Jacqueline’s Path

Chapter 1

 

I am surprised I still have my sane mind after all this nonsense that’s been happening around me. When I’m awake – I’m fine. I know what to do and I have the things under control; I control the time. While I’m asleep, it’s a different story… Time doesn’t exist, not in that world. For this reason I’ve decided to start a dream journal.

It’s six hours forty-five minutes and my heart starts racing; in a second, I am awake. While the memory is still fresh, I grab the little leather book next to my bed and write:

“A dream journal of Jacqueline Bauduin.

            Tonight the child appears, again…A little child with dark hair and exceptionally green eyes, knocking at my door in the heart of Montmartre. I know this child, not the first time he visits me in my dreams. This time he comes all bruised and shivering, with no clothes on. I open the door and invite him in but he stays outside and gazes at me as if he could see through my soul.

            ‘What happened to you? Are you here all by yourself?’ I ask, but he stays quiet. I notice something slowly moving behind him in the grass.

            ‘Come inside, it’s not safe at this time of the night,’ and I lean towards him to hold his hand.

            ‘Don’t touch me with those filthy hands,’ he spits out. Only his voice is not a little boy’s voice… And yet, is so familiar.

            The boy pulls back and right through his shoulder I can see a huge black snake, crawling out of the tall grass and winding around a red bench. I try to protect the boy and grab him to get inside but he gets out and runs away. The smell of exhaust gas and the density of the fog gets heavier and heavier. It makes the gravity stronger. It pulls me to the ground. I can barely stand… I cannot move and more and more snakes are crawling towards me. My palms are sweaty and I desperately look for that child as I know that now only he can save me. But he’s gone without a trace… The fog is what frightens me the most. I cannot see anything but I can feel the existence of an entity or a thing that is up to no good. At this point I cannot move at all, only my eyes, still desperately searching for any escape from this hell I got into. By trying to move my arms, my fingers break and an unbearable cramp captures my back. I scream, but no sound comes out. I focus on the fog as I can see a shadow slowly moving towards me. I wish nothing more than to get into my house and lock the doors to be safe. But I cannot move.The shadow gets next to me and sits quietly, breathing right into my ear. It jumps on my chest and prevents me from breathing. Going through this unbearable feeling I suddenly hear a familiar noise far, far away…The voice of someone I know. I try to concentrate on that voice and follow it with my thoughts, completely dive into it… Maybe that can save me. I know now that the shadow is not real… I recognise that voice and it’s not out of this world. Similar to trying to survive, I’m desperate to wake up out of this nightmare but the more I resist the heavier the beast gets. With my cracking fingers I push my nails into palms to cause myself some pain. And, suddenly, air again starts rushing to my lungs. It’s over.”

As the clock shows ten to seven, my memories of the dream start fading and there’s no point in trying to get something more out, once all the confusion starts. I put down the notebook and head to the bathroom to wash the tannin out of my mouth from last night’s wine session with me, myself and I. I glance at the clock and realise I still have some time for my morning coffee and a croissant, before I leave for work. I might as well lock myself in the toilet for nine hours a day and count how many dots cover the tiles on the walls. It would be as much use as me sitting in the tiny cubicle that they call the office, counting how much money my boss stole from people like me. Being an accountant of Mr. Pierre Bissette made me realise that money is a burden. After all, the less money he’d have, the less my fingertips would hurt from typing it all down.

I feel tempted to stay at home today, but there is something else I have to do that always drags me out.

At seven o’clock I sit down by the cracked window and my eyes are overwhelmed with the wide view of all Montmartre with the background of Sacré-Cœur Basilica. As if I care about its beauty and elegance.I stuff the croissant and then enjoy the morning coffee. There is something about coffee and French people… An endless love affair. But for me, the highlight of my breakfast is the cigarette. Slowly inhaling the deadly smoke I couldn’t feel more alive. The moment stops, leaving in the world nothing but me… Until a silent ‘tick-tock’ brakes the spell of this sweet pleasure.

It’s time to go.

I climb down the stairs and find both Mr and Mrs Sauvageu standing in the kitchen, staring at me like griffons ready to attack their catch.

‘You’ll die soon.’

‘Good morning to you, too, Mrs Sauvageu.’

