"
"No! I wish she was."
(The misunderstanding in translation only really works in French, but I hope you understand.)
Jas xx