IF WINTER COMES...
HOUSEHOLDING ON THE PARIS FRONT.
From 1st November, the trêve hivernale kicks in across France. Until next March 31st , landlords can’t evict tenants for non-payment of rent. Nor can utility companies disconnect supplies because of unpaid bills. A compassionate idea, no doubt – but, like all compassionate ideas, abused.
“You’ve moved,” I said last time I met our friend Chloe.
“Yes, to the nineteenth. You and Marie-Do must come for dinner … when it’s fixed up.”
“Still working on it? But it must be… what? Two years?”
“Eighteen months.” She did that moue thing with her mouth that signifies misfortune bravely endured. “It’s a long story.”
Chloe and her partner Hervé thought they had found a gem. The tiny two-storey row house was one of eight on an allée close – but not too close – to the outer beltway, the peripherique.
“It looks…promising,” she told the realtor. And cheap! Too cheap perhaps?
“The price is negotiable,” he said, further arousing their suspicions.
The problem was clear the moment they arrived to inspect the property. Steps led down from the street to the basement, the door of which was wide open. Just inside was a dirty mattress, on which a man snored. Beyond him, an argument raged. Over all hung a reek of decay and old piss.
“Unfortunately,” began the realtor, “you have….’
A girl in dirty jeans, stained t-shirt and bare feet came to the door, glared up at them. “If you’re not looking for a fuck,” she said, “fuck off”, and slammed the door.
“….squatters,” he finished lamely.
They bought the house anyway, and petitioned the mairie to remove the squatters.
“We prefer ‘occupants sans title’,” said its Officier d’Habitation primly
“As you wish.” Chloe produced a dossier. “These document numerous complaints from neighbours, and arrests for drug dealing and prostitution.”
“That is not our responsibility. You must talk to the police.”
The agent de police could have been her twin. “You are acquainted with the trêve hivernale? If they become homeless, we just have to re-house them. From our point of view, they are better where they are.”
“So we’re helpless?”
“Not entirely. There are…alternatives….” He looked around to make sure he wasn’t overheard. “Write down this number.”
“You should have seen the guy he sent us to.” Chloe lifted her shoulders and hunched her head until her neck disappeared. Her arms dangled. The whole pose conveyed ‘thug’. “We only knew him as Serge. His surname name ended in ‘…vitch’. All their surnames ended in ‘…vitch’.”
“All? How many were there?”
“Eight. Big - and organised. Obviously ex-army. Belarus? The Ukraine? Anyway, the first thing we knew, a Portakabin appeared on the main street at the end of the allée. You know, those prefabricated offices they put on building sites?”
Why were Paris stories never simple? “Portakabin…yes…I see…..” Not seeing at all.
“The next day, at seven in the morning,” she went on, “Serge and his pals just…. materialised. All in black. They marched in through the basement door. Five seconds later, people started to pour out of the house. Some were still in their underwear. Two of the group hustled them into the Portakabin. The rest swept up clothes, bedding, anything portable, and dumped it in there with them. Then they hung two new doors, with proper locks. It didn’t take more than ten minutes. When they were done, Hervé gave Serge five thousand in cash and he handed us the keys. In two days, the stuff in the Portakabin disappeared. Then the Portakabin.”
“And no retaliation?”
“You didn’t see Serge and his friends.”
“But this is months ago. How come you’re still working on the house?”
She sighed. “Ever heard of the Law of 17 January, 1992? It controls the restoration of historic buildings? Apparently…”
But I’d stopped listening.