“Those cigarettes will kill you, I’m telling. And kill us all in this God damn house. Do you know that passive smoking does even more damage than actually sucking that hell of a thing?”, now the man of the house decides to have his say.

“What will kill me one morning is you two… And those cabaret songs every night coming from downstairs…”

“Your rent is late. You have time till the end of this week.”

“And then what? You’ll make my room a tourist attraction? The oldest and worst room in the whole Montmartre on top of the rusty Cabaret. Might make a fortune out of it, actually. We all know I pay your bills, so give me a break.”

“You’re a beautiful woman, only in your forties… Sad to see you destroying yourself. Get your life together.”

“Have a nice day, Mr and Mrs Sauvageu,”I reply politely and make my exit.

I actually love the place. I love that on the outside of the cabaret there’s a giant rabbit painted on the wall, ‘Au Lapin Agile’ – the nimble rabbit. Once it was the favourite spot of Picasso, Modigliani… was popular with questionable Montmartre characters pimps, eccentrics, a contingent of local anarchists, as well as with students from the Latin Quarter. At different stages of my life I could relate to all of them…As authentic as it is, it’s slowly becoming a tourist attraction, and seeing all these new faces every day gives me a headache. When it happens,I climb up to my little dark room, pour myself a glass of wine and listen to the din coming from the cabaret that I love.

Bickering with Mr. and Mrs. Sauvage is almost like a morning ritual. It’s an integral part of my daily routine.

As soon as I leave the house, the brightness of the morning sun strikes me and reminds to check the time. I’m five minutes behind. Turning to the main street of Montmartre I speed up the pace.You see, going to work is just an excuse. I need to meet someone at the bus station at quarter past eight… And I can’t be late.

The main clock at the station strikes eight and from far I can already see the red bench at the stop B, waiting for the bus route 6A from Paris to all the way to the West coast of France, little town called Etretat. I sit down on the bench, light up a cigarette and wait. With every drag of smoke my lean hands find it more and more difficult to stay still without shivering. The sounds of the station become more intense and distracting. I look up and can almost swear that the clock had had stopped, has the world around me.

            I can do it, yes, I can, I must… Eight summers have past and this red old bench became my best friend, keeping company while I… I wait. I wait, and wait, and wait. What if… What if I like to wait. I like to know that it is coming. Spring, the wave and the taste of tobacco just after I inhale the cigarette; the notion of the coming pain just after the moment I hit my toe on the corner of the bed; the screams downstairs when my father used to come back home, precise as a clock, I never knew when it would stop; the warmth in my legs that comes with the forth glass of wine and the dizziness that brings the sixth one; the bus. And then, it comes. The moment passes as if it never happened, leaving only a memory as if it was a dream. Is the excitement of waiting bigger than the joy of it happening? Is the fright for something to come bigger than the… People are afraid to die, I never understood why. They anxiously wait their whole lives for this one moment that reverts everything into nothing. For me, death is an eternal routine of non-existence, nothing changes, forever. Ive always wanted to fly. Jump off a cliff and be reborn as a bird. That is what I wish. Only that I have another purpose in this life, someone to live for. It makes my heart fly and it’s enough for now. It is enough to make me a part of this world that works just like the clock mechanism. Everyone run and run, and run, all playing a part in holding this brain-washed society together. I am a part of it too, except I am aware of it. I am also aware of the effort the cleaner made this morning in making this bus station decent after the night before. I have the feeling of sincerity of the person who made this old bench that became my oldest companion. Oh, here is a new spot on the left side of it I haven’t seen before. Must be someone’s luggage scratched it. Probably the man’s with the blue hat that always goes to La Rochelle for the weekends to visit his grandchildren. Or it might be reckless children, playing in the sun. It’s often sunny in Paris, but not today. Today is a different day, I feel it…I can see it in the passengers’ eyes and in the way the pigeons fly in one direction. I had a pigeon once as a pet. I found the poor guy lying on a foggy street all alone with a broken wing. I took it home, secretly, so my father wouldn’t see. I nursed it for a while until my father noticed an odd smell in my room and discovered my little secret. I tried to cry and hug him, asking to let me keep it.

            “Don’t touch me with your filthy hands!”

            I never saw Piggy again. The pigeon wasn’t the only thing my father took from me. He took my body and my soul. My beautiful boy, I don’t even know your name… Which suit will you be wearing today, I wonder. The green one or the blue one with little squares, my favourite one. It will be the blue one, I know; because today is the day that I will meet you.

