The Sandero

I walked along the Chámps de Élysée, my knee high black boots clacking sharply on the cobbled pavement. The deluge from the dirty rain pooled in puddles along the sidewalk, and formed a web of water trickling into the drains of France. I could see my reflection in the blurry pools of water ahead of me, and the image broke as soon as I stepped over it. I didn’t want to see myself for even an instant. I cruelly snapped my foot above the quickly contorting water. My face drifted apart in droplets that spewed everywhere. I lowered my eyes. The water re-formed. 

The shop windows are glassy with water that’s dripping down the glass, so I can see the demarcations of the lines that are left in their wake in front of the bare breasted mannequins. It was too early to dress them up. It was too early to dress anybody up. I imagine my umbrella to be my refuge, protecting me from the droplets which can sneak into my collar and trickle down my neck and the straps of my bra. In the distance, almost as I reach the Triomphe, I see a distinct blue Sandero parked in the corner. The brightest red coat I had ever seen is draped across the back seat. The label screamed Louis Vuitton.

I remember thinking how odd it was, to see it in a Sandero. I stood, and stared at it for a moment, before moving on. Maybe they bought it in a charity shop.

***

The next day, I’m in a hurry. I was late, and I didn’t have my uniform on yet. The Elysee was crowded and I hated shouldering past people. The French never took kindly to shouldering. My laces were open, my bow tie was flapping in the chilling wind and my drab, brown coat hung limply to my body as I edged past  the crowd. A cobblestone that jutted outward caught the edge of my boot, and I slammed forward, my face banging against the edge of the cold, hard pavement. My head throbbed as blood trickled from one nostril. The Sandero was in front of me. The same distinct blue, and the same l’écarlete on that coat as that which was running down my chin. Maybe it was a bloody fake. 

***

I amble along the road, joining the usual crowd. I don’t look around me, I don’t look ahead. I look down. I fiddle with my index finger. It’s one of those days where I think and think and try and keep that slippery thought. The thought that can so easily slither away amongst the flattened cobblestones, and up the barks of the tall, tall trees. As I fiddle with my finger absentmindedly, I am conscious that it is bare. I stop in the middle of the street, unconscious for once of the wayward stares casted my way. My ring is not there. My ring is not on my finger. Where is my ring? I look back where I had walked, as if hoping to see it lying right there on the road, but it’s not. I draw my breath in sharply. I was fiddling with my finger in the métro. 

The tears come suddenly, and they cloud up my cornea from one end to the other. It slides down my bare cheek, and then there’s another. My face is streaked with the drops, and they don’t stop. Tears come easier than the breaths. They make their way down my jawline and then disappear somewhere between my chevelures. The world appears in a lens of blurred wet blobs. I can see the lighter tones in stark contrast to the darker, murkier elements. The one thing that’s the same is the Sandero. The red coat is still draped across the seat, precious. Maybe it was a gift from an amoureux. 

***

Today is special. The new Gainsbourg album was set to release today. As I look across the same road where I walk every day, everything is just the same. The same trees seem to look at me stonily, the same cobblestones rise to meet my boots, the same coat hugs me tightly. I can see one car after another ahead of me, and the windows of the shops displaying beautifully dressed mannequins. I feel a drop of water on my shoulder, and then another. I don’t have my umbrella so I run under an overhead shelter, and find myself face to face with the same striking red Louis Vuitton coat in a shop window. I almost laughed right there and then. It was magnificent. Even water couldn’t touch it. I looked around for the Sandero. It couldn’t have been parked much farther from where I always saw it. I ran out into the rain. Nothing. I looked back at the window. Nothing. The mannequin had been removed. I craned my neck the other way, as my eyes flitted from one corner of the busy street to the next. The water poured down on my head with an uncommon vigour. Maybe they had returned it. Afterall, there could be no raincoat without the Sandero, and no Sandero without the raincoat.