“Cuddleeco” . . . the name suggested both an embrace between mother and baby and also hinted at our ecological ambitions.
“Green Bambino” highlighted our ethical ideas too, and with “bambino” intimated that we were producing children’s clothes.
“FashionFairies” evoked the alluring world of magic, which we thought would attract people buying baby clothes. The fact that it included the word “fashion” was important as well, because the clothes we created were meant to be stylish.
“Li’l Trousso.” The notion of “trousseau” implied something that was being passed on. A trousseau used to be a precious collection built up over the years, so we felt this name would lend my concept gravitas by suggesting to the parents that they were giving their child something valuable and unique.
The debate raged for a further two hours. Then a decision was made: it would be FashionFairies. We’d done it! Thank god. We could relax at last.
“Champagne!” I declared, almost euphoric with relief and delight.
I had put a bottle in the fridge in anticipation. While we toasted our success together, I wrote the name in big letters on the whiteboard. My imagination was already working overtime to create a logo for my business.
thirty-three
And then . . . and then, the great day arrived. The grand opening, at last!
The boutique was crammed with people. All the guests crowded around me, glasses of champagne in hand. My little fashion empire was decked out for the occasion: a buffet with an elegant snow-white tablecloth, a butler wearing equally elegant white gloves and the obligatory solemn countenance, and a glamorous receptionist.
My mother was clucking around me admiringly. Next to her, my father, who had made the journey especially, couldn’t hide his emotion and kept giving me highly indiscreet winks and congratulatory thumbs-up. To see my parents side by side, having buried the hatchet and chatting like a pair of old friends, filled my heart with gladness. Sebastien and Adrien were in the front row, miming vigorous applause and making me laugh. My son had told all his schoolmates that his mother was going to open a high-fashion boutique for children and that she was going to become famous. Naïve, perhaps, yet I was touched by his childish enthusiasm. But what touched me still more was the look of pride on his face.
My sole disappointment was that Claude had not yet appeared. He was going to miss my speech, in which of course I had decided to offer him my heartfelt thanks. What could he be up to? It wasn’t like him to be late, and I was worried. So it was with a slightly heavy heart that I began speaking and thanked all those who had played a part in the fulfillment of my dream.
All of a sudden there was a commotion at the entrance to the boutique, and the guests inside turned to look. A fresh crowd of people came in. My heart began racing as I couldn’t see exactly what was going on. Cameras started flashing; people were calling out . . . Then, just like the Red Sea in the Bible, gradually the waves of people parted in front of me, making way for . . . Could it be? Jean Paul Gaultier himself! And right behind him, a beaming Claude, apparently as pleased as I was and clearly delighted that his surprise had been so successful.
I was overcome.
My project had already brought me moments of huge satisfaction. When, for example, the printer had called me to announce that my advertising leaflets and business cards were ready. And when the painters put the finishing touches to the magic words “FashionFairies” on my shop front. I had been so moved, so overjoyed I had had to wipe away a few discreet tears. It had been such a long journey in such a few short months! Would success be my reward? I was counting on this opening evening to give me some idea, but now . . . Now it had surpassed anything I could have imagined. Jean Paul Gaultier. In person! In my boutique.
I extended a trembling hand to my hero. He shook it warmly. As if through an enchanted mist, I heard him explain to everyone that he was pleased and proud to sponsor my boutique because the concept had really appealed to him. When Claude had sent him details of the project, he had instantly offered to support it in the media, in order to give FashionFairies greater visibility.
“Camille has a great talent as a designer,” he went on. “Her baby clothes are truly original. And to offer families the opportunity to get top-of-the-line garments at low prices by leasing them is incredibly clever. Bravo, Camille!”
I couldn’t believe my eyes or ears. This was Jean Paul Gaultier, and he was saying these amazing things about me! I could feel tears welling as he concluded: “I will be pleased to offer her my support and, if she wishes, my advice!”
Bliss.
The reporters took photographs of the two of us together. They bombarded me with questions for their articles. Thanks to Claude’s tremendous efforts, my concept was going to be in all the papers. This was more than a helping hand; it was a trampoline!
As the evening was drawing to a close, Claude came up to me. I grabbed him for a hug. I owed him so much!
“Claude, I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done for me.”
“I’m delighted at your success, Camille, and I’m very proud of you. I think you deserve this . . .”
He held out to me the famous little box, this time wrapped in a golden ribbon. I could guess at once what it contained: the black lotus. The last of my talismans.
My eyes filling with tears all over again, I kissed him and added the charm to the ones I had already received.
“I have to go now,” he said. “Once again, my congratulations!”
Before leaving, he slipped a small white envelope into the palm of my hand. I opened it after he had gone.
