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Postcards from Paris


Contact Loulou de la Paumardiere

Having grown fangs and a marsupial pouch during the night, Carla Bruni-Sarkozy awoke, and now she sat grooming in front of the giant termite mound that had sprung up in the middle of the presidential bedroom. She looked at Nicolas, her beloved husband, and screeched “Jabbajabbahabba?” 

He opened his eyes, replied “Habbahabbajabba!” and leapt naked out of bed. Dragging his long reptilian tail, the president lurched towards the mound, where his wife squatted patiently with her back turned to him. Unperturbed by the patches of ringworm and dry rot, Nicolas began to pluck the lice from the First Lady’s back and devour them.

After a few minutes, Nicolas knew they were ready and he hopped around the room nervously until Carla admonished him: “Kabbakabbahabba!”So he hopped to the chopping block near the termite mound and lay his nose  sideways  on the wood and reached up to stroke it one last time, but Carla snapped “Kabba!” and he drew back his hand and looked at her sadly, his face the same as the day she’d met him, except for the holly leaves, velvet and worms. Carla steadied his head on the block and looked at Nicolas and said “Rabba?” 

And he looked straight ahead and answered quietly: “Rabba.”

Carla took the jewel-incrusted handle and raised the scimitar above her head, let out a blood-curdling scream and brought the curved gleaming blade down hard on she woke up.

  “Oh Loulou,” Carla’s voice came crackling through my phone, “what do you think it could possibly mean?”

“Was it the one,” I asked groggily, “with the scimitar that ends with Nicolas bleeding to death again?”

“Yes, only this time it was even worse. I mean he hardly suffered at all.” I had told her before that I thought it came from her having issues about letting Nicolas be the one to sleep on the top bunk every night, but she refused to believe it. “Oh Loulou,” she cried, “I’m so miserable without Nicolas, it’s like having him here.”“Carla, darling, you’re the one who chose to abandon ship!”  I reminded her.

Carla Bruni-Sarkozy is now sleeping at 60, rue de Varenne, but not at my place. Carla has very seriously hooked up with my friendly horrible American neighbor with the nice clothes, dullard’s gaze and cringe-inducing Y’all seen my dawg out here anywurs? heehaw accent and whose name I can’t even remember.  So while she’s at the American’s, Nicolas is sleeping at Carla’s place in the sixteenth—Carla had never really moved into the Elysee, and certainly hadn’t moved out of her own home since marrying Nicolas, and he was living with her there in the sixteenth district until he got his minister of justice Rachida Dati pregnant (http://www.paperblog.fr/), which was a surprise what with Nicolas being out of the closet and everything—but not with Carla, with Rachida, except on weekends, when Nicolas and Carla and their families meet up for a PR family reunion at the presidential palace. Meanwhile, a plumbing leak wreaks havoc at Seattle Grace as Dr. Webber attempts to implement new teaching policies and George tries to retake his residency exam. Derek hopes to make some changes at Meredith's house. Dylan shows up at Liberty’s with a video camera, ruining Parker’s plans. Meg finally returns to the farm and Paul is there. Thinking she was the one who killed Sofie, he warns her not to tell Holden anything and works to persuade her he was going to tell her the truth before they wed. The two reunite but Meg is spooked at the thought of Sofie buried in the garden.

Really, Carla, you must admit that it’s pretty rich: Nicolas’ ex-wife Cecilia fell for an American, and now you, too.”

And Carla said “Well, Nicolas no longer seems devastated. Even though I know he’s no happier with Rachida than he was with me because he said ‘Rachida will lie there in bed and make her eyelids open and close like a doll and say with this real like gravelly voice “I am North African Barbie, the doll who murders French Presidents ha ha ha ha ha!” just to scare me and I scream and run to the closet and hide.” And he said he feels pretty sure that she’s behind that Nicolas Sarkozy voodoo doll that’s flying off the shelves as well as that filthy web site that’s offering Legos that are supposed to look like us!” http://www.lepost.fr/article

And I said “Carla darling, Nicolas is devastation-proof. He fell in love with me, then Cecilia, then you and now Rachida: don’t you see a pattern?”

“Brunettes?”

“I was thinking Satanic bitches.”

And Nicolas no longer even likes living there. Four plain clothes police officers sit in two unmarked cars by the big rust-coloured steel door that leads to Carla’s home, and as they are bored to tears they like to wait until Nicolas returns from his late night jog around the block and then “accidentally” hit the insanely loud siren which goes bee bah! about two feet away from his myocardium and they roll their window down and say “Sorry, Mr. President” and then put the window back up and laugh so hard they choke because Nicolas’ hair when it goes completely vertical like that is as tall as Eraserhead’s. 

And then the other night Nicolas and Rachida had gone to bed with the great floor to ceiling French doors open because Carla’s house isn’t that far from the Bois de Boulogne and you feel like you’re in a country house and occasionally an owl will alight in the big magnolia tree in the garden and Nicolas was trying to compliment himself to sleep, but kept running into bumps: Mayor of Neuilly, a black belt in judo, Minister of Finance, Minister of the Interior, President of France and  husband and master of a famous wife taller than any human  penis could ever be, I think, so everything mother wanted for me except to be a famous singer and now Carla says I can sing, so that too shall I lay at thy feet, for without thee I am nothing And it’s been so hard to sell the Skip a Meal for France program to the whiny French. so we won’t have to borrow even more than the 2.7 percent of our GDP that we already do to maintain our standard of living (if France were the fifty-first American state we would rank 46th, tied with Alabama, for standard of living), I’ve got a 36%  approval rating, which makes me more unpopular than any president one year into office since 1958  was I wrong to announce my plan to rebuild the Tuileries palace from scratch? Was I wrong  to show solidarity with the millions of Frenchmen devastated by the stock market crash by rushing off to stay at the Carlyle in New York with Carla and being photographed in a tux and one of those wing collars that you love maman but that non-Frenchmen titter at and they called me the croupier, which was an insult to France and Felix Rohatyn said we reminded him of that gangster movie where Bogart says to a hostage “Better do as he says lady, otherwise he’s liable to kick your teeth in,”http://www.arretsurimages.net/vite.php?id=1984 I love France maman where I can drive a convertible to the Ile de la Jatte and sit outside chez Carette on the place du Trocadero with the other rastaquouère and tax evading rug merchants and actually wear my cashmere blazer with the coat of arms on the pocket that says “Ivy Oxford Country Gentleman Club For Live,” without being laughed at by ignorant fools.

