French Dive by Freeze Eric;

Author:Freeze, Eric; [Freeze, Eric]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781639820801
Publisher: Slant Books
Published: 2021-10-23T19:21:06+00:00

Chapter 26

Life in the Port

THE SECOND DAY OF HHI, we saw our first apartment. It was in the Port neighborhood on the busy Boulevard Riquier, just down the street from the mega-yachts that winter in Nice. Bart showed us some of the pictures: a new kitchen with built-in appliances, two large bedrooms, and lots of neutral taupe. It would come partially furnished with the possibility of a parking spot. It had a small balcony and large windows with plenty of natural light.

We had looked at the Port area during our apartment hunting. The antique quarter and the roads behind the Notre Dame du Port cathedral and the pedestrian road from the Place du Pin up to the newly-renovated Place Garibaldi were always teeming with life: good restaurants, an independent cinema, and plenty of grocery stores. But cars ruled the Port neighborhood. Large intersections crowded the roads heading up to the Basse Corniche and the Moyenne Corniche. Cars nosed through the one-way streets looking for spots amid even more cars, double-parked, their hazard-lights blinking in tandem. It was here that twenty years ago, I witnessed a fatal accident. An octogenarian woman caned her way across the street when a white Mercedes with its top down ran a red light. The crash flipped her over the hood and she lay on the ground with her ivory teeth opened for a scream that never came. I held her hand as her jaw twitched and then stilled. The apartment that Bart was about to show us was just a couple blocks away.

“I would never have shown you this place,” Bart said. “It’s not at all what you’re looking for. But the producer wanted some variety and this is the kind of property that most people want.”

We filmed the walkup seven times because of traffic noise. I anticipated when to tilt my head up, taking in the skyline, or when to ask questions about size or amenities.

“There’s an Intermarche nearby,” I said. “I like the nice clean lines.”

The building was one of those concrete boxes so popular during the 60s and 70s. The balconies were small, cramped with AC equipment, and they all looked out onto a busy street.

We opened the door to the building. A tiny elevator at the end of the entryway dinged and a gray-haired man in a flannel shirt and jeans came out. He raised his hand in front of his face like he’d been blinded by a floodlight. “Shit, you fuckers, get that thing out of my face!”

“We’re not rolling,” Bart said.

“Son of a whore!” The man shielded his face and lunged out the entryway and down the sidewalk.

“All right,” Kris said. “Let’s do the take again. And remember to be upbeat—we want to keep the audience guessing and it will look bad if you dismiss a property right away.”

Luckily the apartment itself gave us more to be excited about. Coming off of a month of continuous renovations, we appreciated a finished space. The counters were smooth, professionally installed, the appliances hidden behind matching veneers.

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