            It is a quarter past eight and a yellow bus enters the station with the sign in front: ‘6A’. It slowly manoeuvres around the other buses and directs towards the bus stop B. Its wheels stop moving and I hear the sound of the tires, touching the edge of the pavement. The smell of exhaust fumes reaches my nose. I want to stand up but I cannot move. The bus door opens and passenger after passenger leaves the vehicle, followed by the driver. Today is Thursday, Jean’s scheduled day. That man loves to talk…

‘Oh, hi, Jacqueline!’ I hear him shouting from the drivers seat.

‘Another beautiful day, isn’t it?’ he raises his voice a little more, trying to get out of the bus through the crowd of people getting off. Not today, Jean, please. I can’t miss this chance again!

‘You have a cigarette, don’t you?’ he asks, without even giving me a chance to open my mouth.

I quickly dig in my bag and give him the cigarette, not letting my eyes down from the bus door. Through the dark bus windows I vaguely see a young man with black hair moving towards the exit. A tall figure comes out of the bus, wearing a grey suit, but all I can see is the eyes. Those green eyes catch my glimpse and I instinctively turn it to my watch. It’s him. I need to stand up and confront him. I’ve rehearsed it so many times, and yet… I don’t know what to say. The moment passes and I find myself sitting on the bench, alone. Jean is gone, the passengers are gone, and so is he.

I can’t believe I’ve done it again. But he was wearing the wrong suit… The moment of me introducing myself has to be perfect, just how I imagine it every evening before going to sleep. He will forgive me, I know he will.

It’s half pas eight – time to go to work. I don’t care about the rest of the day, really… It’s just the way of pushing the time until tomorrow morning when I will meet him again.

I take my time walking down the Boulevard de Rochechouart. I smoke one cigarette after another, laying my eyes on the kinky lingerie and all sorts of sizes and shapes sex toys, displayed in shop windows. I never have the courage to actually enter one. Not that I need any of it… Maybe out of curiosity. I stop next to a shop with a sign “Mister B Paris”. “Mister Bissette Paris” – either this or the big pink dildo on the shelf reminded me about my boss. That could go straight up his fat ass. I really don’t like that man and let me tell you why. Two years ago he took over the finance company “Cabinet Financier JC Parinaud” from his dying father. By saying took over, I mean screwed over his both brothers that now most likely live in a fish village and sell fishhooks for the living.

‘Yeah I’m going to fuck them,’ he told his wife, that now recently leaked it to the papers because of the ugly divorce. “Probably in the ear.”

Everyone knew he cheated on his wife, including their teenage children. He wiped their tears with money and trips to Bali. How do I know this? I was the one dealing with it. Before Paul Bissette, Pierre’s father, resigned, he asked me to keep an eye on his son. The years have passed and it gets more and more difficult to remember my promise. I now find myself doing all his dirty works for him, and Mr Bissette doesn’t even know my name.

This thought almost makes me late for work. Even though I hate it, but I can’t be late.

I open the big office door and a loud slam echoes through the room: no one turns to my side. A shadow – that’s how I hear people whispering when I’m passing by. I go to my cubicle, next to Bissette’s office, and find a pile of paperwork ready for me. Three days of work, at least, and a yellow note on top of it “To be done by 6pm”. Office hours is the time when I suspect the time machine is involved, bringing me to the future, nine hours from the moment I walk into the office. Perhaps because I place my conscious mind on hold and switch on the mechanic side of the brain. Or, perhaps, because I feel that nothing would have changed if those hours wouldn’t have existed.

Six o’clock and I find myself outside the office lighting up the cigarette. I feel rather hungry, didn’t have time to go on my lunch break. Or so I recall… Every Friday I treat myself with the dinner at the restaurant in Champs-Élysées. Too bad is only Tuesday. I take the different turn just before the street leading to my place and pop in to say ‘Hi’ to Laurleen and buy some frozen ravioli with spinach and ricotta.

‘Well, hello there, darling!’ she squeaks out of excitement seeing me. ‘Which day today is it? Pizza or ravioli?’

‘Good evening. Ravioli, please.’ I answer. Suddenly my eyes become heavy and I can barely keep my focus on curly Laurleen’s hair due. ‘And maybe some wine. Red, please.’

