Chéri was, once again, a strange person in a strange town, in a strange land whose language was not very far from gibberish to him. And yet, just like at home, just like in Paris, there was a language everyone, Chéri included, understood. money. Of that, he didn’t have much, he wasn’t even entirely sure how money works here -it was so different, in shape and colour- but he knew he would need more. Much more.
And how does one make money? One works. Unsure of his English and of the local costumes, familiar with the dangers of the street, he decided to try his luck first and foremost with the local businesses. He figured even here, in the middle of nowhere, there must be someone in need of something. And there was a lot Chéri could provide. So here he was, in a suit too classy and loud for a small Yorkshire town, with his small luggage behind him and the enterprising attitude of someone who is trying to look eager rather than desperate.
Maybe in France such attitudes might have paid off, but here, on a slow Thursday afternoon, in a modest English pub with a less than wordly owner, the well pantomimed and mildly shouted curriculum vitae Chéri was trying to illustrate did not seem to be winning him much.
To someone who is not a French speaker, he was mostly speaking nonsense with an occasional “drink” thrown into it. To French speakers, he was giving a long list of bartending capabilities which were, admittedly, not impressive, but he would perform at their very best, he claimed. He even declared some cooking abilities, which, again, did not fit well with the way he was dressed.
The Frenchman looked like a young man, not even twenty, slender yet dynamic, light on his feet and blessed with a strong, beautiful voice. His face was filled with vitality, his eyes shone and his smile was inviting, but still, this was not enough. His pantomime was curated and his gesture was made to look capable and strong, like those of a merchant, but his striped beige and Burgundy waistcoat won him no sympathy here. Not even his long lashes seemed to suffice. Chéri was destined to fail and there seem to be only a few sleepy patrons there to witness it.
And how does one make money? One works. Unsure of his English and of the local costumes, familiar with the dangers of the street, he decided to try his luck first and foremost with the local businesses. He figured even here, in the middle of nowhere, there must be someone in need of something. And there was a lot Chéri could provide. So here he was, in a suit too classy and loud for a small Yorkshire town, with his small luggage behind him and the enterprising attitude of someone who is trying to look eager rather than desperate.
Maybe in France such attitudes might have paid off, but here, on a slow Thursday afternoon, in a modest English pub with a less than wordly owner, the well pantomimed and mildly shouted curriculum vitae Chéri was trying to illustrate did not seem to be winning him much.
To someone who is not a French speaker, he was mostly speaking nonsense with an occasional “drink” thrown into it. To French speakers, he was giving a long list of bartending capabilities which were, admittedly, not impressive, but he would perform at their very best, he claimed. He even declared some cooking abilities, which, again, did not fit well with the way he was dressed.
The Frenchman looked like a young man, not even twenty, slender yet dynamic, light on his feet and blessed with a strong, beautiful voice. His face was filled with vitality, his eyes shone and his smile was inviting, but still, this was not enough. His pantomime was curated and his gesture was made to look capable and strong, like those of a merchant, but his striped beige and Burgundy waistcoat won him no sympathy here. Not even his long lashes seemed to suffice. Chéri was destined to fail and there seem to be only a few sleepy patrons there to witness it.
