“Paris in August, what happened to you?”

Today, the populist novelist René Fallet (1927-1983) would not recognize his old capital in the August light, hot and ghostly, deserted and attractive, conducive to impossible encounters and stolen kisses. Aznavour would no longer even have the taste to sing the streets, the stones, the squares, the skeleton of Paris where once fleeting loves were born under the dampness of the shiny pavement. At the foot of a frosted zinc or sheltered from sleepy bridges, in this postcard town, tourists and locals attempted connections that seem unheard of in daring and tenderness. Language barriers were not a brake on the friction of bodies. Ah, sad tropics!

In the 1960s, a fishing tackle seller working at La Samaritaine, dreaming of roach frying in a Bourbonnais river, rid of his family for a few weeks, could finally dream of another world. He would then set off in pursuit of a flying mannequin,

This article is for subscribers only. You have 80% left to discover.

Subscribe: 1 € for 2 months

Can be canceled at any time

Already subscribed? Log in