‘As usual?’, she asks and reaches for the bottle on the second shelf, wrapped up in the label with a horse.

‘You know me too well.’

‘Long day at work?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t remember.’

‘Glad you still have a sense of humour…’ she smiles.

‘I wish I was joking.’ I smile, or at least that’s what I think. ‘How’re you doing, anyway?’

‘Same old, same old. Have been to the doctor’s today…’

‘Everything is alright?’

‘My kidneys lost the plot for a bit. But don’t worry, you won’t get rid of me that easily.’

‘Get better. I’ll see you around.’

‘Good night.’

Tuesday night the cabaret looks dead. They used to do the night for the locals which was more of another excuse to get drunk in the middle of the week. Now it’s only Mr and Mrs Sauvageau, sitting in the candle light by the old piano and signing Edith Piaf songs. Sometimes I join them and sit quietly in the corner, listening. Not sure if they see me or not. Even if they do, it would be too uncomfortable for all of us to admit that we actually enjoy each other’s company. Tonight I feel like being alone. Using the chance of having the kitchen for myself, I quickly sneak through the common corridor and shut the kitchen door after myself. Not waisting time, while the water boils, I already poor myself a glass of wine. The first sip is always the best. Its full bodied structure and complexity leaves such a long finish that it seems it’s never enough of it. I love my wine. It’s loyal, never betrays. Most important, it helps me to sleep.

I finish my dinner and take the action up stairs; my date has seduced my already. I lay down on the couch and let it take over me. After the third glass, the taste loses its intensity and makes my mind wonder.

Joy and peace warms my heart as I remember tomorrow’s plans. I am sure that tomorrow is the day. I am as sure about it as I am about the flowers on my painted walls; I’m as determined as the sunbeam, trying to get into my room first thing in the morning; as positive as protons, the source of all. The source of the sea and its waves, monotonically reaching the shore. My plan tomorrow is as real as the boat, resting on the flat surface of the lake… Drifting away to infinity.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

            “I am on a small yacht, in the middle of Mediterranean sea, making my way to the shore. Im all alone, no captain, no crew, no passengers; only me. The heat of the sun pleasantly warms my skin and a light breeze doesn’t let it burn. I can hear dolphins, racing with the boat and see only differently shaped clouds above me.

            But where am I going? I try to remember but I can’t. Previously soothing sound of waves now become irritating. I can’t her my thoughts. I need to get to the shore! I know I’m late. I need to speed up the boat but I don’t know how. There’s no engine, no sails. It is not a yacht, actually, it is a raft. How is it possible? Wait… It’s not! I must be dreaming. I don’t even remember how I got on this raft. I need to wake myself up…

            I wake up in a bright room and vaguely move one foot, as it’s numb.The smell of coffee reaches my nose; someone’s scurrying in the kitchen making breakfast. I open one eye and check the clock. I’m not late anywhere, I knew it was a dream… A bad one. I stand up and look at the mirror. I see a reflection of a middle-aged woman with dark red hair. I open my mouth and a strong morning breath spreads across the room; blue teeth and taste of wine tannin. I look at the mirror closer…

            Maybe a one wrinkle more… That’s it, nothing else seems to have changed. Good.

            Behind me, I spot something that I have’t seen in a long time. I turn around and find my father’s watch on my bedside table. How did it get here…My heart starts racing. I look around and… It’s not my room. The colours are two bright and it confused me into thinking I was at home… I am. Only it is not the home above the old cabaret. It is my father’s place! I need to wake up! I need to get out of this nightmare! I Hear heavy steps coming from the kitchen towards my room… And a cry of a child coming from the outside. I quickly open the window and jump out without even hesitating. I will not go though this anymore.”

            I’m late! Eight years passed and it never happened. And today is the worst day for it. I skip the coffee and the cigarette, only quickly scribble the dream journal. Tonight’s dream definitely needs a further investigation. It’s quarter to eight, I can still make it if I run all the way. I shut the door behind me and fly down the stairs, passing by confused Mr and Mrs Sauvageau.

‘Good morn…—‘

‘I’m late!’ I shout and leave the house.

I underestimated my abilities and my age, as after one mile I need to stop to catch my breath.

