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Authors: Laurent Gounelle
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in dark suits were standing in the spacious entrance hall, their arms by their sides. One of them opened the second door into the shop. I tried to assume a confident air, even though I was being dropped into a universe that was totally alien to me.
The door opened into a vast space with a high ceiling, dominated by a monumental staircase. The room was furnished with display counters in precious woods, sparkling like mirrors. A great, glittering chandelier hung overhead. Walls hung with velvet absorbed the light. I detected a subtle perfume, barely a scent, calming and captivating at the same time. A thick dark red carpet muffled the noise of my footsteps. Then a pair of woman’s shoes, very beautiful, extremely feminine with stiletto heels, was coming toward me, one after the other, delicately. I looked up at slim legs that went on forever, then a short black skirt, tight, topped by a narrow-waisted jacket. Very narrow-waisted. When I finally lifted my head, I was looking into the ice blue eyes of a glacial beauty with blonde hair, perfectly smooth, done up in a chignon.
She looked straight at me and spoke in a very professional voice: “Good evening, sir, what can I do for you?”
She didn’t smile in the slightest, and I wondered, paralyzed, whether she was behaving as usual or she had already marked me as an intruder, someone who would never be a customer. I felt unmasked, stripped bare by her confident gaze.
“I’d like to see your men’s watches,” I managed to say.
“Our gold collection or our steel one?”
“Steel,” I replied, pleased to be able to choose a range less distant from what I was used to.
“Gold! Gold!” Dubreuil screamed in my earpiece.
I was afraid the sales assistant would hear his voice, but she didn’t seem to notice. I remained silent.
“Follow me, please,” she said in a tone of voice that immediately made me regret saying steel, a tone that meant I knew it. Hateful.
I followed her, looking down at her shoes. You can tell everything about a person by watching the way they walk. Her walk was definite, studied, nothing spontaneous. She led me to the first room and headed for one of the wooden vitrines. A tiny golden key moved between her fingers, with their perfectly manicured red nails, and the glass top rose up. She took out a tray lined in velvet, on which the watches were enthroned.
“Here we have the Pasha, the Roadster, the Santos, and the famous Tank Française. Each has a self-winding mechanical movement.”
I wasn’t listening to what she said. Her words resounded in my head without me trying to give them a meaning. My attention was caught by the precise gestures accompanying her words. She pointed to each watch with her long fingers, not quite touching them. Her gestures alone seemed to increase the prestige of these inert assemblies of metal parts.
I was supposed to ask to try the watches on, but her words and her gestures revealed such perfection that I feared sounding like an idiot. Then I remembered that Dubreuil was listening. I had to take the plunge.
“I’d like to try this one on,” I said, pointing to a watch with a steel-and-rubber band.
She put on a white glove, as if her fingerprints might spoil its beauty, then grasped the watch with her fingertips and held it out to me. I was almost embarrassed to take it in my bare hand.
“It’s one of our latest creations. A quartz movement in a steel case, with chronograph function and three counters.”
A quartz watch. Not even a real clock mechanism. You could find thousands of quartz watches on the market for less than ten euros.
I was about to slip it on when I suddenly realized that I was wearing my own watch on my wrist. A wave of shame washed over me. I couldn’t show her the novelty plastic watch that was hidden under my jacket sleeve. So I took it off with a gesture that was no doubt grotesque, shielding it with the palm of my hand as I stuffed it in my pocket.
“You can put it on the
The door opened into a vast space with a high ceiling, dominated by a monumental staircase. The room was furnished with display counters in precious woods, sparkling like mirrors. A great, glittering chandelier hung overhead. Walls hung with velvet absorbed the light. I detected a subtle perfume, barely a scent, calming and captivating at the same time. A thick dark red carpet muffled the noise of my footsteps. Then a pair of woman’s shoes, very beautiful, extremely feminine with stiletto heels, was coming toward me, one after the other, delicately. I looked up at slim legs that went on forever, then a short black skirt, tight, topped by a narrow-waisted jacket. Very narrow-waisted. When I finally lifted my head, I was looking into the ice blue eyes of a glacial beauty with blonde hair, perfectly smooth, done up in a chignon.
She looked straight at me and spoke in a very professional voice: “Good evening, sir, what can I do for you?”
She didn’t smile in the slightest, and I wondered, paralyzed, whether she was behaving as usual or she had already marked me as an intruder, someone who would never be a customer. I felt unmasked, stripped bare by her confident gaze.
“I’d like to see your men’s watches,” I managed to say.
“Our gold collection or our steel one?”
“Steel,” I replied, pleased to be able to choose a range less distant from what I was used to.
“Gold! Gold!” Dubreuil screamed in my earpiece.
I was afraid the sales assistant would hear his voice, but she didn’t seem to notice. I remained silent.
“Follow me, please,” she said in a tone of voice that immediately made me regret saying steel, a tone that meant I knew it. Hateful.
I followed her, looking down at her shoes. You can tell everything about a person by watching the way they walk. Her walk was definite, studied, nothing spontaneous. She led me to the first room and headed for one of the wooden vitrines. A tiny golden key moved between her fingers, with their perfectly manicured red nails, and the glass top rose up. She took out a tray lined in velvet, on which the watches were enthroned.
“Here we have the Pasha, the Roadster, the Santos, and the famous Tank Française. Each has a self-winding mechanical movement.”
I wasn’t listening to what she said. Her words resounded in my head without me trying to give them a meaning. My attention was caught by the precise gestures accompanying her words. She pointed to each watch with her long fingers, not quite touching them. Her gestures alone seemed to increase the prestige of these inert assemblies of metal parts.
I was supposed to ask to try the watches on, but her words and her gestures revealed such perfection that I feared sounding like an idiot. Then I remembered that Dubreuil was listening. I had to take the plunge.
“I’d like to try this one on,” I said, pointing to a watch with a steel-and-rubber band.
She put on a white glove, as if her fingerprints might spoil its beauty, then grasped the watch with her fingertips and held it out to me. I was almost embarrassed to take it in my bare hand.
“It’s one of our latest creations. A quartz movement in a steel case, with chronograph function and three counters.”
A quartz watch. Not even a real clock mechanism. You could find thousands of quartz watches on the market for less than ten euros.
I was about to slip it on when I suddenly realized that I was wearing my own watch on my wrist. A wave of shame washed over me. I couldn’t show her the novelty plastic watch that was hidden under my jacket sleeve. So I took it off with a gesture that was no doubt grotesque, shielding it with the palm of my hand as I stuffed it in my pocket.
“You can put it on the
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