Paris, 1980s.
My first memories go back to my first steps, and even a little before that. I have three very specific flashes.
The narrow, unsettling tunnel my face traveled through when my mother changed my top. I was lying on the changing table, which was wedged against the large mirrored wardrobe. It made me a little anxious, but fortunately, it didn’t last long.
Then, there was that afternoon, which I feel was a hot summer day. The window was open, the shutters were closed, and “le tout Paris” seemed to be on vacation, creating a calm atmosphere. I was apparently in my crib for a nap, but I wasn’t sleeping. I was analyzing my surroundings, and, determined, I swung a leg over the edge of the crib, ready to get down. My mother caught me in the act of escaping and took me, I don’t know where.
Later, my first steps, I see them, I relive them. They appear through a vintage, yellowed filter, probably due to the cream-white walls and the tungsten lightbulb that lit the room. Clinging to the wall, wearing one of those little doll dresses my mother liked to buy, back when she treated me like one of them. In the “office,” the wall had a relief of baseboard molding, quite high, which I clung to. On the black-and-white checkered tile floor, typical of old Haussmannian apartments of the rich districts of Paris, I clumsily placed one foot in front of the other. My little feet, clad in white tights and wearing small black Mary-Jane shoes, moved in perfect harmony across the cold floor.
A double glass door led to the courtyard. I grabbed the little handle, which was so low. Victory!
I sparkled, filled with pride and a great sense of adventure. It didn’t last long.
Thus, life began.
