Thursday, November 13


Met two gay men who work as technicians at La Comédie Française. For some unknown reason they seem to have grown fond of me. Today we had coffee and sandwiches at La Place Collette. It was a beautiful day, so sunny it hurt, and nothing could ruin what I felt inside. One of them asked: “Margot, have you slept with French men before?” The way he asked me sounded like he asked about some favourite dessert. Of course I lied and said no, because it didn’t feel appropriate to talk about my flings. I could hardly remember what it felt like to be part of someones victory. What would happen if I’d lose my looks, I thought, would Paris turn into a place I would avoid? At this stage, beauty was still more important than intelligence. In France beauty meant survival, unless of course you were a man.
We finished our sandwiches and a small band started playing in front of us. There was a light breeze, and for a few seconds all the paper money they had collected went flying through the air. That moment everything was perfect, there was nothing that I wished would change. I would accept the loss of beauty, provided that it stayed there, everywhere you looked.