E La Gamine

La Gamine
"Stop that girl!"
She had almost got away with it - but not quite.
Perhaps she was just downright incompetent - because Steven had
actually felt the pressure of her fingers as they had probed the inside
pocket of his jacket before closing round his wallet. Not the hallmark
of a true professional! Instinctively he had lunged towards her, and he
had almost managed to grab her wrists. Almost. As his flailing hands
brushed hers and then made contact with space she was gone, leaving
nothing behind except a faint scent of jasmine and roses that hung
mockingly in the crisp spring city air.
"Hey! Give that back!"
It is surprising just how many details can be absorbed in a split
second. The girl's small, elfin face with its large, startled brown
eyes and Cupid's bow mouth was now indelibly imprinted in his memory.
He had noticed too how the rich-chestnut mop of hair that clung to her
head like a cap had glistened with copper lights in the early afternoon
sunlight, and that the folds of her shabby russet cape had barely
concealed the fragility of her slender frame. In the moment it took for
her to relieve him of his wallet he had summed her up in one word.
Beautiful.

"Stop her! She's stolen my wallet!" he appealed to everyone and no
one.
But the only responses he received were glances of mild sympathy and
an occasional faint shrug&;#8230;.Sudden rage surged through his
veins and he cursed the French for their reluctance to become involved
in the plight of an English tourist. It was so typical, he thought
angrily&;#8230;.But then self-pity gave way to a sense of outrage
and the desire for retribution, and Steven's frozen limbs were suddenly
fuelled with fire. Immediately he began to chase her.
His limbs, sluggish at first after the hearty lunch that he had just
eaten, soon loosened and his legs quickly gathered momentum. As he sped
along the pavement in the girl's wake he frantically searched his
memory for the French word for thief. It was somewhere in the back of
his memory along with all the other schoolboy French that he had
thought he would never need. But by the time he had remembered 'Au
voleur!' she had nimbly dodged through the heaving traffic on the busy
Boulevard Saint Germain and was heading off down the appropriately
named Bellechasse towards the river.
"Stop! Arr?tez!"
The sleek chestnut cap bobbed amongst hundreds of other heads - but
none moved with the same speed and agility as hers. She may have been a
poor pickpocket but she was a good runner! Oh yes, she was fast -
almost as fast as he was, but he told himself that she wouldn't be able
to maintain the pace for much longer. He would, though. Hadn't he
successfully competed in the London Marathon a few weeks earlier?
Down the Quai d'Orsay and across the Pont Royal she raced, her small
feet seeming to skim the bleached uneven paving stones that were so
typical of central Paris. She wore flat crepe-soled brogues that were
ideal for running - but which made her black woollen-clad skinny legs
appear even thinner than they were. Despite her apparent stamina, she
looked so small, vulnerable and fragile and as Steven sprinted after
her he felt, illogically, that he was the villain and she the
victim.
Expertly she avoided the throngs of tourists walking two or three
abreast along the riverbank. Some of them gazed curiously at her,
wondering why she was in such a hurry on this beautiful morning in such
an awesome city. Paris wasn't a place to hurry - it was a place to
stroll through tree-lined streets to relax and appreciate its ageless
beauty. And today with the sun sparkling on the rooftops and the
horse-chestnut trees in full blossom, it was even more beautiful than
ever.
From time to time she slowed her pace and glanced over her shoulder,
her dark eyes fearful and disbelieving as she realised that he was
still behind her and managing gradually to close the distance between
them. Once he heard her cry out something that sounded like 'Ah Non!'
in despair, and a flicker of satisfaction passed through his body. She
was as frightened as he was annoyed.
But still she ran.
In the Tuileries the crowds of tourists thinned and she fled in a
straight line, unhindered now by carefree sightseers, down the main
thoroughfare that would lead to the Place de la Concorde and a choice
of six directions. Aware that she might be able to give him the slip
there, he lowered his head determinedly and increased his pace until he
was running faster than he had ever run in his life. And gradually the
sleek head grew nearer and nearer&;#8230;.
"Arr?tez!" He shouted as loudly as he could and he had the
satisfaction of seeing her stumble and almost fall. Twenty yards
between them now - and he knew that in a few more minutes the gap would
have lessened. Something fell from her hands and he recognised the
black leather wallet that his sister had bought him for his
twenty-second birthday the year before. In a few moments he had reached
it and he bent down to retrieve it, aware that he was losing valuable
seconds&;#8230;&;#8230;.
"Leave it now! You have your wallet back!" In his mind he heard the
voice of reason offering him good advice. He heard it - but he didn't
listen to it. This was about more than getting his wallet back, he
thought. This was about retribution. He didn't add that it was also
about becoming better acquainted with the beautiful, anonymous
thief&;#8230;..