The paper inside read:
My dear Camille,
Please allow me to arrange one final meeting with you. I have a few things to tell you, and then my mission with you will be complete. You will be able to continue on your way in the knowledge that you are on the RIGHT path. Meet me the day after tomorrow at 2 p.m. on top of the Arc de Triomphe. Bravo once again, and good night from your devoted Claude.
What surprise did he have in store for me this time?
thirty-four
So I was to meet him on the top of the Arc de Triomphe. By now I knew Claude and his love of metaphors: what better place for this rendezvous to mark the end of his mission with me? There was no doubting that his “teaching” had been a triumph. But, given his modesty and the care he had taken to emphasize my progress and accomplishments rather than his success as a mentor, I suspected he wanted to celebrate my triumph, which was visible both in so many small ways in my daily life and in much bigger things, of which FashionFairies was the prime example.
I walked up to the monument, admiring the impressive sculptures, allegories of victory, adorning its arches. Yes, really, what better place to celebrate the successful conclusion of my personal project and to pay homage to the brilliant counseling that Claude had offered. Head held high, my eyes glinting with pride, I passed by the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and felt a similar flame burn inside me.
When I reached the top of the arch, I looked down at life going on beneath me. All those tiny dots rushing in every direction, the cars the size of toys, passersby like colored pixels. The wind was ruffling my hair, and I breathed deeply, inhaling the air of freedom and ambition that seemed to envelop this place so redolent of history and conquest.
Claude was already there and welcomed me with open arms.
“Claude! I’m so pleased to see you!”
“Me too, Camille. So, have you recovered from the other night?”
“Oh yes. It was marvelous! Thank you again for all you have done. And to bring Jean Paul Gaultier along with you, that was miraculous! I still don’t know how you managed to pull it off.”
“Ah, that’s my little secret . . . But you know, if your concept hadn’t appealed to him, he wouldn’t have come. So the credit is all yours. Have you seen all the plaques on
this monument, Camille? Magnificent, aren’t they? I couldn’t think of a better spot to round off this mission. All these symbols of victory, liberty, peace. That’s what you’ve achieved—thanks to your own efforts, your strength of will, and all the positive changes you’ve brought about in your life.”
“I would never have done it without you.”
“Everyone needs a guide sometimes, and I’m pleased to have been able to help you . . .”
Both of us fell silent for a moment, staring at the extraordinary panorama we could see from the top of the arch.
“You know, Camille, I like to think we are all citizens of the world, but few people are aware of it. Anyone could become a peace ambassador simply by working on his or her own inner serenity and happiness. Just imagine the impact if more and more people chose the virtuous circle rather than the vicious one . . .”
“That’s true, and it’s why I’m so pleased I’m back in the ‘good’ circle. You’ve taught me so much. Even if your mission on my behalf is over, I sincerely hope we’ll continue to see each other.”
Silence.
“Claude?”
His face had suddenly clouded over.
“Maybe when you’ve heard what I have to say you won’t want to see me again.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have to tell you a secret that might destroy your faith in me.”
“Now you’re frightening me.”
“OK, so here goes . . .”
I stared at him, willing him to go on.
“I am not a routinologist.”
I was dumbstruck. What?
“In real life, I’m an architect. I designed the house you stumbled into the day of the storm. I’d always dreamed of being a great architect. But fifteen years ago, I was lost; a fat, depressed, middle-aged guy with no future. In those days I lived in the United States. I was a waiter in a pizzeria, light-years away from achieving my dreams. I put on forty-five pounds. I ate because I had been hurt, and the wound had not healed . . . All because of a love story that ended badly.”
Claude was struggling to speak, and I could tell from his face how painful that episode must have been for him. He went on: “I had left France after a disastrous breakup with the woman I thought was the love of my life. It was brutal. She went off with my best friend . . . Their betrayal almost destroyed me. We were about to start the third year of our architecture degree and were planning to get married when we finished. But there was no way I could stay after what happened. I felt I had to get as far away as possible, to abandon everything, including my professional future, and forget her. To put an ocean between us was the least I could do. But when I got to the States, my depression only got worse. I completely let myself go. I was huge.”
A memory suddenly clicked in my brain. I exclaimed: “So that man in the photo was you!”
It was his turn to not understand. I had to explain how I’d found the photo in the drawer in his study.
“Yes, that was me all right. The other man is Jack Miller. He’s the one who looked after me and set me back on track so that I could become what I am today. Without him, I would never have returned to architecture: I no longer had any confidence in myself. He was my mentor, my . . . routinologist.”
“What do you mean, your routinologist?”
The wind tousled his salt-and-pepper hair. His eyes shone. He sighed deeply, then clearly decided to tell me everything.
“Camille, the moment has come for me to explain. Routinology as such is an invention. In reality it’s a kind of mutual aid chain, a way of passing on success: whoever has been helped becomes a routinologist in turn and has to choose another person to help and pass on everything he or she has learned.”
