Read Online The Man Who Risked It All by Laurent Gounelle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laurent Gounelle
Ads: Link
tray,” she said.
I was convinced that she had seen my unease and wanted to increase it. I declined her offer. My face was burning. Rattled, I said the first thing that came to mind: “How long does the battery last?”
Instantly, my embarrassment increased tenfold. I must be the first customer in the history of Cartier to have asked such a question. Who among their clientele would be bothered about the life of a battery?
The sales assistant gave herself several seconds to reply, as if to give me time to realize how out of place my question was and to allow my shame to work its way deep down. Sheer torture.
“A year.”
I barely heard her. I had to calm down, refocus. I tried to relax, examining the watch with false interest. I quickly slipped it on my wrist, anxious to show how much I was used to handling this sort of luxury item. I tried to fasten the watchband just as quickly but was brought to a dead halt when the folding deployant clasp jammed. I must have tried to close the wrong part first. I began again, but still couldn’t close it properly.
“The clasp opens the other way,” she said. “May I?”
I was overcome with shame; my face was crimson. I was afraid the beads of sweat on my forehead would drop on the tray. To avoid this supreme humiliation, I stepped back from the counter a few inches.
Now I was holding out my wrist like a fugitive surrendering to a policeman to be handcuffed. The ease with which she closed the clasp only increased my feeling of clumsiness.
I pretended to evaluate the aesthetics of the costly watch, waving my arm around in the air to look at it from different angles.
“How much is it?” I asked, as casually as possible, as if it was merely a routine question.
“Thirty-two hundred and seventy euros.”
I thought I caught a hint of satisfaction in her voice, the sort certain instructors evince when they tell you you’ve failed your driving test or scored at the bottom of the curve on your SATs.
Was she serious—3,270 euros for a quartz watch with a steel-and-rubber band? I would have liked to ask her the difference between that and a 40-euro Swatch. Dubreuil would no doubt have appreciated the question, but it was beyond me. As yet. On the other hand, bizarrely, the price, which struck me as outrageous, helped me loosen up a bit. It freed me from the pressure I was inflicting on myself, as the magic of the luxury universe—and the awe it had elicited in me—vanished.
“I’d like to try that one on,” I said, pointing to another watch and taking off the Chronoscaph.
“The Tank Française, designed in 1917,” she said. “Mechanical movement, automatically self-winding.”
I put it on, this time without fumbling with the clasp, and turned my wrist this way and that.
“It’s not bad, but … “ I said, pretending to hesitate.
That made two watches. How many was I supposed to try on? Didn’t he say fifteen? I was beginning to relax a bit, just a bit, when I heard Dubreuil’s voice, more discreetly this time.
“Tell her you think they’re ugly and you want to see the gold watches!”
“I’d like to see that one,” I said, pretending not to hear.
“Tell her they’re …”
I coughed to cover the sound of his voice. What would she think if she heard? The idea crossed my mind that I might look like a thief connected to an accomplice outside. For all I knew, the security cameras had already detected my earpiece. I started to sweat. I had to hurry up and accomplish my mission, so I could get it over with and get out.
“I’m not sure. Actually, perhaps I’ll have a look at your gold models,” I said reluctantly, afraid of not being credible.
She skillfully slipped the tray into the display case.
“Please follow me.”
I had the unpleasant impression she was making no effort to serve me, just the bare minimum demanded by her professionalism. She must be feeling she was wasting her time with me. I followed her, furtively looking around. My eyes
I was convinced that she had seen my unease and wanted to increase it. I declined her offer. My face was burning. Rattled, I said the first thing that came to mind: “How long does the battery last?”
Instantly, my embarrassment increased tenfold. I must be the first customer in the history of Cartier to have asked such a question. Who among their clientele would be bothered about the life of a battery?
The sales assistant gave herself several seconds to reply, as if to give me time to realize how out of place my question was and to allow my shame to work its way deep down. Sheer torture.
“A year.”
I barely heard her. I had to calm down, refocus. I tried to relax, examining the watch with false interest. I quickly slipped it on my wrist, anxious to show how much I was used to handling this sort of luxury item. I tried to fasten the watchband just as quickly but was brought to a dead halt when the folding deployant clasp jammed. I must have tried to close the wrong part first. I began again, but still couldn’t close it properly.
“The clasp opens the other way,” she said. “May I?”
I was overcome with shame; my face was crimson. I was afraid the beads of sweat on my forehead would drop on the tray. To avoid this supreme humiliation, I stepped back from the counter a few inches.
Now I was holding out my wrist like a fugitive surrendering to a policeman to be handcuffed. The ease with which she closed the clasp only increased my feeling of clumsiness.
I pretended to evaluate the aesthetics of the costly watch, waving my arm around in the air to look at it from different angles.
“How much is it?” I asked, as casually as possible, as if it was merely a routine question.
“Thirty-two hundred and seventy euros.”
I thought I caught a hint of satisfaction in her voice, the sort certain instructors evince when they tell you you’ve failed your driving test or scored at the bottom of the curve on your SATs.
Was she serious—3,270 euros for a quartz watch with a steel-and-rubber band? I would have liked to ask her the difference between that and a 40-euro Swatch. Dubreuil would no doubt have appreciated the question, but it was beyond me. As yet. On the other hand, bizarrely, the price, which struck me as outrageous, helped me loosen up a bit. It freed me from the pressure I was inflicting on myself, as the magic of the luxury universe—and the awe it had elicited in me—vanished.
“I’d like to try that one on,” I said, pointing to another watch and taking off the Chronoscaph.
“The Tank Française, designed in 1917,” she said. “Mechanical movement, automatically self-winding.”
I put it on, this time without fumbling with the clasp, and turned my wrist this way and that.
“It’s not bad, but … “ I said, pretending to hesitate.
That made two watches. How many was I supposed to try on? Didn’t he say fifteen? I was beginning to relax a bit, just a bit, when I heard Dubreuil’s voice, more discreetly this time.
“Tell her you think they’re ugly and you want to see the gold watches!”
“I’d like to see that one,” I said, pretending not to hear.
“Tell her they’re …”
I coughed to cover the sound of his voice. What would she think if she heard? The idea crossed my mind that I might look like a thief connected to an accomplice outside. For all I knew, the security cameras had already detected my earpiece. I started to sweat. I had to hurry up and accomplish my mission, so I could get it over with and get out.
“I’m not sure. Actually, perhaps I’ll have a look at your gold models,” I said reluctantly, afraid of not being credible.
She skillfully slipped the tray into the display case.
“Please follow me.”
I had the unpleasant impression she was making no effort to serve me, just the bare minimum demanded by her professionalism. She must be feeling she was wasting her time with me. I followed her, furtively looking around. My eyes
Similar Books