It’s just so easy to criticize instead of doing great things and by restoring that gate at Versailles that was already deemed ridiculously pompous by the Sun King’s contemporaries, all I’m trying to do is resurrect the grace and beauty of a more carefree and elegant time in France’s history, when men were men and Louis IX, later Saint Louis, was so scared of his mother, Blanche of Castille, that he’d hide behind the curtains whenever she entered his own wife’s bedroom  just like me with you, maman, and Louis XV was so scared of Madame de Pompadour he had courtiers disguise him as a fireplace whenever she was around and Louis XIV who was so afraid of one of his mistress’ children’s nannies that he gave her the title of Marquise de Maintenon and made her de facto Queen of France and Loulou showed me the diary of one of her ancestors, Louis XV’s daughter, the Duchesse of Parma, who wrote that “in the winter, wine freezes in the glasses, the ink freezes in the inkwells, and last summer everyone peed in the dark hallway behind my room  and the smell is dreadful,”  and really where would France, meaning me, be without stronger women telling me what to do and how things really are because one thing is certain and that’s that if you take French women out of the formula that makes up France then all you’re left with is a bucket of snails, some gunpowder and an accordion.

So Nicolas managed to lull himself to sleep and he was dreaming peacefully when  a liquid sensation at the foot of the bed caused him to stir but when he sat up he couldn’t see anything so turned on the light and a bat was sucking blood from his big toe, upon seeing which Nicolas executed the reverse,  over the head soccer kick that he’d been unsuccessfully attempting since childhood, smashing the bat into the large gilt mirror over the bed. One can easily imagine that this was the poor creature’s first encounter with a mirror and one can just as easily imagine the disappointment and even shock with which the bat, who had all of its life imagined its own face to be “a cross between Sherilynn Fenn and Charlize Theron,” now saw in its own reflection not Sherilynn but the Boogie Man Himself, and dropped, stunned and grieving, down onto the soft sleeping face of Rachida, who woke up long enough to scream  at Nicolas, who continued to grasp his toe as he hopped in place and spurted blood, like a kinetic sculpture made by some avant-garde artist whose entire deeply troubled opus consists of fountains made from pogo sticks and bodily fluids, to get a goddamn broom, then fainted, as BMH lay trembling across her face. Nicolas hopped to the closet, grabbed a broom and then, momentarily riveted by the uncommon site of a bat humping an unconscious lover’s and French justice minister’s nostrils, struck hard with the broom and the hideous little creature shrieked, frightening the bat.

Forgive me: I almost forgot to say Bonjour, future cadavers! You will have guessed that I’ve been impossibly busy but I must tell you that I’ve had such a delicious time of the summer and fall and now this perfect Indian summer, flitting between Paris, La Paumardiere, the President’s official retreat, the Brégançon fortress on the Riviera and Carla’s family villa nearby. Ah, the South of France, the earthly Paradise, with its gorgeous vestiges of Roman civilization  at Arles and Nimes and where just a few weeks ago we saw Michelito, the ten year old Franco-Mexican toreadoritohttp://www.telegraph.co.uk/news(and what a time everyone had waiting for him to be maimed or killed!) and everyone drinking and laughing just like the people who had the arenas built in the first place; where six or seven years back, one whistleblower was so blatantly victimized by the corrupt local judiciary (pedophile magistrates again, yawn) that he was granted political asylum by the United States of America http://www.villagevoice.com/2001-06-26/news/group-plans-march-to-free-lauriane and where Nicolas just kicked off his own Union for the Mediterranean to celebrate cultures who share the three core values of olives, wine and slavery.

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© 2008 Louise de la Paumardiere

 

 

 

 

About LOUISE DE LA PAUMARDIERE It would be difficult to imagine anyone more purely French or a better embodiment of France and French values than polyglamorous Louise de la Paumardiere. Loulou's paternal great grandfather Andre Le Troquer, unfairly removed from office as President of the French Senate in 1958 for having run a pedophile network, and her maternal grandfather General Paul Ausseresses, unfairly stripped of his rank and thrown out of the Legion d'Honneur because of his role as a torturer in the Franco-Algerian war, are but two of her many famous ancestors. Author of From Foreign to French: 100 Makeovers in Stories and Pictures (New York and London: PLB Books, 2006), multi-talented and multilingual Loulou de la Paumardiere first came to public attention when several of the high-profile Paris-based foreign women on whom she performed makeovers committed suicide. Her family operates the majority of the uniquely French institutions known as Centres d'aide par le travail, or CATS, factories in which handicapped French citizens are employed at less than minimum wage because, as Loulou puts it with her typical Cartesian clarity, "they are handicapped." Her ancestral home, Château de la Paumardiere in Boilly-sur-Gui, an hour from Paris in Normandy, has hosted every head of state since Louis XIV and was a favorite haunt of Lully the Sodomite. She continues that great tradition of French hospitality on weekends in Boilly and during the week at her luxurious mansion at 60, rue de Varenne in Paris.