“But . . . but . . . that’s not possible. It’s . . . It can’t be true!”
“But it is.”
“What about your office? Your assistant? And that young woman who said she had been counseled by you?”
“All that was staged. In fact, that office is my architectural practice, and Marianne is my assistant there. I had to take her into my confidence and convince her to play along. The woman who agreed to say she was a former client is in fact my great-niece. The only other things I had to do whenever you came were to remove anything that could give away my real profession and leave out a few fake routinology files . . .”
“So that was why there was a design for a house with the calculations and a heap of papers?”
He nodded silently, watching me to see how I would react.
“That means you really have no qualifications to be my life coach? No track record?”
He coughed. This was the first time I had ever seen him lose his composure.
“Yes and no, Camille. You see, each new ‘routinologist’ has, like you, been through an apprenticeship that he then follows scrupulously. It worked for you, didn’t it?”
I sensed that he was waiting for some sort of absolution from me. I wasn’t yet completely ready to give it. I was going to have to digest all this first.
He must have read my mind, because he went on: “You mustn’t think I don’t know what you’re feeling, Camille. It was a shock for me as well to learn that Jack Miller wasn’t a routinologist . . . It’s true that it isn’t a classic method, or even an orthodox one, but it’s worth it, don’t you think?”
We stared at each other. An intense silence hung in the air while he waited for my answer.
I capitulated.
“Yes, it’s worth it.”
Claude breathed again. Smiling, he rummaged in his bag and pulled something out.
“In that case, you’re ready to have this.”
He handed me a thick notebook. In it I discovered all the stages of my program, the exercises, the learning tasks, the detailed instructions. I was deeply moved to see page after page covered with notes, diagrams, photos. What an impressive collection.
“I’ve been keeping it for you throughout your journey. It will be very useful later on in helping the man or woman you choose to mentor. And by the way, it will only take a look or a word for you to know who that person is . . .”
“Is that what happened in my case?”
“Yes. I’d been waiting for four years to find someone I wanted to mentor like this.”
I was stunned and flattered at the same time.
He gave me a box of routinologist business cards printed in my name (as if he had never doubted I would agree) and some bogus files, photos, and letters of thanks that I was supposed to pin to the wall of my future consulting room . . . the whole paraphernalia of being a routinologist.
“Here you are. Take them, please. It’s your turn to pass on all you have learned. You will do that, won’t you? You won’t allow the chain of routinologists to break?”
There was a pleading note to his voice.
I was stunned. He was still staring at me insistently. My mind was filled with all that we had been through together. I was choking with emotion. I held out my hand and took the papers . . . I owed him that at least, didn’t I?
thirty-five
The raindrops crashing against my windshield grew larger and larger. The wipers creaked and shuddered, yet I was totally calm, despite the rain, the mist, the gridlocked traffic, and the red pool of light that the taillights spread through the night. For the first time in my life, I felt completely at peace, “aligned” as Claude would have said. Gone were the days when life tossed me about like a leaf caught in a violent storm. I was continually amazed at my own inner resources. I felt I was connected to a force whose existence I had not even suspected until now. I felt ready to confront whatever life threw at me. At last I had learned to take hold of the reins of my life, and I was never going to let them go.
Around me, stuck at the traffic lights in their metal boxes, all I could see were gloomy, angry, weary faces. I felt l
ike winding down my windows and shouting Claude’s instructions on how to be happy at the top of my voice. Instead, I made do with smiling blissfully while I waited for the lights to change.
Green! I accelerated away, keen to get the traffic moving. Just then a vehicle jumped the red light and smashed into me . . .
Blackout.
Soon afterward, the sound of sirens.
Oh, what a handsome fireman, I told myself as I was being lifted from my car.
He took me over to the fire engine and sat me down to recover from the shock. A few moments later, a woman flung open the door: the woman who’d crashed into me. She began to babble apologies at me, crying, groveling, saying how stupid she had been, how useless she was, how hopeless . . .
I listened without interrupting. There was no point in me saying anything even if I had wanted to: when it all has to come out, it all has to come out. Neither of us was hurt, apart from a few bruises and scratches. More of a fright than any injury. In spite of this, she could not forgive herself for having caused the accident.
Once we had given statements to the police and dealt with the rest of the formalities, we moved our cars to the side of the road to free the route. Our insurance companies would take them away soon enough.
To recover from the cold and shock, I suggested to my still-apologizing road-rammer that we go for a hot chocolate while waiting for the tow trucks. She seemed both grateful and incredulous that I should be so kind to her.
Now she could not thank me enough. I didn’t mind the verbal avalanche: the poor woman really seemed at the end of her tether.
We ordered our hot chocolates—Viennese for me because I needed the comfort of that little dollop of Chantilly. I could see the woman’s lower lip start to tremble, and I sensed she was on the brink of confiding in me things she had bottled up for far too long.
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