The wine betrayed me. The cigarettes didn’t help, also. I cannot miss him, not today. Waking up in such a shock I didn’t evaluate the situation properly. I could’ve gotten a taxi or borrow Mrs Sauvageau bike. Now I’m too far from home to go back and still more than a half way to the station… There’s no other option as to trust my body and run till the last breath.

Another ten minutes of running and I get a second breath. I can make it! It’s ten pas eight and I can already see the station’s clock. And, also… The yellow bus: people getting off already. I push the entrance door and a blue suit flashes me passing by. I barely have time to turn my head back, and the next thing I see is a man with dark hair and the suit disappears in the crowd. I missed him. I missed another chance to meet my son.

There’s no point in going to work today. I decide to take the longer route today back home and turn to the riverside.

I was sixteen years old when my father took Damien from me.

“I’ll take him to grandma, she’ll take a good care of him. I’ll need more help at the bar, the busy season is coming. After it, we’ll bring him back to you”, he promised. Little did I know that grandma Sue had died a few months ago. He took Damien to the orphanage and left him there like an abandoned puppy. Week after week I tried to get my father to drive me to Civray to see my son, but he gave me one excuse after another:

‘It’s better for you to stay focused, Damien is just fine,’ or “earn enough money to buy yourself a train ticket and go by yourself, if you want.’ Wasn’t easy to save money when I worked for no one else but my father… Getting a job in the nineties in Paris when you were sixteen was practically impossible. Every waitressing job inevitably led to prostitution; the owners knew they could manipulate the underaged employees by threatening to fire them. I knew this from experience… One night shift at the ‘Le Cordonnerie’, one drunk customer and one broken condom… I was fourteen years old when I had Damien. I had him because my dad didn’t have money for an abortion. He was so furious that he tried to beat up me I would lose the child, but that didn’t work out. For two years I raised him in conditions I wouldn’t wish for anyone: both of us in a small room beneath the stairs of a pub that my father owned, him getting drunk every single night and knocking on my doors yelling: ‘Let me in, Jaque, I just want to talk, I love you.’

One night I did. I learnt my lesson and after, when night came, I pushed a chair against the door, just in case he would try to break in. When Damien turned one, dad gave me an ultimatum – start earning money to pay for rent or he’d kick us both out on the street. So I started helping him at the bar. I was behind the bar, waitressing and sometimes entertainment for his drunk friends. I never saw the money that I supposedly made. All I got was some food and essentials for the baby. My father called it fair but I considered it slavery. After a couple of months after my father took Damien, I finally saved enough money from the tips I got from the one decent customer or two, and managed to buy the train ticket to Civray. When I learnt what actually happened, I never wanted to see my father again. He made sure that I wouldn’t have any access to Damian or any information about where he was; my dad tried to make it as if he never existed.

And yet, after ten years I found him and since then have been trying to gather the courage to look at his face and say: “Hi, Damien. I am your mother. Please, forgive me.”

With my mind wandering, I don’t realise how I end up by the corner shop. I definitely need a bottle of wine. Or maybe two…

            ‘Good Morning, Madame. What would you like?’, a stranger’s voice greets me when I walk in.

‘Good Morning… Can I have a pack of ‘Vogue’, please.’

‘Anything else?’, the man asked, scanning me with his lustful eyes.

‘No, that’s it. Just… Do you know if Laurleen still works here? She was here just a few days ago.’

‘Laurleen… Was it that old lady with a wig?’

‘I wouldn’t say she wears a wig —’

‘Anyway, she’s gone. She’s got some problems with her health, don’t think she’s coming back.’

‘Oh, okay… Well, thank you,’ and I turn to leave.

‘I’m Albert, by the way.’

‘And I’m late.’

‘Are you okay? It seems like your mind is somewhere far away, drifting…’

‘Like a raft?’ I ask, suspiciously.

‘A raft, a boat, isn’t it the same?’

‘Do you believe in the power of dreams?’I wonder.

‘What, like it can predict the future?’ he laughs. ’No, I doubt it. But I do believe it reflects your deepest parts of subconsciousness. Look, buy this magazine, it should be helpful.’ He gives me a little book “Dream Reader”.

‘Thank you. How much?’

‘As for you, for free, chéri.’ he whispers. I drop five euros on the stand and leave.