On she ran, suddenly turning left into the Rue Royal towards the
pseudo Greek pillared church of Ste. Madeleine. For a moment Steven
thought that she was going to run up the steps and disappear inside -
but then she veered right, towards L'Op?ra and joined the throngs of
tourists again. His heart sank as he lost sight of her for a moment,
and his eyes frantically scanned the crowds. Finally, to his immense
relief, he saw her unmistakable chestnut head again, this time darting
into a side street off the main thoroughfare. He sprinted forwards
again and smiled to himself as he realised that she thought he hadn't
seen her.
Well - she was about to have a shock!

"Is this seat taken?"
The interior of the little side-street caf? was dimly lit and she had
found a table as near to the back as possible. But not far enough away
to prevent Steven from spotting her chestnut head as he peered in
through the window. He stepped inside and was amused to notice that she
bowed her head and tried to cover her face with her hands as he
approached her table. Did she imagine that he wouldn't recognise her?
Well, there was no escape for her now, he thought as he stood in the
central aisle that was the only way out.
"Excuse me - Mademoiselle - Is this seat taken?" he repeated. She
raised her head and stared blankly at him.
"No speak Eengleesh," she muttered and looked away, her thin body
tense and her fingers toying restlessly with the corner of a beer mat.
Even in the dim light Steven could see that she was blushing with
embarrassment.
"Then you can't voice any objection if I sit down, can you?" he said
icily pulling out the chair opposite hers and placing his long legs
strategically across the gap between the table and the wall. She wasn't
going to get away a second time, he decided. An apron-clad waiter
approached and Steven ordered two coffees without bothering to ask
himself why he was buying a drink for someone who had just tried to rob
him.
"I don't like coffee," she said, staring mutinously at him through
long thick lashes.
"So - you do speak English," said Steven triumphantly. "In which case,
you can apologise for having stolen my wallet and then having led me on
a wild chase around the city."
"Aren't you going to call the police?" she asked, her eyes darkening
now with suspicion. "Or perhaps you imagine that if you do me a favour
then I will do one for you?" Her English was perfect, with barely a
trace of an accent. She tilted her chin proudly as she stared at him
with undisguised hostility - and for some reason Steven found her
disdain more hurtful than her attempt to steal his wallet.
"To be honest, I hadn't thought of asking you for anything at all
except an apology." He looked her up and down scornfully. "I mean -
what could you possibly have that would be of interest to me?" He knew
that he was being cruel but he wanted to make her suffer. She deserved
it. She didn't flinch at his appraisal of her, however, and the corners
of her mouth twitched slightly as though she was about to burst into a
fit of laughter. Then all at once she was serious again.
"I apologise," she said abruptly and rose from her seat, indicating
with her head that he should move his legs.
"Not so fast," he said pleasantly. "I don't accept your apology." She
shrugged and sat down again with an exaggerated sigh of resignation
that Steven somehow didn't believe reflected her true feelings.
"Then you must call the police and see to it that I am properly
punished for my dreadful crime." Her voice was monotone, yet still
conveyed sarcasm. "Perhaps they will lock me up for a long time and
then you will be able to sleep in peace, knowing that the streets of
Paris are safe once more&;#8230;."
"Just stop it will you?" Steven had no defence against this particular
brand of sarcasm and it irked him that she could gain the upper hand in
a verbal battle in his own language. "I just think that you owe me an
explanation - that's all." She sighed and shrugged again.
"What is there to explain?" she demanded, spreading her hands in front
of her helplessly. She leaned forwards slightly as though she was about
to take him into her confidence. "You are a rich tourist. I am a poor
thief. You have money and I want money. It isn't so difficult to
understand, is it?"
"First of all - I'm not a rich tourist. And secondly, even if I were
that doesn't give you the right to steal from me. People like you give
decent, hardworking Parisians a bad name."
The girl's lip curled scornfully.
"And you have no right to preach to me!" she snapped. "Now - if you
