Exclusive extract from Buying A Piece of Paris (Scribe) by Ellie Nielsen, the Great Read in the August 2007 issue of The Australian Women’s Weekly.
It’s true. I didn’t understand French meat. And what I wanted, more than anything else in the world, was to walk into that butcher’s shop and buy a piece of paradise. I wanted to say, ‘Bonjour, monsieur’ and have Monsieur say, ‘Bonjour, madame’. And I wanted to be able to tell him, calmly and with some authority, that I would like half a rabbit (no, I don’t need the head) and a few pieces of canette (female duck’s legs) and some andouille. Whilst thanking Monsieur I would purse my lips, shrug a shoulder, and outline my weekend cooking-plans in flawless French.
Of course, this could never happen. For a start, I am not in the habit of eating rabbits, headless or otherwise. When I purse my lips I look comical or intoxicated (depending on the time of day), and I cannot speak French. I am, however, greatly in the habit of imagining myself in all manner of situations that are outside my real, everyday life. So that day, almost four years ago, as I stood at my window, willing the street below to leap up two floors and embrace me, a plan popped into my head. It was a perfect plan, one that involved daring, danger, and a ridiculous amount of money. It was a plan that would show that butcher’s shop who was who. I decided to buy Paris. Well, just a tiny bit of it. I’m not totally irrational.
My husband, Jack, doesn’t always see things the way I do. He would, for instance, prefer to listen to the cricket than to one of my brilliant ideas. We were back home in Melbourne driving to a friend’s house for Sunday lunch when Waugh hit a six, and Jack hit the steering wheel and turned the radio up even louder.
‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘You never listen to a word I say.’
‘Yes, I do.’ But his attention remained fixed on the cricket. ‘You were talking about Paris.’
I sighed rather than answered. It was mystifying the way Jack always knew what I was talking about even when he wasn’t listening. He turned the radio down a bit and raised an eyebrow at me.
‘Well’, he said, ‘I think you’re right. I think we should look at buying an apartment in Paris.’
‘What? What do you mean “look at”?’ I squinted at him. The sun was criss-crossing the car.
‘Alright. Buy one. I think that maybe we could buy one. A very small one.’
‘Really’? I let the sun embrace me. Very small was perfect. More than perfect. We could buy a very small apartment in Paris. There was magic in that sentence.
‘It’s not as crackpot as some of your ideas,’ said Jack grinning, pleased with his surprise. ‘But,’ he continued as he lent to turn the radio up again ‘it’ll be up to you. You’ll have to do all the work. See the agents. Work out the system. We’ll be there in six weeks. You can have a go at it then.’
I took my sunglasses off and smiled across at him. He beamed back at me. ‘Even our accountant thinks it’s a good idea.’
‘Wow.’
‘See,’ he added ‘I was listening.’ He turned the cricket up to screaming point.
I sat staring straight ahead thinking, this is it. This is one of those moments I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
I step outside our rented apartment on rue Vieille du Temple, straight into the noise and clamour of a big demo, a grande manifestation. I suppose it’s the actors again. I take that to be a good omen. For some reason, I feel encouraged by the sight of actors demonstrating. The street is blocked off at the rue de Rivoli end, so I turn heel and bounce down rue Rambuteau towards the Centre Pompidou. I stop bouncing outside the first real estate office I come across.
Immobilier Marais. This looks like a good place to start. Okay, let’s see what they’ve got. The window is papered with ten or twelve bad photographs of beautiful apartment interiors. These photographs are accompanied by brief descriptions of the apartments, the buildings they’re in, and the prices. Some are singled out as beautiful buildings — des beaux bâtiments. How wonderful that sounds. Good morning. I would like to buy a beau bâtiment, s’il vous plaît. Certainly, madame. I press my face closer to the window and try to decipher the rest of the text, but all I can see are the prices. They seem a lot more expensive than my study of De Particulier à Particulier led me to believe. Maybe Parisian agents’ fees are exorbitant. Well, there’s only one way to find out. I take in a big gulp of Paris’ summer sky and push open the real estate office door. After all, you can’t tell by looking at me that I’ve never done this before. Can you?
Book Club questions
Is Ellie’s dream a ridiculous folly that should never have been indulged by her husband or can having an ‘impossible’ dream enrich your life?
What do you think Ellie means by saying that although countries are all referred to as feminine (in French), Australia is “definitely a man?”
Given the means — and Ellie’s determination — where in the world would you purchase a second home and how do you think it would change your life?
Related stories
Native ad body.
Native ad body.
Native ad body.
