The orphan

Paris

My son's best friend, since he was three years old in the petite maternelle, has been a boy named Paul. But the two boys have had very different fates.

Paul's parents got a divorce when he was about fourteen and his parents basically abandoned him. His father, a foreigner who has a good job here, lives with one girlfriend after another, six months at a time. His mother, who came from a good family in Brittany, lost her job and acquired an alcoholic boyfriend who beats her. Although she owns a big apartment, she has spent all her money over the years and she and the boyfriend are both on welfare. Paul was sent from one apartment to another as his parents quarreled, and during the crucial two years before the bac, was living at one end of Paris and going to school at the far other end. Understandably, he missed a lot of school and he didn't pass the bac. He managed to get a two-year accounting degree called a BEP, and he's excellent at math and l'informatique (computers), but since then he has been able to find work only doing inventory for big stores, working through a temporary agency. "And then you have to call them," he said. "Four out of five times, they already have more people than they need."

"He has to get out of France!" said my son on the phone. "He just has to get out of there!"

Friday morning Paul called me on my cell phone. "Bonjour Madame," he said hesitantly, and I knew right away he needed a place to live. I could tell from his voice that he was close to tears. He told me that Thursday night, he had another big dispute with Éric, his mother's boyfriend, who was hitting his mother. Paul had stepped between them and threatened to call the police. The police did arrive, but the mother then  denied that anything had happened and threw Paul out of her apartment without even the time to pack his suitcase.

To tell you the truth, I have kept our chambre de service in Paris free partly because I sensed Paul might need it. I offered it to him and he accepted gratefully. But I was still worried what the neighbors would think. Our chambre de service is right above the bedroom of my most meticulous neighbor, Laure.  Most of the walls and floors of this impressive-looking Haussmanien building are like paper; except for the outer stone wall, you can hear everything that goes on in other apartments. En plus, she and her husband run our syndic, or co-op, and they're both lawyers.

I decided to introduce Laure and my upstairs neighbor Marie to Paul to head off any problems. First I invited Marie and Laure for coffee and explained his problems. They insisted on meeting him.

"He can stay as long as he needs to, Sédu!" said Laure.

"But of course we'll help him!" said Marie.

So tonight the three of them came together in my living room. They grilled him. What was his highest academic level, and what subjects had he studied? Where was he working at the moment? Paul is shy and frail-looking. I could see them warming to his modesty and his blaming himself for all his problems. "I didn't work hard enough. That's why my father didn't help me after my mother forgot to send my dossier in on time."

"How do you get to that job in the suburbs?" they asked.

"I have to take the last train," he said, "or sometimes I have to take a taxi because it's four in the morning and the trains aren't running; then I have to walk about half an hour along the autoroute to get there."

They asked a lot of questions I wouldn't have had the nerve to ask-- I think the French are more invasive and more helpful at the same time than Americans, who are afraid of being intrusive. I found out things for the first time that shocked me, and them. I could see them plotting in their heads how they could help this boy who is essentially an orphan. They exchanged ideas, and made him write down his address, phone and email and gave him theirs. They invited him to dinner twice a week, organized his laundry, and started planning out his schooling and his career. I was ashamed. It was the sort of thing that a mother always does in France, but I hadn't done it even though I'm the closest thing he has to a mother. But I'm not French and I don't live full-time in France right now. I didn't even know what a BEP was.

I closed the door when they left and looked at Paul. I had to hug him. "You see, Paul," I said. "They want to help."

"I don't like to bother people," he said.

But that is what is so wonderful. I didn't ask them to help, and I didn't have to ask them. I have such a warm feeling toward them now.

............................................................................

Update, October 2011

Paul lived in our chambre de service for a few months, then found a place on his own. After another two years of terrible difficulties, he inherited a bit of money from his Breton grandmother, whom he had taken care of for her last nine months, and was able to use it to rent an apartment. He has a good job now, and is still good friends with my son. 

 

Comments

[Siets]

I hope things will work out for Paul.

[fd]

Finally read my way through your entire site (back from the beginning in Paris).
What a lovely entry to finish on. I am so glad for him, and admire your neighbours greatly. It's a lovely thing to do.

[Sedulia]

Thank you for the kind words. Yes, my neighbors are wonderful. Paul needs all the help he can get, and I'm back in California now.

[Leesa]

Wow! That was a very intense story. I really hope things will work out for Paul! It is so wonderful that you have the opportunity to help him and that your neighbors were so involved to want to help out, as well. I admire all of you. Please keep us posted. I feel so bad about Paul's predicament. It's a tough way to grow up! You are a blessing to him!!!

[Polly]

Thank you thank you. Sedulia. What a wonderful story. In one post, a microcosm of French society. Incredible. Anyone who reads this story will understand so much about "How it Works" in France.
I was so touched by every line.

Bravo to all for helping out Paul.