Part 6 - The dark side of a great city

July 3. It’s my birthday. I’m 38.

When I finish my last lesson, I head back to Boulevard Haussmann. I stop at the Monoprix to buy chocolates. I hand them round at the school. Lots of people ask how old I am.

          ‘Guess.’

          ‘I guess 24.’

I love you. You can have an extra chocolate.

          ‘I guess 40.’

Fuck off. You can have the coffee creme that’s left after everyone else has picked.

I leave the box on the table in the Teachers’ Room and sit down to check my emails. Zoe comes in. ‘Oh, chocolates.’

‘Help yourself.’

‘What’s the occasion?’

‘My birthday.’

‘We’ll have to give you the bumps later.’ I’ve seen Zoe a couple of times. She’s the school’s unofficial social secretary – the one who arranges the picnics, parties, bowling evenings. She seems to be the sort who takes the piss out of her friends relentlessly while caring about them deeply. She could probably hold her own in a poker game or a drinking competition. And anyone who set upon her in the street would find himself in an armlock, ruing the day. ‘What are you doing for your birthday?’

‘I thought I might go and look at Sacre Cœur.’

‘What, on your own? You can’t do that. A bunch of us will be free around eight. Why don’t you come for a drink?’

This opens up a possibility I haven’t really considered up to now. Every time I’ve spoken to my sister since I’ve been in Paris, she’s asked: ‘Have you made any friends yet?’ Friends are very important to my sister and she has an enviable way of getting in with the in-crowd wherever she goes. But every time she asks this question, it takes me a little by surprise. I look at the goals I’ve set for my time here: become completely fluent in French; get to know the city; learn about linguistics; be a great teacher. It never occurred to me that friends would be any part of this experience. So the idea of going for a drink with my colleagues to celebrate my birthday is a bit out of left field.

It does sound nice, though.

I find my way to the Rue de l’Isly at eight o’clock. The front of the bar has a certain Parisian charm – olive green tiling with the name picked out in white tiles. I step into a long, cool room – soothingly dim. Most of the people in the bar are speaking English. I’ve got my last emergency fifty euro note in my wallet, in case the birthday boy is expected to buy the drinks. I see my colleagues at a table in the corner. Paul waves to me and I go over. ‘What can I get anyone?’ I ask.

          ‘If you sit down, someone will come and take your order,’ says Paul. The girl behind the bar comes over. I order a small beer. There’s a football match on the big screen – Arsenal against Liverpool. Paul is a big Liverpool fan. Chantal, one of the school’s admin staff, is intrigued by all things English. Paul’s teaching her the words to ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’.

          ‘And what do the supporters of Arsenal sing?’ she asks.

          ‘Well,’ I say, ‘you can sing: my old man said be a Tottenham fan; I said I can’t agree with you on this point but nonetheless you’re my father and I respect you.’

          She thinks about this for a moment, then says: ‘They don’t really sing that.’

          I try talking to Chantal in French. She always answers in English. This is something I’m keen to get to the bottom of. ‘I’ve noticed all you people at the school speak to me in English. Is my French really that bad?’

          She leans forward conspiratorially. ‘Why do you think we get a job where we’re surrounded by English teachers every day?’

          I suppose that makes sense.

          Some of the guys are in a band. Paul is trying to discover the lyrics to ‘Si Tu Dois Partir’ as sung by the Fairport Convention. As this is Bob Dylan’s ‘If You Gotta Go, Go Now’ translated into French, I can give him the English lyrics. Chantal and I translate them into French. To check the scansion, I sing snatches of our translation in a Bob Dylan voice. ‘You’re in the band!’ says Paul.

          I just smile. Being in a band does not support any of my goals.

          I leave the bar shortly after ten. As I’m going, Zoe gives me her mobile number and says: ‘We’re probably doing something at the weekend. Give me a ring if you’re up for that.’ I head out onto the streets. The fifty euro note is still in my wallet. I offered to buy drinks a couple of times, but everyone said they were fine. Until you’ve seen someone on a low wage drinking in a Paris bar, you don’t know how long a small beer can last. And Paul insisted on paying for my drink. I head towards the Opéra Métro station. I feel a lot better. I’m still away from home. I still miss my wife terribly. But, tonight, I acted like myself for the first time since I’ve been here. I told jokes. I did impressions. And my colleagues are very nice. For all my reliance on positive affirmations and visualisations, I might get through this experience by having some friends.

          I head down into the station. After going through the ticket barrier, there’s a lengthy passage way leading to the platforms. There’s a man in a leather jacket and a young lad hanging around the passage way. The man is trying to talk to people. No one wants to talk to him. The lad cocks his head towards me. I immediately feel a bit uneasy but I keep going. The man comes up to me. ‘Une cigarette?’ he says.

          ‘Non, j’ai pas de cigarettes.’

          I keep walking. I can hear him following me. I speed up. ‘Hey, you’re English,’ he says. I speed up some more. ‘Stop!’ he says.

          ‘J’ai pas de cigarettes!’ I insist.

          ‘No, no.’ He holds out his hand for me to shake. I move my bag into my left hand. We shake hands. He looks me up and down. He makes a strange circular move round to my left side and holds out his left hand. Is this a French custom I haven’t seen yet? I move my bag into my right hand and hold out my left hand. He takes it and pulls me towards him. His legs are sweeping at mine. He’s trying to trip me up. I bend my knees slightly to lower my centre of gravity. I manage to stay on my feet.

