her pictures and texts were changing the world everymonth for the best. A planet of super stars, drug addicted designers, it was the period of John Galliano's desperate insults, she never judged him by the way.
Then, discussion with the bank or with agents, an super editor. She remembered one day in Moscow with a black editor of a New York's magazines, wrapped in a fur, with a golden watch and a hat. Exhuberant and joyful. They had a nice dinner with vodka and caviar. It was when everything went well for Russia, before the collapse in price of oil petroleum and gaz.
Or trip to China, to deal with ten men, all in suits, while she was wearing the same white shirt as in the plane and a black slim jean and her leather Hedi Slimane's santiags. They looked surprised, not believing at the begining she was the owner and the one to negotiate. As she had the smart idea to take with her Camille's young baby sitter, she was good at negotiating, as she added to her in French the feeling she had about the business men, and what they said behing her back, underestimating a young girl could be smart.
It was the fastest growth period for China, luxury goods were appealing to the new middle class but also the civil servant, it was before the anti corruption law, and people were drinking champagne, purchasing purse and bags from famous brands, have costly watches, and women wanted to try the latest cosmetics and fashion collections.
She did well. Then she began to think to live in Hong Kong or in Shanghai, as the got along very well with her business partners and met plenty of intellectual and artists coming from Beijing. She tested the idea with Camille. At the begining, she gave an enthusiastic "yes". It last one week, and then she came back with the idea of being taught to be an actress, and in NY, because the dream of any starter.
That semt to the mother a long time ago. The year after, the sold the reference fashion magazine, and feel so free. It was like a rebirth.
She improved her decent life, not only by listening music all nights when she couldn't sleep, but inviting long time friends, entrepreneurs, politicians, artist from all over the world, especially the spanish langage ones, because she never forgot that how she met her beloved husband : listening traditional spanish songs. They had the "coup de foudre", and never left each others more than a day after they first met.
She had now put all her luggages, and books in boxes, and would leave for Firrenze, the time to see what she wanted to do now.
Camille was still in her arms. And her hand was in her long hair, smoothing them as the softness and calm could enter in her brain and in her heart.
The Child. That's how they called her with her husband. She was the one, perfect from the first second, passionated, taking her place in the world.
At that moment the door bell rang.
She jumped downstairs wondering who could arrive at nine thirty in the evening, and trying to remember if she had some guest she had forgotten that would be at the door with a bottle of prosecco.
It was her father. She looked tense and relieved. So he asked : "What's the matter ? I was thinking it was a long time I didn't see my daughter and my grand daughter, and God knows how many days I've got to live. Could we share olives and a good whisky for me ?"
She smiled and whisper in his ear that Camille was not doing well. As he couldn't hear she had to repeat and nearly to shout.
Then Camille saids from upstairs : "I hear you, don't even think mummy to share what I said to you with Dad."
Even when her husband was alive, Camille called her grand father Dad, which means a lot for him, and didn't disturb one minute the man of the family.
- "What, there is a secret, and I'm not part of the story ?" gracefully the grand father didn't mention the wet cheeks and red eyes of her grand daughter. "I wonder if it's link to your mother's new passion for Tuscany. I prefer that to Kabul to be honest".
He was subtely alluding to a sentimental affair she mentioned to him with a teacher of art, asserting she was not in love, and also a crasy project (for the others at least) she had to go to the named city for a charity (that finally refused her as a candidate because the only parent of Camille that was not above twenty one years).
The grand father was in the comfortable sofa, both feet on the white carpet, tasting the old whisky in his glass, visibly with pleasure. The mother was standing up, smoking on the balcon, looking at Paris'roofs, a little nostalgic of leaving the city and upset by the sadness of her child. Camille lying on the other sofa.
Suddenly she sat, looked at her grand father straight ahead, and told him the whole story with the boyfriend and his behavior.
- "So, what do you think Dad ?"