            So rude! Moreover, I didn’t plan to meet anyone new today. Today has been a stressful day enough… I can’t risk like this anymore. I know the world is sending me signs. And the dreams…

I come back home and head straight to my room. I’ve lost the appetite today. For the first time in my life I set an alarm clock for half past six: this time I won’y be on time – I will be early, I can’t risk anymore.

The wine starts rushing through my veins to the heart and takes over my mind. I figure it’s the right time to open up my subconsciousness, as Albert said. I open a random page of the “Dream Reader” and it says:

What if you slept

And what if

In your sleep

You dreamed

And what if

In you dream

You went to heaven

And there plucked a strange and beautiful flower

And what if

When you awoke

You had that flower in your hand

Ah, what then?

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

            “I’m in a never-ending wine plantation, picking up the grapes, one by one. Eight hundred forty-five grapes in my basket – I’ve counted. The result of, as it seems to be, infinity. The dusty earth and the zesty smell of the leaves tickles my throat a little. This late afternoon, sitting in the middle of the plantation, I close my eyes and try to breathe in the fresh air. But instead, the dust get right into my nose and makes me cough. I open my eyes and see that everything around me is covered in grey dust, the grape vines turned into barbed wire. Far, far away I notice a silhouette, covered into an endless blanket of greyness. I hear it breathing very heavily. I try to get close to it but after a few yards my foot gets stuck into the wires. I can see it’s the same boy… The same boy with the black hair and exceptionally green eyes. I recognise that boy…It is my son.

            While I desperately try to free myself out, another silhouette appears. The same second an unbearable pain takes over my back.The silhouette is the same one as on the street of Montmartre. The smell of exhaust fume spreads across the wine yard, followed by the thick fog which collides with the dust and makes the whole world one big dark entity. I cannot let my son to endure what I had to that night. The more I resist the wires, the pain more and more conquers my all body. As if the knives, being stabbed directly to my shoulder-blade, something is desperately trying to get out of me.

            The silhouette gets closer and closer to Damien and I can hear him crying.    

            ‘I’m coming, Damien, hold on!’ I shout but my voice drifts off with the wind to oblivion.The breathing of my son becomes heavier and heavier till the last breath…

            The wires tackle my hands, my neck and gets through my heart. The gravity enhances ten times but somehow the pain gives me strength not to give up; it reminds me I’m alive. One last time, I try to resist from the ground…And just before I lose the last hope, two magnificent wings grow out of my back. And I fly. But it is too late. All I see is the grey dust and the body of my son cover in ashes.”

            The dream wakes me up at four in the morning; I’m covered in cold sweat. I refuse to end the dream like this and try to meditate myself back into the same dream; I’ve done it before. However, the fear of findings in the dream forbids me to do so. All I can do now is to wait until the morning and try not to go crazy.

Six hours forty-five minutes and I’m already leaving the house. The city is still sleeping. The streets are covered in the morning dusk, almost like a fog. I pass the corner shop to see if Laurleen has come back, but the shop is closed.

Strange.

I take out the cigarette but the smoke tastes like ashes and makes me cough.

Half past seven o’clock and I meet my old friend. Its red paint seems to have come off even more – it has almost lost its colour.

I close my eyes, breath in the fresh morning air with the zest of exhaust fume of the bus engines, warming up.

I blink once, check the clock and its’s already ten pas eight. I am surrounded by people but all I see is the yellow bus, coming towards me. This is it. I stand up and clutch the edge of the bench. It gives me strength. The bus stops just in front of me and the doors opens. I almost jump into my bus myself but the crowd of people pushes me back. One, after another, and another, and another… Until the last person, Jean, comes out. It can’t be happening.

‘Jean, Jean…’ I can barely push words out of my mouth.

‘What’s happening, darling? Are you okay? You look pale.’ He asks, helping me to sit down on the bench.

‘Where is he? Where is my boy?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The man with the blue suit…And exceptionally green eyes. He’s always on this bus, bus 6A, stop B, coming from Etretat…’ I mumble.

‘Oh… You mean Damien?’

‘Yes! Where’s Damien? Where is he?’

‘Did you know him? I’m afraid he died… Last night. His house burned down, caught the fire from left fireplace. I’m so sorry…’

‘No…’

‘Such a sad story with that young man. We talked a lot, he used to come here every day to Paris. To look for his mother, as he told me, but he never did. The only thing he wanted to tell her was: “Hello mother, I’m your son. And I forgive you.’