          ‘Non!’ I shout at him.

          ‘It’s OK, it’s just like Beckham,’ he replies.

          He lets go of my hand. Maybe he’s just fooling around – just harmless fun. My hand moves to the pocket of my jeans and I feel an empty space where my wallet should be. That wallet has all my money and all my cards in it. Panic sometimes leads to bravery – or stupidity. I grab the lapels of his jacket and scream ‘Non!’ in his face. He takes my wallet out of his pocket.

          ‘Hey, no problem,’ he says. He opens up my wallet and I feel a wave of anger as he looks at the photo of my wife. He hands the wallet to me. I take it and run. It’s hard to catch my breath as I look for my platform. My left hand is jammed into my pocket, clutching my wallet. My right hand is gripping my bag so tightly, my nails are drilling into my palm. I find a seat on the train. I don’t even think about getting my book out. I’m not taking my eyes off these people. Everyone’s a thief. Everyone's targeting me.

I find my way back to my flat. I look through all the compartments of my wallet. All my money’s still there. All my cards are still there. I should be relieved at this, but I’m still in a blind panic. If my Inner Avril was shouting at me before, she’s screaming at me now.

What the hell were you thinking – keeping all your money and cards in one place? The rational side of my brain is trying to re-establish control. It argues: well, Avril, I was relying on positive vibrations. Since bad things only happen to people who vibrate negatively, I knew my wallet was safe so long as I kept vibrating positively.

Avril changes her line of attack for once and screams: did it ever occur to you that might be bollocks? No, Avril, it did not. I am a self-help freak. My faith in self-help is total and unquestioning. And, anyway Avril, you’re American – what are you doing using the word ‘bollocks’?

She seems to accept this and goes back to her standard approach. What the hell were you thinking – shaking hands with someone who’s begging for cigarettes in a Métro station? That’s a good question. My martial arts sensei once told me that shaking hands makes you vulnerable to attack, so never shake hands with someone unless you’re sure of him. But I’m in France. People in France shake hands all the time. All my students shake hands with me at the beginning and end of each lesson. If I meet another tenant on the stairs or in the courtyard of my apartment block, we shake hands. Even the English teachers have adopted the local custom. When I go into the Teachers’ Room, I solemnly shake hands with my colleagues, even if I saw them the day before. So when a man hanging round a Métro station wanted to shake my hand, it didn’t seem out of place.

But my Inner Avril isn’t finished yet. What the hell were you thinking – grabbing him like that? What if he’d hit you?  What if he’d pulled a knife? What if the police had arrived and labelled you the aggressor? It’s hard to argue with this. If my sensei found out I'd done this, he’d kill me (and he could, without leaving a mark). He has always said: if someone wants your wallet, let him have it - it’s better to lose your wallet than lose your life.  All I can say is: it was sheer panic. Surviving in Paris is proving difficult enough. Surviving in Paris with no money is too much to contemplate.

The rational side of my brain is still trying to claw its way back to a dominant position. It's asking: what actually happened here? If anything, I won. Someone tried to steal from me and I stopped him. I’m here in my apartment, unhurt. I still have my wallet. But there is still the feeling of violation. Someone touched me because he wanted to steal from me. Someone went into my own pocket and took my wallet. It was someone who knew I’m a foreigner, who knew how hard it would be if I lost my wallet. Part of me wants revenge. I replay the scene in my head many times. I imagine myself unleashing a torrent of devastating kicks and punches that leave him on the floor, telling himself he’ll never try to steal a wallet ever again. But my rational side is saying: yeah, right. My martial arts skills are not that good. This is a guy who toughs it out on the streets of Paris every day. If I’d tried anything of the sort, I’d be in hospital right now with a group of doctors asking me about my insurance coverage. Or if I had got in a lucky punch, I’d be in prison, learning the French for: ‘You my little puppy now.’

I promised to phone my wife for our proper birthday chat. I tell her the story. ‘I think what really bothers you is that someone saw you as a victim,’ she says. She’s right, of course. As a self-help freak, I see myself as a powerful person, someone who takes action, someone who succeeds at the highest level. I should be projecting self-confidence and self-belief. Nobody should see me as a victim.

I lie awake for most of the night. Endless variations of the incident go round my head. In some, I do the sensible thing. I see the lad cocking his head towards me. I realise something’s wrong, so I get out. I find another entrance to the station. But, in other versions, I get my wallet back and, as I’m turning to run, I deliver a well-placed kick and shatter his kneecap. That’ll stop him picking any more pockets for a while. He’ll hobble home and rethink his life – maybe he’ll decide to go to law school.

The next day, I get up. I hide most of my money and cards in fiendishly unlikely places around my apartment. I put only what I’ll need for the day in my wallet. It looks like being another very hot day. But I’m dressing for security, not comfort. I put on a shirt and put my wallet into the breast pocket. I put on a sweater over the top. I put on my jacket and zip it up to the throat. I go out, very carefully locking my door behind me. I lean my full weight on the door to make sure. I put the key into my shoe. I manage to go down two stairs before going back to check the door is really shut.

I go out onto the street. The sun is shining. But Paris is a much darker place now.