He remained silent and looked at his whisky at the gold liquid would know the truth. It was a family not afraid of silence, as people have experienced intense emotions and feelings.
He just said looking at the seventeenth year old girl, tense in the expectations of what he would say as the man of the family now : "You know what Camille… That shows that this man doesn't desserve you. You're a beautiful and bright young woman, you're worth is the one of a diamond, or better…the color of the sky, the highest mountain. No gentleman would behave as he did. I request you to forget this male as soon as you can, and I will make sure we help you. Life goes on, you will meet wonderful people, and one day, you'll know that it's the right man. Trust yourself. Betrayal doesn't need revenge. Betrayal needs to have the power to forget and move forward. I count on you, forget this one. I'm happy for you he behaved like that, because life is not white and blackn and from time to time, it's tought to make decisions. Here, it's black. I understand your sadness and disappointment. You'll have a great life, I'm sure of that."
There was a silence.
The grand father made a strange noice with his nose, like angry at him and at life.
Whispering, he said : "Bastard, I would kill you". Camille had jumped from the sofa,if not happy, at least she looked relieved, and came in the kitchen to take a glass of water. The mother had a little smile, and took another cigaret. She liked the idea of having a patriarch, a man of the family, embodying values and principles, a role model for two generations. Sometimes stric and autocratic, but at this moment, saying to her daughter what she needed to hear with a lot of empathy.
The grand father finished his glass and said : "Hey my girls, it's late for an old man, I must go home. Aouch. My stiff joints hurt…I feel clear in my mind, wiser than when I was young when I was a fool, unfortunately the mechanic doesn't follow." Looking at his feet in their spotless shiny shoes as old companions that new what he was talking about, he said " See you soon !" with all the energy of an healthy man in his eighties.
He took his hat and watched the stairs carefully while leaving the appartment and slowly closing the door.
Tibet. Shigatse. September 2015
On the top of the world
I share my wife with my brother.
He thought it and suddenly had to share the idea even if shocking for Western people.
The place is full of people, mostly men, playing Ma jong and drinking beers, Lhasa bottles and Budweiser, ordered by number of twelve or more, cover the tables. It's seven in the evening.
The city is far from the hectic pace in Lhasa. Close to the Samye Monastery, one of the oldest in Tibet, a large main street, deserted after nine pm. A big restaurant for the few rich Chinese people they carefully avoided. On certain days, girls wearing a lot of make up and having high heels whatever the bad pavements to go to dance with boys waiting for them on little motorbikes with the same shaved neck. The market is everyday, most families have no fridge and like to have fresh food. People behave as knowing they're lucky to live here and have a fullfilling life with their family and friends, although many would consider it a tough life in difficult conditions.
They entered in the little restaurant a few minutes ago, pushing the white heavy curtain protecting from the dust and the bugs, grey of dirtyness by hands of people. He had noticed the woman of the couple didn't touch it, waiting that her husband helped her to enter.
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For what he knew of the city by relatives and friends and on social media, it's the best food of the town, he has ordered dumpings, yack momos, fried vegetables and a spicy soup with lamb.
In front of him, a European couple in their forties, slim and fit, although with wrinkles and fine lines on the forehead as people that let stress of what's next and lack of sleep invade they daily life, even if their wealthy, and try to reconnect with themselves with far away trips.
It's difficult to guess his age, he could be in his forties or fifties. He's skinny and wearing a vivid blue jacket, appropriate for trekking. His face is carved to the bone, and has a few deep wrinkles, some of sorrows or anxiety.
They're sitted around the table in a square, as other tables.The conversation seems to be about him.
- "It's the tradition in our village. Some villages give the rule to share the husband, in my village it's the wife." He takes a sip of beer, and scratch his knees nervously. "So I share my wife with my brother."
He stared at them. The man absorbes the information quicker than his wife and just says : "Amazing." The woman just knocks her head to encourage him to say more.
"My parents decided for me a long time ago with my grand parents who would be my wife, coming from another far away village. I never saw