The good news
Denzel spent considerable social time with his sister and me this morning. Specifically between the hours of 2AM and 5AM. The thunderous purring would have awakened me, even without the insistant head-butting. The love was palpable. Of course, right now he’s back in the closet, looking wounded and betrayed. But this is progress.
Another bit of good news: I had a successful garbage collection today!
Turns out I got Vendredi and Jeudi confused. And I was ready to condemn all French people for the fact that even the garbage collector was too snobby to pick up my dirty American garbage. I’m sure I’ll find something to condemn them for later.
The bad news
I have a choice between going back to NYC and fighting the whole eviction thing, or just letting it go. The fight would be expensive and ruin my time here. On the other hand, it could still be expensive anyways, with the landlord’s lawyer already involved. And that’s on top of the bit of income I lost on the sublet. I’m inclined to let it go. Yep, a rent stabilized apartment in NYC and I’m thinking about letting it go. Even though it would make me technically homeless. This could be my first, clear, unequivocal step into madness.
I would like to launch into a bitter, nasty tirade about my greedy, stupid, litigious soon to be ex-tenant and landlord, but I fear my brain will explode all over my computer screeen. Suffice it to say, My hatred spans oceans. It spans time. I’m sure thirty years from now, I’ll wake up one morning re-enraged by the whole thing and contemplate ways to send them cat poop in the mail. At the same time, I’m sure this is God/Nature/whoever’s way of telling me something, but right now I’m in no mood to listen.
Rage can be so exhausting.
The sky is falling!!!!!! (or something)
As I sit at the computer fuming, I hear a noise in the attic…like little scuttling feet. They stop. But now there are heavier sounding footsteps. They sound raccoon sized at least. Definitely something big enough to cause me great damage should it attack me when I get up the nerve to ascend the dark, scary staircase to the attic.
Desdemona hears it. She’s alert, looking up at the ceiling. Me too. The ceiling is pretty cracked. Does it seem more cracked than when I got here? Maybe the ceiling is going to crumble and the noises I’m hearing are sounds of the imminent collapse which will probably crush me. Well, as long as I don’t have to deal with a rabid or dead animal. But if the ceiling collapses, will I be held responsible? I guess it would be difficult to blame me if I were crushed and I hadn’t parked a car up there. Maybe I can blame them when I’m fatally. crushed and sue them posthumously. Damn, why do I have to be dead to have a source of income? Again, I’m feeling glimmers of Van Gogh’s anguish.
Damn! it sounds like someone’s moving furniture up there.
Maybe it’s the grandfather, haunting the place, resentful that I’ve adopted him. Maybe he won’t rest until I leave.
Even ghosts want to evict me.
A cry for help
Later in the day, I write a note to Martine Ledoux, Henri’s Aunt and the closest thing to an onsite super I’ve got(she’s in Paris) . Unlike the other Ledoux scattered all over the world, Martine stayed in France and never really learned English. Usually I deal with Henri, but he’s in Equador and unreachable. Despite the fact that Henri was born in America, he speaks impeccable English.
Je sais que Henri dans Equador. Ainsi, Je try demandez vous en francais: J’ecoute un sound, commes les pieds de animaux dans le attic. Qu’est ce que vous avez les critters up ca?. Il sounds grande, quellequechoses il sont.
Je suis desolee que mon Francais est tres mal maintenant. J’etude.
I decide not to send it.