will move your legs I will leave you and your bulging wallet in peace,
and I hope you will accept my heartfelt gratitude for your generosity
in sparing me a prison sentence."
"There are more important things in life than money," he said
suddenly.
"Like what?" Her voice was incredulous. "Only those who have money say
stupid things like that! Do you know what it's like to have nothing in
your refrigerator? Have you ever been thrown out of your home because
you can't pay the rent? No, English tourist with a wallet full of
French francs - you know nothing of what it is like to have no money.
You cannot see that my whole happiness depends upon
it&;#8230;"
"Haven't you got a job?" he asked curiously. "There must be something
you can do - even if it's only doing a cleaning job?"
"A cleaner!" She threw her head back and laughed throatily just as the
waiter arrived with the coffees. She spoke to him in rapid French and
he nodded. His eyes narrowed and he looked hard at Steven before moving
back behind the counter.
"What did you just say to him?" demanded Steven, who had been unable
to understand a single word.
"If I tell you will you let me go?" she asked innocently.
"I'm not stopping you, am I?" he replied sulkily.
"But you might still follow me - with your long fast legs and your
stamina of a hare. And you might still call the police and exact your
oh-so-British revenge upon this poor jobless Parisian." She sat back in
her chair and studied his face. He noticed that her eyes had lost some
of their hostility now, and that there was a hint of a sparkle in their
rich sherry-coloured depths. The thought that she might find him
attractive occurred to him and he was annoyed at how much the idea
appealed to him.
"I won't call the police - and I won't follow you either. So if you
want to go then go." He held his breath, hoping that she wouldn't move.
For a long moment she looked searchingly into his eyes.
"So - you aren't rich?" she asked. He shook his head.
"And you can't offer me a job?" Again he shook his head. She shrugged.
"Then goodbye, English tourist. It has almost been a
pleasure&;#8230;.." She rose and Steven moved his legs to enable her
to pass.
"I could take you out to dinner tonight?" The words were out of his
mouth before he had time to think about their consequences. To his
surprise she stopped in her tracks.
"Why?" she asked, a frown of perplexity creasing her smooth brow.
"What exactly do you want from me?"
"I told you. I want an apology."
"But I've given you that. Is it my fault that you don't believe
me?"
"I want to know what you said to the waiter." Steven was clutching at
straws now. He wanted - no - needed this beautiful stranger to agree to
spend the evening with him. The idea of letting her go now had suddenly
become unbearable. To his surprise and delight she said,
"Okay. I'll have dinner with you." She stood up to leave.
"Hold on - what's your name?" He wasn't sure that she meant it about
having dinner with him, and he wanted to have at least a faint chance
of finding her again if she didn't turn up.
"Annette Toyeuse," she replied. "I will meet you here at seven-thirty
tonight." He nodded dumbly and rose. As they faced each other across
the table he held out his hand formally.
"No - we must say au revoir in the French way!" she exclaimed,
offering her cheek. With a smile he bent forwards to kiss her and the
sweet heady scent of jasmine and roses filled his nostrils. A moment
later she was gone.
"Can I have the bill please?" Steven summoned the waiter and reached
into his pocket for his wallet.
Suddenly his fingers froze. It wasn't there!
Annette! She had stolen it when she had embraced him! What a fool he
had been to imagine that she had wanted to kiss him!
In his best French he explained to the angry waiter why he was unable
to settle the bill and, with a promise to return that evening with the
necessary thirty-four francs, he stepped outside into the afternoon
sunlight.

Inside the caf? Jean, the waiter, was shaking his head sadly. He
should have taken the girl seriously when she bet him 50 francs that
the English tourist would try to leave without paying the bill. No
doubt she would return later to collect her money.

As Steven made his way slowly back to the hotel he mulled over the
unfortunate events of the afternoon and his conversation with the
beautiful Annette Toyeuse. Then he stopped in his tracks as another
useless bit of French schoolboy vocabulary suddenly came to mind.
Nettoyeuse!
The French word for 'cleaner.'

END
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